1 
 
 ( 
 
FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 

 THE t ^ sip 23 1936 ^ 
 
 JANE TAYLOR 
 
 IN FIVE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. V. 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE, AND ORIGINAL POEMS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PUBLISHED BY PERKINS & MARVIN. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA— FRENCH h PERKINS. 
 
 1832. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 A MOTHER 
 
 HER DAUGHTER AT SCHOOL 
 
 BY MRS. TAYLOR 
 
 JANE TAYLOR. 
 
 FROM SEVENTH LONDON EDITION. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PERKINS & MARVIN, 114, WASHINGTON STREET. 
 
 1832. 
 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 For the purpose of conveying instruction to 
 young people at school, the method of letters 
 from a mother was adopted, as the most natural 
 and convenient, and as the most likely to en- 
 gage the attention of those for whose use the 
 volume is designed. 
 
 It is hoped, the letters of Laura will not be 
 considered as intruders in these pages. While 
 they w T ere intended to render the work some- 
 what more amusing to the young reader, it will 
 be seen that it was not with a view to her 
 amusement only that they were written. 
 
 That the best interests of their young friends 
 — to whom the volume is affectionately dedicat- 
 ed — may be promoted by its perusal, is the 
 sincere wish of the 
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE, 
 
 &c. 
 
 LETTER 1. 
 
 My dear, dear Mother, 
 
 During the greatest part of my journey yester- 
 day, I employed myself in planning a long letter, 
 which I fully intended to write to you as soon as 
 I arrived. It was chiefly about the pain I felt at 
 parting with you; and although I feel it as much, 
 almost, to-day, as I did yesterday, yet I think 
 you will be better pleased to hear something of 
 my new situation, and how I like Mrs. W. 
 
 I shall never forget what I felt, as we drove 
 out of town yesterday morning; however, I de- 
 termined to keep it all to myself, and thought I 
 had quite dried up my tears; but just as we turn- 
 ed off the common on to the London road, I hap- 
 pened, unfortunately, to look at the milestone, 
 where, you remember, our learned overseers in- 
 form us, that " Here end the parish of St. Greg- 
 ory." So beginning to laugh (as I intended at 
 vol. v. 1* 
 
6 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 least) at our Suffolk grammar, it turned into a 
 fit of crying, or something between laughing and 
 crying, I scarcely know which. After that, the 
 country was very flat and dull for many miles, 
 and at last I began to grow stupid and sleepy. 
 But I cannot stay now to tell you more about the 
 journey, especially as nothing particular happened 
 all the rest of the way. 
 
 We did not arrive here till eight o'clock in the 
 evening, when, after driving quite through a long 
 dullish-looking street, we stopped at Mrs. W.'s 
 gate. It is a red-brick house, the last in the 
 village, and stands in a garden, a little way back 
 from the road, with an immense row of tall pop- 
 lars before it, looking like so many sentinels. 
 
 I cannot tell you what I felt as I walked up the 
 gravel walk to the hall door, where Mrs. W. her- 
 self stood to receive me. She spoke very kindly, 
 and looked more agreeable than I expected. She 
 first took me into her own parlor, and began to 
 make many inquiries about you and papa, and so 
 on: but I felt so stiff and strange you can't imag- 
 ine! and I am sure she thought me the stupidest 
 creature; for I could think of nothing in the 
 world to say, but "yes, ma'am," and te no, 
 ma'am;" and so I sat twisting my gloves: till at 
 last she proposed introducing me to the young 
 ladies. 
 
 Only five of them are yet come ; but fifteen 
 more are expected in a day or two. You cannot 
 
A xMOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 think how forlorn I felt, when I found myself 
 shut up with these five strange girls in the school- 
 room. It was then growing quite dusk, so that I 
 could not discern their faces, nor they mine. I 
 could only see that we were in a large room, 
 without any carpet, with a long table set out in 
 the middle, and an immense pair of globes in one 
 corner. I sat down by myself in a window-seat, 
 two of the girls were sitting in the other, whisper- 
 ing to each other; and I observed that one of 
 them leaned forward sometimes to peep at me. 
 The other three were only little ones. I think 
 I never, in my whole life, felt so uncomfortable 
 as I did then. However, it did not last long; for 
 in a few minutes, one of the girls who had been 
 whispering in the window-seat, came and seated 
 herself by me, and spoke in the most free, affec- 
 tionate manner you can imagine. Her name is 
 Jessy Cooke — a pretty name, isn't it? She said 
 she remembered how miserable she was the first 
 day she came to school, and that she always 
 felt a great deal for new girls; and she added, 
 which I thought very kind, that she had never 
 felt so much for any one as for me. I thanked 
 her, and said that I did, indeed, feel rather 
 uncomfortable, as I had never left my dear father 
 and mother before, and as I was not much accus- 
 tomed to see strangers. H Strangers! that 5 s a 
 cold word," said she; "you must not apply it 
 to me, indeed you must not!" and then she took 
 
8 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 my hand, and said, in the kindest manner, "I 
 hope you will allow me to be your friend!" How 
 little did I expect to find one so soon ! She is all 
 heart, and so unreserved! 
 
 The other young lady, Miss Grace Dacre, is 
 of quite a different temper. Jessy Cooke told 
 me so: and if she had not, I should soon have 
 found it out; for the moment the candles came in, 
 she gave me such a scrutinizing look: and when 
 she saw Jessy and me sitting hand in hand, I per- 
 ceived a smile at the corners of her mouth, and 
 she turned away, and began playing with the lit- 
 tle ones. She has not spoken three sentences to 
 me since I came. How I do dislike such cold, 
 reserved dispositions! 
 
 Jessy Cooke and I sleep in the same room, 
 which I am particularly glad of. Dear girl! she 
 has told me almost all her heart. 
 
 I have risen early this morning, my dearest 
 mamma, in order that you might hear of my safe 
 arrival, by to-day's post. In my next, I shall be 
 able to tell you a great deal more, as the other 
 ladies will be come by that time, and I shall have 
 entered upon my new employments. There are 
 two teachers, but only one is come yet. She is 
 in deep mourning for her father, and, they say, 
 has never been out before. I pitied her last 
 night, as she was sitting with us, she looked so 
 melancholy. The only thing I like in Miss Dacre 
 is, that she seems very attentive to her. 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 9 
 
 The bell rings, and I must conclude instantly. 
 My kindest love to dear papa and Kitty. Pray 
 don't forget to feed my pigeons. What a long 
 half year before I shall see you ! Pray write as 
 soon as you can, my dear mamma; and believe 
 me your dutiful and affectionate daughter, 
 
 Laura. 
 
 P. S. 12 o'clock. — I love Jessy Cooke better 
 every hour. She was much surprised to hear 
 that I was only fifteen. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 My dear Laura, 
 
 Just about the time that you were passing the 
 boundaries of St. Gregory, your sister and I were 
 visiting your deserted chamber; where poor Kit- 
 ty wept aloud, and I wiped an involuntary tear 
 from my cheek. But the pang of such a separa- 
 tion ought not to be very poignant, when the ben- 
 efit which we expect to derive from it is consider- 
 ed: we may reasonably hope the effects of this 
 absence will repay us for the sacrifice; and as 
 our own insulated neighborhood does not afford 
 us the means of giving you some advantages we 
 wish you to possess, we doubt not but you will so 
 
10 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 industriously improve your present opportunities, 
 that, when you return, we shall feel amply com- 
 pensated for this short suspension of your kind 
 and dutiful offices. Indeed, the pain we felt at 
 parting is productive of pleasure, when we trace 
 it to the mutual affection which occasioned it: and 
 when we remember, that in some unhappy fami- 
 lies, such ja separation would be esteemed a relief 
 rather than a privation. Although we have to 
 dispense for a time with the society of one whom 
 we love, we have the pleasing anticipation of en- 
 joying it again, with all that endeared it to us (as 
 we earnestly hope) unimpaired; and with some 
 valuable attainments superadded. It is but half a 
 year, my dear girl! when we hope to see you 
 again. A little speck of time, indeed! Yet we 
 might esteem such periods long, when we remem- 
 ber that a few of them will change your auburn 
 locks to gray; and then, that a few more will lay 
 you in the dust. If this be the case, how pre- 
 cious are. they! You are now a child; but a 
 little while will bring you to maturity, when you 
 will be required to act for yourself. This will so 
 soon be the case, that it is almost enough to 
 alarm you. Consider what a poor figure you 
 would make in the world with your present stock 
 of knowledge and experience: how little able to 
 conduct yourself — still less to govern others. 
 Yet, you may be encouraged by reflecting on the 
 great progress some have made in as short a time, 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 1 1 
 
 and often in less advantageous circumstances. 
 Let these considerations stimulate you to exertion 
 in your various pursuits; but ever remembering, 
 that as your education is intended to prepare you 
 for the duties of the present life, so the primary 
 business of this life itself, is to qualify you for 
 one which is to come. Amongst so many occu- 
 pations that have no direct relation to this grand 
 object, and amongst so many temptations to neg- 
 lect it, it is particularly necessary, my dear child, 
 to remind. you that " one thing is needful." 
 
 You say that Mrs. W. looked more agreeable 
 than you expected. Did you expect her then to 
 look disagreeable? Must it follow, because she 
 has undertaken the arduous work of your educa- 
 tion — the formation of your mind and manners, 
 and the control of your conduct — that she should 
 be a tyrant? She who has engaged, as far as 
 circumstances will permit, to supply a mother's 
 place! It would indeed be as unreasonable to 
 expect her to feel all the affections of a parent 
 towards her numerous family, as to require them 
 to cultivate flial affection towards her. Yet she 
 may, and I have no doubt she does, cherish the 
 amiable sensations of benevolence and kindness 
 towards those under her care. In return, they 
 are bound to repay her with every expression of 
 gratitude and affection in their power. Should 
 there be any towards whom, from their amiable 
 conduct, she might be inclined to indulge a more 
 
12 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 particular attachment, her situation forbids her 
 to discover it in any other way, than by such 
 marks of her approbation, as even the perverse 
 must, in their consciences, approve. She must 
 conduct herself impartially towards all; distri- 
 buting rewards and punishments with an equal 
 hand. That fostering kindness, therefore — those 
 little indulgences which make some children pine 
 after home — must be dispensed with at school, 
 from the very nature of it; and resigned for more 
 solid advantages. Children are sent there for the 
 purposes of instruction; and while this object, 
 and their general health and welfare are assidu- 
 ously attended to, it is all that can reasonably be 
 expected. I would aim, my dear Laura, to pre- 
 vent you from raising your expectations too high 
 of what should be required in your governess; 
 while I would excite in you that veneration for 
 her character to which she is justly entitled. Do 
 not suppose a benevolent and tender disposition 
 towards you inconsistent with the strict disci- 
 pline she is obliged to maintain: great is the 
 charge she has undertaken; and arduous is her 
 task. You will believe this when you see the 
 various dispositions she has to encounter; as it is 
 more than probable that there will be some dull, 
 some obstinate, some untractable, some indolent 
 among you. May my Laura not add to the 
 number. 
 
 In addition to these difficult duties, you must 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 remember that she has her own private concerns, 
 in common with other people; and is subject to 
 the same bodily indispositions. Some young 
 ladies act as though they forgot this, or were quite 
 regardless of it: but my dear Laura will remem- 
 ber, that if her mother is occasionally depressed 
 under the cares and sorrows inseparable from 
 human life, her governess may possibly have a 
 share of them. 
 
 There will be some amiable girls among you, 
 no doubt, who will render her work pleasant; and 
 I hope and believe you will be one .of the first 
 who, by respectful conduct, and a teachable dis- 
 position, will do all in your power to lessen her 
 cares, and prevent her the mortification of return- 
 ing you to us, without the end answered for which 
 you were placed under her superintendence. 
 
 Your pigeons would be fed, even if they were 
 not yours. Though I must say they flit about as 
 blithely, and seem as forgetful of their benefac- 
 tress, as some are apt to be who are not pigeons. 
 
 I must suspend my congratulations respecting 
 your new friend, until you are better acquainted 
 with her. That you have old ones you will not 
 doubt, in your papa, your sister, and 
 
 your affectionate Mother. 
 
 P. S. I wonder that Miss Jessy Cooke should 
 suppose you to be more than fifteen, as you were 
 always thought small for your age. 
 vol. v. 2 
 
14 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 I could not have believed, my dear mamma, 
 that I should so soon have become reconciled to 
 my absence from home. But, I assure you, I 
 have so many things to do and to think of here, 
 and in the short intervals of employment there is 
 so much to interest me, that though I find plenty 
 of time for affectionate thoughts, I have none for 
 melancholy reflections. 
 
 You must not expect, in these few weeks, to 
 hear of my having made any particular progress. 
 I find however, already, the great advantage, to 
 my volatile temper, of being obliged to apply with 
 so much regularity. And I do hope that you and 
 papa will not have to lament, that your kindness 
 in sending me here has been quite thrown away. 
 
 I am often reminded of your cautions on the 
 subject of emulation. Mrs. W. I am certain is 
 exactly of your opinion about it. She takes great 
 pains to check in us a spirit of competition and 
 rivalry; while she endeavors to inspire us with 
 the genuine love of knowledge, and with a true 
 taste for our acquirements; urging us to be more 
 ambitious to excel ourselves, than to excel each 
 other. Do you know, she has so much penetra- 
 tion, that she has found out a great many of my 
 faults already. The other day, when speaking of 
 emulation, she told me that although her admoni- 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 tions on that subject were not so applicable to me 
 as to 'some others, she could not compliment me 
 on my superior magnanimity. " My dear," she 
 said, " it would gratify you, would it not, to sur- 
 pass your companions? and yet, rather than sub- 
 mit to the toil of competition, or hazard the morti- 
 fication of being outdone, you are ready to stand 
 still and let them all get the start of you." When 
 she said this, I knew that she could see into every 
 corner of my heart. 
 
 I hope I shall not forget your advice with regard 
 to my conduct to Mrs. W. She is, indeed, very 
 kind and considerate; though I am sure she has 
 much to try her patience, in our various dispo- 
 sitions. 
 
 I expected to have a great deal to tell you, 
 when I had seen all my new companions: But 
 really I am disappointed to find so few out of the 
 whole number with whom I could form any thing 
 like a friendship. Many of them, to be sure, are 
 such little things that they are quite out of the 
 question: and as to the rest, they are most of them 
 so uninteresting! There are, however, some ex- 
 ceptions; and I must tell you, that there are five 
 of us great girls who take the lead in every thing. 
 At the top of all is Grace Dacre; and though, as 
 I told you before, I think I could never be very 
 confidential with her, yet it is impossible not to 
 admire and esteem her very much. She is un- 
 commonly clever; but so superior to any littleness 
 
16 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 and vanity, that although she does every thing 
 best, no one seems envious of her superiority. 
 Next to her is a Miss Raymond: I don't believe 
 Mrs. W. thinks she has a great deal of taste; and 
 she is certainly not what one would call bright, 
 she is too grave and solid for that; but she has 
 such indefatigable application and industry, that 
 there seems to be nothing but what she can ac- 
 complish. Though not at all ill-natured, she is 
 very reserved; and perhaps a little high: she is 
 obliging to us all; but not intimate with any one. 
 Fanny Fielding, the next I shall mention, is, I 
 think, in most things equal to Miss Raymond; 
 but they are completely different in their disposi- 
 tions. There is not one of us who has half so 
 much emulation, nor that applies with so much 
 avidity. You never saw any thing like her anx- 
 iety, when we are at our lessons together. In 
 drawing, for instance, for which she has certainly 
 no particular taste, (indeed she acknowledges that 
 she never liked it much) yet the idea of being 
 outdone in any thing is so terrible to her, that she 
 makes the greatest exertions to excel in it. I 
 often see her casting anxious glances at my draw- 
 ing-book, and then redoubling her own efforts: and 
 it is the same with music, Italian, and every thing 
 she does; she seems to succeed only because she 
 is determined that she will. Yet she is extremely 
 amiable and affectionate, and most of the girls 
 love her very much ; but some, who are less good- 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 natured, take advantage of her temper, and tease 
 her sadly. The fourth on my list is Phillis Par- 
 ker, a sharp, clever little thing, rather plain and 
 odd-looking; who, though she is but lately come, 
 and has had few advantages at home, seems 
 likely soon to surpass us all. She is not vain in 
 the least, but very droll; and often says smart 
 witty things, which makes poor Fanny Fielding 
 very angry; for she dreads being laughed at 
 beyond every thing. 
 
 You see I have included myself in this distin- 
 guished Jive; but I am well aware that this must be 
 attributed to my age, and the great advantages I 
 have enjoyed at home, rather than to my own 
 quickness or industry; in both which respects I 
 am much surpassed by many who are younger 
 than myself. You will be surprised to find that 
 my friend Jessy is not one of the number: the 
 reason is, that although she is so pleasant and 
 affectionate as a friend, and has been, and indeed 
 continues to be, particularly kind to me, she is not 
 so anxious about the cultivation of her mind as 
 could be wished. 
 
 I had much more to say, particularly in answer 
 to your letter; but must now only add, with kind 
 love to all, that I am your affectionate 
 
 Laura. 
 
 2* 
 
18 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 My dear child, 
 
 That you are so soon reconciled to your new 
 situation affords us great pleasure ; though, indeed, 
 it is only as we expected. It must be something 
 more than a temporary separation, even from our 
 dearest friends, that can render us permanently 
 unhappy, while busily employed in any way, and 
 especially in the important work of self-improve- 
 ment. 
 
 We are also gratified to learn, that you are 
 qualified to class with the four young ladies, of 
 whom you have given us some description. How 
 essentially they differ from each other! and prob- 
 ably you will perceive a similar variation through- 
 out the school, as striking as the diversity of 
 faces. These differences arise greatly from edu- 
 cation, and early habits; and partly from consti- 
 tution, influenced by those accidental circumstan- 
 ces which frequently give an early and a marked 
 bias to the character. It is natural, therefore, 
 that you should find tastes and dispositions which 
 are not at all congenial with yours: and should 
 such dissimilarity occasionally produce a differ- 
 ence from your own opinion, and even an opposi- 
 tion to your will, you must not be surprised nor 
 offended; but should rather feel disposed to make 
 every favorable allowance and concession. This 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 19 
 
 must ever become us, unless we could assert our 
 own infallibility, and maintain that our education, 
 habits, and constitution, have combined with every 
 accidental circumstance to form a character ab- 
 solutely complete. 
 
 There are some lessons, besides those you re- 
 ceive from your masters, which you may learn 
 better at school than at home, from the variety 
 of characters with whom you must come in con- 
 tact: few of them but must yield you some advan- 
 tage, either from observation of their temper and 
 conduct, or from the exercise- they afford to yours. 
 You have now, my dear Laura, a fair opportunity 
 of ascertaining your natural temper, and how far 
 you have acquired the command of it. Hitherto, 
 all has gone smoothly with you; nurtured amid 
 scenes of domestic peace, you are but a novice in 
 the science of human life; and know little more 
 of yourself than of others. Let one of your first 
 attainments be, a feeling of kindness and benevo- 
 lence to all around you, expressed by an habitual 
 courtesy of manner: this will ensure you a cordial 
 reception into society, and enlarge your sphere of 
 influence and usefulness, which, with the best in- 
 tentions, and the strictest rectitude, you might 
 otherwise fail to obtain. Accustom yourself to 
 make every allowance for the imperfections of 
 others, every reasonable sacrifice to their feelings, 
 every effort for their good. Each day will afford 
 you an opportunity of making either an effort, a 
 
20 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 sacrifice, or an allowance. And while thus em- 
 ployed, your own character will progressively be- 
 come more amiable, as, in promoting the happi- 
 ness of others, you are laying the surest foundation 
 for your own. 
 
 These observations recall to my recollection the 
 pleasing image of Anna Parker, my beloved com- 
 panion at school. Plain in her person and in her 
 dress, she had no ambition to attract notice by 
 external blandishments: and whilst she had high- 
 er aims than most, she was one of the last in the 
 school on whom a stranger would have bestowed 
 observation — one of the last to make any effort to 
 invite it. 
 
 While to perform her own task well was her 
 primary object, she was willing, at any time, to 
 suspend it to do a kind office for another. If any 
 of her companions, through negligence or acci- 
 dent, needed assistance, she was ever ready and 
 at hand: her work-bag was constantly open to all 
 whose silk or crewels were mislaid or lost. Tales 
 she would never tell of any; and none could tell 
 tales of her. In school-cabals and mischief her 
 name was never mentioned: suspicion dared not 
 glance at her. And while divisions and conten- 
 tions were continually arising among the rest, 
 those who could unite in nothing else cordially 
 agreed in admiring and loving Anna Parker. It 
 would be needless to say that she was beloved by 
 her governess, who used continually to refer us to 
 her, as a pattern for our imitation. 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 21 
 
 You must not, however, expect to find schools 
 peopled with such characters; nor allow yourself 
 to feel chagrin and disappointment that it is not 
 so. Recollect your father's remark, when we 
 were so annoyed by the flies during our morning's 
 walk: — That as we must not expect them to sus- 
 pend their gambols, and obediently divide to the 
 right and left till we had passed, so much less ought 
 we to require our fellow creatures to give way to 
 our opinions, to lay aside their prejudices, and to 
 regulate their conduct in conformity to ours. The 
 graces of meekness and forbearance are exhibited 
 in their perfection, by our divine Teacher. He 
 says, " Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in 
 heart:" — and in proportion as your love to Him 
 is excited, you will be disposed to keep this, and 
 all His commandments. 
 
 I think you mentioned two or three little ones 
 among you. These I would particularly recom- 
 mend to your attention; as, notwithstanding the 
 well-known tenderness of their governess, they 
 must naturally miss the fostering care of their 
 mothers, in a much greater degree than such 
 girls as you can or ought to do. I trust there are 
 no ladies in your school who would oppress them; 
 especially as the period of that tender age is too 
 recent for any of them to have forgotton the feel- 
 ings inseparable from it. 
 
 I must now tell you — but what do I see — the 
 end of my paper! so I must leave the many 
 
22 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 things I had to say, unsaid; like some who find 
 themselves at the verge of life, with many of their 
 plans and schemes unaccomplished; and if, above 
 all, the grand end and design of their being has 
 been neglected, how dismal will their case be! 
 Should they think of crowding the business of 
 their immortal interests into the bottom of the 
 page, just as I do the conclusion of my epistle, 
 they may not succeed so well, for I find I have 
 room to subscribe myself, 
 
 your affectionate Mother. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 My dear Mother, 
 
 Some parts of your last letter were as applica- 
 ble and seasonable, as if you had been acquainted 
 with my particular circumstances at the time. If 
 I had leisure, I might write very often, to ask your 
 advice about something that occurs amongst us, 
 in which I am at a loss how to act: and yet if I 
 were carefully to apply your general advice to 
 these particular cases, I believe I should seldom 
 do wrong. 
 
 I find it very true that there are pains in all our 
 pleasures, even in friendship, where I had least 
 expected to find them. Jessy Cooke thinks I 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 have treated her unkindly, which I am sure was 
 the farthest from my intention; and the more I 
 think of what has passed, the more I am inclined 
 to believe that I have done nothing inconsistent 
 with true friendship. I now suspect that her 
 views of it are not quite right; though I confess 
 they appeared, at first, very congenial with my 
 own, and gave me a high idea of her sensibility. 
 She will not allow it possible to have two friends, 
 especially two confidants; and she has no idea of 
 friendship without secrets. She has told me a 
 great many of hers, certainly ; and was hurt be- 
 cause I did not return her confidence. When 
 she complained of it, I said what was very true, 
 that, really, I had no secrets that I knew of; upon 
 which she began laughing at me, and I felt very 
 much mortified, (which was foolish, I know) and 
 tried to recollect something to tell her, but I 
 could think of nothing in the world except a silly 
 little affair that once happened between Kitty and 
 me, which I knew she would think it childish to 
 repeat. I therefore only added, " none, at least, 
 that I have not told mamma." " Told your 
 mamma! well, that is curious, indeed!" said she; 
 11 why, I never told mamma a secret in my life; 
 she is the last person in the world I should think 
 of saying any thing particular to." 
 
 We were at this time walking arm in arm, up 
 and down the long gravel walk. Grace Dacre 
 was there also, reading to herself. Every time 
 
24 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 we passed, Jessy made a point of whispering very 
 low, even when we were saying nothing that it 
 would at all have signified for her to overhear. 
 At last, as she was passing us, she looked off her 
 book, saying, with a good-natured smile, " Take 
 care, Laura!, take care! or I shall hear all your 
 secrets." I was just then feeling vexed and dis- 
 satisfied both with Jessy and myself, and could 
 not help replying, " O, it was no secret, I assure 
 you; I was just then saying that I have none, 
 and Jessy thinks me a child for it." — " I am glad 
 of that," said Grace: " do you know now I am 
 quite pleased to hear you say so; I am a school- 
 girl myself, to be sure, but I do dislike school- 
 girl's secrets; come, let us have done with them, 
 and walk together;" and with that she laid hold 
 of my arm. This was all that passed, as well as I 
 can remember; but poor Jessy took such offence, 
 you have no idea. She left us instantly, only 
 saying that she had walked till she was tired; and 
 there were Grace and I left alone together for the 
 first time in our lives, for Jessy would never suf- 
 fer me to walk with her before, because she said 
 I was her friend. Grace immediately changed 
 the conversation; I knew she was too generous to 
 say a word to Jessy's disadvantage. It was, mam- 
 ma, just such a conversation as I think you would 
 have listened to with pleasure. Grace is almost 
 two years older than Jessy and I; and yet she 
 loves to talk on subjects, and is interested about 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 things, that Jessy thinks quite childish. I dread- 
 ed seeing her again, expecting she would re- 
 proach me with unkindness; but that is not her 
 way: she has avoided me ever since, and has not 
 allowed me any opportunity to explain myself; 
 only when we meet, putting on a cool, patient 
 look, like a person that has been injured: and if 
 she is asked where I am, or any quest in about 
 me, she answers in this way. — M I don t know, 
 indeed: Miss Dacre can tell you, I dare say.'' I 
 am very much afraid she is of a mean, jealous 
 temper, and will never be reconciled on any other 
 terms than my breaking completely with Grace, 
 which I should be extremely unwilling to do, 
 because she is just such a friend as I want. I 
 believe, mamma, you would think her truly seri- 
 ous. Last Sunday evening we had a delightful 
 walk together in the garden. She soon turned the 
 conversation to religious subjects. O. it \ 
 different to the (Wish chats I have had there 
 sometimes with others! When I said how difficult 
 I found it, among so many pursuits, and so many 
 companions, to rix my thought! ^ings, 
 
 she assured me that she felt the same: but added, 
 that she was sure our temptations to delay, and to 
 neglect religion, were fewer and weaker now, 
 than they would be by and by. " It will, I have 
 no doubt,'* she said, {; be far more difficult to give 
 our hearts to God, and to give up the world when 
 we leave school, than it is now: and if we wait till 
 vol. v. 3 
 
26 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 it seems quite pleasant and easy to do, it will never 
 be done. Besides, I often think of those lines in 
 the little hymn which I am not ashamed of quoting 
 even now, 
 
 ' 'T will please us to look back and see 
 That our whole lives were thine.' " 
 
 You may remember, dear mother, how suitable 
 the conclusion of your last letter was to our con- 
 versation: I could not help reading it to Grace 
 who, when I had done so, thanked me, and said, 
 with the tears in her eyes, that she had lost her 
 mother. I know you will rejoice that I am likely 
 to gain such a friend: but yet I am very sorry 
 about poor Jessy. 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 Laura. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 It is no small gratification to me, to hold con- 
 verse with you, my beloved child; especially, as 
 I find the hints I suggest are applied to the pur- 
 poses for which they are intended; and that, as oc- 
 casions arise, your general conduct is likely to be 
 regulated by a parent's care, though not immedi- 
 ately under her eye. 
 
 That a degree of mutual disappointment should 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 arise between your new friend, Jessy Cooke, and 
 yourself, is not very surprising; nor, when the 
 lesson it conveys is duly considered, is it much to 
 be regretted. It would be needless, at present, to 
 expatiate on this young lady's character; for we 
 are not yet sufficiently acquainted with it, to have 
 any decided opinion; and till we have, we had 
 better suspend our animadversions. When time 
 shall have enabled you to form a more accurate 
 estimate, she will find her proper level in your 
 esteem. Probably, were you acquainted with the 
 circumstances of her childhood — could you per- 
 ceive whence her mistaken notions originate — 
 you would pity, rather than blame her. She may 
 not have been under the care of her parents at 
 that important season, when first the " young 
 idea" begins " to shoot." Her mother may 
 have been prevented from attending to the mental 
 culture of her family, by — by something, which to 
 her, at least, may have appeared of more import- 
 ance. However this may be, let not the intimacy 
 you so hastily formed, as suddenly subside, — 
 though it is, indeed, but the common fate of these 
 warm first-sight friendships; nor by any thing in 
 your look and manner, attempt to retaliate the un- 
 kindness of hers, which would be quite as unjus- 
 tifiable as to return railing for railing. There is 
 no species of warfare more disingenuous than 
 this: it is annoying others, without allowing them 
 the opportunity of defending themselves: and it is 
 
28 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 capable of inflicting as severe a smart, as more 
 open and direct accusations. Rather endeavor, 
 my love, to conciliate your friend by persevering 
 kindness and good humor. It may, perhaps, be 
 in your power, and more especially in Miss Da- 
 cre's, who is still older, to render her an essential 
 service, by endeavoring to improve her character. 
 Not that I should imagine either of you equal to 
 the task of educating your school-fellows — having, 
 at present, too much to do in that way for your- 
 selves: your lessons, at least, will be more suita- 
 bly and effectually dispensed by example than by 
 precept. 
 
 As Miss Jessy is so fond of secrets, she might 
 occasionally be gratified by the perusal of certain 
 passages in our correspondence: at least it would 
 prevent the appearance of reserve; and might 
 have other advantages. Perhaps, when she per- 
 ceives on what terms you are with your mother, 
 and sees what good friends a mother and daugh- 
 ter may be, she may be disposed to cultivate a 
 more amiable frankness with hers. 
 
 I am pleased at the increasing intimacy between 
 you and Miss Dacre, most especially, because 
 she is one with whom you can converse on this 
 most interesting subject. But is there only one 
 in your school who "remembers her Creator in the 
 days of her youth?" What! only one "inquiring 
 the way to Zion, with her face thitherward ? " 
 Only one who finds Wisdom's ways to be "ways 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, 29 
 
 of pleasantness : ''' While many of your number, 
 in their restless desires after earthly things, may 
 be eagerly crying, ' who will show us any good:" 
 — I would hope that there are a few, at least, sin- 
 cerely disposed to say, ' ; Lord, lift thou up the 
 light of thy countenance upon 
 
 Walking through the town this morning, I 
 passed a door where -sing in to 
 
 make (as they imagined s, of 
 
 some travelling people, v ;s to be selling 
 
 their goods at a low price. I feared ti 
 be disappointed in tl : at all i 
 
 they may be' cc 
 
 nor any thing price, 
 
 either cheap or "the moth will not 
 
 corrupt." or time < But are there not 
 
 commodities pri which will 
 
 exceed expectation, and which can be injured 
 neither nor accid I have we not 
 
 seen multitudes pass as though 
 
 they heard it not? — i£ IT< that thirst- 
 
 eth, come and without 
 
 price," has little effect « -e only 
 
 this world for ti offers 
 
 are adapted to i i crea- 
 
 ture; although they proffer food I h, rai- 
 
 ment to cover, jewels to adorn, fruits and flowers 
 to refresh, balm to heal, and cordials to revive; 
 and these are all freely offered, though purchased 
 not with corruptible silver and gold. What a 
 
30 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 happiness it is, my dear Laura, that this language 
 is not unintelligible to you! From a child \jou 
 have been taught the Holy Scriptures. Many 
 there are, even in this Christian land, who are as 
 ignoiant of the truth as the poor heathens of whom 
 we hear so much. May you, my child, who have 
 " line upon line, and precept upon precept," grow 
 in grace as well as in wisdom and stature; that 
 so you may be in favor with God, as well as with 
 your fellow creature?. 
 
 But remember, that it is not by reading nor 
 hearing alone, that you must expect these effects 
 to follow. It is only when reflection and prayer 
 accompany those means, that we can hope the 
 good seed will take root and grow. David, you 
 know, meditated much on the word of God, and 
 4 ' hid it in his heart," for this reason, "that he 
 might not sin against him." And be assured, my 
 dear child, that you will find no antidote so effec- 
 tual against the sins and follies of your age. 
 
 Believe me 
 
 your affectionate Mother. 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 My dear Mother, 
 
 I am afraid sometimes you will be quite tired 
 with the relation of my school adventures; in 
 which you cannot possibly be so much interested 
 as I am. But when I remember the kindness 
 with which you have always attended to my little 
 affairs, in the midst of your own important ones, I 
 feel assured that you will receive my rambling 
 epistles with the same indulgence. 
 
 Since I wrote last, we have had an addition to 
 our number: a Miss Biggins. Oh, mamma! such 
 
 DO ' 
 
 a curiosity! She is the only child of a very rich 
 man, who they say has made his fortune suddenly. 
 Although she is as old as I am, she has had no 
 kind of education before; so that it would be very 
 wrong to laugh at her; especially as she is ex- 
 tremely good-natured and obliging, and very de- 
 sirous to improve. But really it is difficult to 
 help it sometimes, there is something so droll in 
 her look and manner. She is very short, fat, and 
 rosy; and stutters a little, particularly when she 
 is either puzzled or angry. Phillis Parker can 
 mimic her exactly; but, I do assure you, I have 
 only heard her do it once, and then she was very 
 angry with herself afterwards. 
 
 Some days ago, one of the girls was telling us 
 of a custom at the school she has lately left, (which 
 
32 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 I think from her manner of expressing herself 
 must have been a very different one from this). 
 They used, she said, once a week, to write 
 thoughts: that is, some short sentence, "out of 
 their own heads," as she called it, which was af- 
 terwards submitted to the governess's inspection. 
 " But, la!" said she, " we do nothing of that sort 
 at this school: I never saw such a school in my 
 life!" Several of us agreed that we should like 
 very well to try our talents at thought-making, if 
 Mrs. W. approved of it; at which she was much 
 pleased, and said, " Dacre, dear! do you ask her if 
 we may!" Mrs. W. very readily consented to our 
 making the attempt; so we all set about it, and 
 could think of nothing but our thoughts all the 
 week. I should have told you, that poor Miss 
 Biggins, when it was first proposed, came up to 
 Grace and me with such a queer puzzled face, 
 saying, — " A thought! dear, I can 't do it, I 5 m 
 sure! — what sort of a thought? — what do they 
 mean, I wonder!" " Why, think of something, 
 and that will be a thought, won't it?" said Phillis 
 Parker. Grace, however, kindly endeavored to 
 explain it to her, by an example: upon which 
 some one cried out, "That is not fair! there's 
 Grace Dacre helping Miss Biggins to write her 
 thought." To which Miss Biggins replied, with 
 more spirit than usual, " Xo, but she is not, 
 though; if I can 't make one myself, I won't make 
 any at all." 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 This was the very thing, as you may suppose, 
 to excite Fanny Fielding's ambition. Grace and 
 I found her one evening scribbling away upon her 
 slate, as intently as if her welfare for life depend- 
 ed upon her succeeding. She looked up at us 
 with her worried, anxious face; and said, " I 
 heartily wish this had never been thought of: it 
 will be nothing but vexation to me, I foresee. 
 Mine, I know, of the whole number, will be the 
 very worst." £C That is very unlikely indeed," 
 said Grace; " perhaps you only mean that you 
 are afraid, that, of the whole number, it will not 
 be the very best." " Nay, that I am quite cer- 
 tain of," said 'Fanny. " Well," said Grace, 
 f* and suppose it is noty " Suppose it is not! 
 Really, Grace," said she, " I do admire to hear 
 you ask that question so coolly! You that are 
 sure of writing a good one ; it is easy enough to be 
 so calm and philosophical about it." " But I am 
 not at all sure of writing a good one, "said Grace; 
 " indeed I am pretty sure I shall not: yet, I con- 
 fess, I don't feel very anxious about it; and per- 
 haps that gives me some chance of success." 
 " Well, now," said Fanny, " suppose you were 
 — (I know you will not) — but suppose you were to 
 write a very poor one ; just tell me if you would 
 not feel very much mortified?" " Perhaps I 
 might," said Grace; " but then I should be more 
 mortified afterwards, for being very much morti- 
 fied, than for having written a poor thought." 
 

 34 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 cf Well, well, Jam no stoic, nor ever shall be," 
 said Fanny; "so. do tell me, now, what I shall 
 write about?" " About my stoical philosophy, and 
 welcome, if you please," said Grace, laughing; 
 and so we left her. 
 
 For my own part, I must confess, I had no idea 
 before how difficult it is to think. I could, to be 
 sure, have written half a hundred sentences^piece- 
 meal from books; but to invent any thing of one's 
 own, not exactly common-place, you know, is a 
 very different kind of thing. 
 
 Well, mamma, this evening was the time fixed 
 for Mrs. W. to see them. Our slips of paper 
 were placed before her, and she read them aloud, 
 in their turns. What diverted me most was, to 
 watch the girls while their own thoughts were be- 
 ing read. Some laughed, some colored, some 
 jogged their neighbors' elbows. Poor Fanny 
 Fielding looked quite pale all the time. I am 
 afraid it would not amuse you much, if I were to 
 transcribe our fine thoughts for your inspection. 
 Some were not very original, certainly: for in- 
 stance, — "Virtue and vice are very opposite 
 qualities." — " Time flies swiftly." — " How amia- 
 ble is virtue!" &c. But what do you imagine 
 Phillis Parker's was? — just like her! " There is 
 no having thoughts without thinking." But I must 
 tell you poor Miss Biggins's, because it passed 
 off so much better than could be expected: it was 
 this—" Them that hasn't any patience, can never 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 35 
 
 have no learning." Oh, mamma! the moment it 
 was read, the whole school burst out a-laughing; 
 and she, poor girl! stood covered with confusion. 
 There was not one who did not laugh (for I did, 
 I confess), except Grace Dacre. But Mrs. TY\, 
 in her commanding way, put a stop to it by say- 
 ing, that, in her opinion, this, in point of senti- 
 ment, was one of the best sentences she had read: 
 its incorrectness, she observed, was merely inci- 
 dental; a few weeks' attention to Murray would 
 enable her to rectify those mistakes. 
 
 The tears overflowed poor Miss Biggins's eyes 
 as Mrs. W. said this. To turn our attention from 
 her, I suppose, Mrs. W. then began to look over 
 some of our papers again; and said, smiling, " As 
 to these thoughts of you elder ones, perhaps I 
 might give this general opinion: that Grace Da- 
 cre 5 s is the most acute; Miss Raymond's the most 
 correct; Fanny Fielding's the most ornamented; 
 Laura's, the most simple ; Phillis's, the most origi- 
 nal; and Miss Biggins's, the most useful.'" 
 
 With this sentence we were dismissed; and so 
 it has ended very well: though I do not think 
 Fanny is quite satisfied with hers; for she has 
 been teasing Grace, and me, too, all the time I 
 have been writing, to know what we supposed 
 Mrs. W. exactly meant by ornamented. 
 
 I am sorry to see that I have filled my whole 
 letter with this silly affair. It has, however, 
 taught me one thing; and that is, how much one 
 
36 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 may say and write without thinking: since it took 
 me more time to write a single sentence with a 
 thought in it, than the longest letter I have ever 
 sent you. Farewell, dear mamma! pray excuse 
 all the faults and thoughtlessness of your 
 
 Laura. 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 My dear Laura, 
 
 Far from being wearied with your school anec- 
 dotes, I feel much interested in them; as they 
 afford me an opportunity, both of watching the 
 unfoldings of your character, and of correcting 
 what I may deem exceptionable in your views or 
 your conduct, as occurrences arise. Besides, my 
 dear, I am your mother. 
 
 I am disposed to congratulate you on the addi- 
 tion made to your number in Miss Biggins: and 
 hope it will prove mutually advantageous. I say 
 muiuaUit, because, whatever her deficiencies may 
 be, since she is <: good-natured, obliging, and 
 very desirous to improve," her example may be 
 useful to the most accomplished among you. For 
 these are sterling qualities, in which, sometimes, 
 the most accomplished are deficient. 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 37 
 
 It is such a little time since you entered that 
 school-room, a stranger — since yeu sat forlorn in 
 the window-seat, the object of your school-fel- 
 lows' curiosity — that you are well qualified to 
 sympathize with a new-comer. And although 
 you are neither fat nor rosy, it is probable that 
 even you might furnish matter for ridicule, by 
 some unconscious peculiarity in your manner or 
 appearance. Indeed, when people are so dispos- 
 ed, they will never be at a loss for subjects on 
 which to exercise this foolish propensity: just as 
 a kitten sports with every thing that comes in her 
 way, not because it is appropriate, but because 
 she is playful. In Miss Biggins's being " short, 
 fat, and rosy," there is, at least, no crime: and 
 as the impediment in her speech is decidedly a 
 misfortune, I hope your friend Phillis will prove 
 that she was really angry with herself, by never 
 repeating the unkindness of mimicking it. 
 
 I was going to say that had I been present when 
 Miss Bijigins's thought was read, I mi^ht have 
 joined in the laugh; though it would not have been 
 at her expense. I might have laughed, my dear 
 Laura, to see a number of young ladies, in the 
 very act of exercising their thoughts, affording 
 such a proof of its being to them a novel employ- 
 ment, by the reception which they gave to the 
 first efforts of an uninstructed girl, and a stran- 
 ger. Yet I rather think I should have felt as 
 Mrs. W. did. None are just objects of ridicule 
 vol. v. 4 
 
38 LRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 for being destitute of that which they have had 
 no means of acquiring. A ploughman, seated at 
 a nobleman's table, would most probably excite 
 it; but it would be misplaced; because elegance 
 of manners is no more to be expected in him, than 
 awkwardness in a man of polite education. In- 
 deed, my dear, it is difficult to select a fit object 
 for ridicule: certainly not ignorance; for even 
 when it arises from inattention and indolence, it 
 is rather to be lamented than laughed at: nor is 
 its aspect ludicrous, but rather pitiable, when it is 
 the involuntary effect of circumstances. As the 
 habit of thinking becomes more frequent, I am 
 persuaded that you will be so seriously occupied 
 in remedying your own deficiencies, as to feel 
 little inclination to smile at those of others. 
 
 When I called on our poor neighbor Woodly 
 the other day, intending to present him with a 
 Bible, I was greatly disappointed to find that 
 neither husband nor wife could read. In this cir- 
 cumstance, however, we could discern nothing to 
 excite a smile ; although the acknowledgement, 
 that they did not know their letters, was very in- 
 correctly expressed. Now Miss Biggins is in a 
 similar predicament; and so are you, and so am I, 
 in a certain degree, while there yet remains any 
 thing which it is desirable for us to know, but 
 which we have not had the opportunity of learn- 
 ing. I rejoice that this young lady, by her 
 change of circumstances, will now have the means 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 of improvement: thus the superiority afforded by 
 fortune becomes of real value. Opulence is the 
 soil in which many a fair floweret unfolds, which 
 could otherwise never expand and diffuse its fra- 
 grance. It is of great importance that young 
 persons should form an accurate estimate of the 
 value of wealth. They cannot too early learn, 
 that its chief excellence consists in affording the 
 means of intellectual improvement, of assisting 
 the necessitous, and of increasing the happiness 
 of all within their sphere. I would hope, there- 
 fore, my dear, that your attachment to your young 
 friends may never be proportioned to the number 
 of thousands they may inherit; but to the influ- 
 ence such advantages have upon their characters. 
 Learn to distinguish, and to respect true merit, 
 whether in situations above or beneath you. 
 
 As the want of knowledge exposes the most 
 amiable to ridicule, as well as to many more seri- 
 ous disadvantages, those on whom Providence has 
 smiled in this respect have great cause for thank- 
 fulness. And while they are diligent in improv- 
 ing their own privileges, they will be equally 
 zealous in assisting others who are destitute of 
 them. 
 
 Those who feel thinking to be so very laborious 
 will find, that in proportion to their perseverance, 
 the mind will attain vigor; and mental exercises 
 will become more facile and delightful. How 
 much does our own happiness, and that of others, 
 
40 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 depend upon the right exercise of our thinking 
 powers! May you, my Laura, be able to say with 
 the Psalmist, " I hate vain thoughts, but thy law 
 do I love." " In the multitude of my thoughts 
 within me, thy comforts delight my soul." This, 
 above all other things, is the earnest hope of 
 
 your affectionate Mother. 
 
 LETTER IX 
 
 Dear Mamma, 
 
 I write rather sooner than usual, in order to 
 request you to execute a few little commissions 
 forme, of which I subjoin the list. But should 
 you think the first unnecessary, I shall be quite 
 contented to do without it ; although they are very 
 generally worn here, and certainly look very pret- 
 ty; and mine is getting rather shabby. (Grace 
 has one.) 
 
 There is, I know, some danger of paying too 
 much attention to dress, among so many girls> 
 some of whom think of little else. And yet it 
 does tend in a great degree to check the love of 
 it, to observe, that those are generally the most 
 dressy who have least sense; and that those who 
 are so much engrossed by it are vulgar in their 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 minds, if not in their manners. Poor Miss Big- 
 gins came loaded with expensive finery; while 
 Grace Dacre and Miss Raymond, who have the 
 highest connexions of any in the school, are the 
 plainest dressed of any of us. It was quite divert- 
 ing to see the unfeigned astonishment of some of 
 those dressy girls, when Mrs. W. assured them 
 that Grace and Miss Raymond dressed as they 
 did, not from necessity, but choice: as they were 
 both intrusted with such an ample allowance, as 
 would enable them, if they pleased, to be the gay- 
 est of any in the school. That any body should 
 dress plainly who could afford to be fine, seemed 
 quite beyond their comprehension. 
 
 When I once told Mrs. W. that Grace had 
 cured me of the love of dress, she bade me beware 
 of deceiving myself. For, she said, that if my 
 determination arose merely from the common pro- 
 pensity to imitate those we love, — if my next 
 friend happened to be fond of dress, I should soon 
 follow her example also. To that I replied, that 
 I was sure I never should or could choose for a 
 friend one who was very fond of dress. At which 
 she smiled, and said that I did not yet know what 
 I should or could do: and added, that strange as I 
 might think it, and strange as it was, she had 
 known a few young persons, (to say nothing of 
 old ones) of superior sense, taste, and intelligence, 
 and even, she believed, of sincere piety, and such 
 as I might be proud to call my friends, who yet 
 4* 
 

 42 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 bestowed a very improper share of their time and 
 attention on dress, and betrayed an inordinate 
 interest in it. She regarded it, indeed, as a 
 pitiable weakness, and lamentable inconsistency in 
 their characters; but so it was; and, therefore, 
 she advised me to form my principles and con- 
 duct, in tiiis respect, on some more substantial 
 foundation than the practice of an amiable friend. 
 She then endeavored to convince me, that true 
 taste, no less than right principle, forbids excess 
 of ornament, and excessive thought about it. How 
 disagreeable it is to see a showy company, every 
 one of which has evidently done her utmost! 
 One's eves are perfectly fatigued with wandering 
 from one fine thing to another. And yet, I must 
 confess, that I sometimes feel the very same 
 propensity myself; only I hope that time, and 
 thought, and good advice, and the example of 
 those I most respect and admire, will cure it. 
 
 Mrs. W. allows that there may be as much 
 pride in extreme plainness, as in excessive atten- 
 tion to dress, — and more affectation; and she 
 thinks there is a proper degree of regard to our 
 outward appearance, in which every one must be 
 regulated by their own circumstances, connexions, 
 and conscience. But, she says, there ought to be 
 no hesitation on the subject in the case of those, 
 who could only indulge in an ornamental style of 
 dress at the expense of the poor and the destitute: 
 and that it is generally thus with the limited allow- 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 ance of young persons. There are many, at least, 
 who have only to choose whether they will be gay 
 or generous; whether they will give their little 
 overplus to the hungry and the ignorant, or to the 
 milliner and jeweller. 
 
 mamma! how many things there are to 
 learn! I do not mean such only as our masters 
 teach us; but things much more difficult than they 
 are. Sometimes I almost despair of thinking and 
 doing right; there are so many different opinions, 
 and so many different ways of viewing things; 
 yet, as dear Grace says, with a simple, sincere 
 desire to do so, and an habitual reference to the 
 eye and to the will of God, we need not fear, 
 however weak and ignorant in ourselves, that we 
 shall greatly mistake: but th^ danger is in forget- 
 ting this, and yielding to the bias of our own in- 
 clinations. 
 
 1 ought to be very thankful, that while I am so 
 ill qualified to direct my own conduct, I have so 
 many friends able and willing to assist me, and, 
 above all, if I find any disposition to look to him 
 who has promised to be the guide of my youth. 
 Your dutiful and affectionate 
 
 Laura. 
 
44 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 I am much pleased, my dear Laura, that you 
 are so well prepared to acquiesce in my refusal 
 to furnish you with the principal article, in your 
 list of commissions. I must tell you plainly that 
 I do not think it at all necessarxj: besides, that I 
 find it would be rather too costly for me, and 
 rather too showy for you. 
 
 It is well that your mind is so far fortified 
 against that prevailing evil, the love of dress. I 
 should be sorry, indeed, if in addition to those 
 acquirements, which we hope will be permanent, 
 one should be added which, on your return home, 
 you will find it necessary to unlearn: (no uncom- 
 mon case, I fear!) and I am glad you are aware 
 of the danger. I believe you will not be appre- 
 hensive of my passing to the other extreme. A 
 becoming, subordinate attention to appearance, is, 
 I think, forbidden neither by reason nor scripture. 
 Even some things that are merely ornamental, 
 furnish employment to thousands of industrious 
 families; and, for those who can really afford it, 
 to encourage them is a far more effectual method 
 of supporting the poor, than indiscriminate alms- 
 giving. I am decidedly of Mrs. W.'s opinion, 
 that there are those, who while they affect great 
 strictness in dress, foster as much pride as others 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 4£ 
 
 who pay the most regard to it. But having con- 
 ceded thus much, to which, it is probable, that in 
 your whole number I should not find a dissentient 
 voice, I would endeavor to confirm your views of 
 the subject, by exposing some of the evils to 
 which a passion for dress would lead you. An 
 evil it is, of no small magnitude, when it tempts 
 us to pass the bounds of our pecuniary resources; 
 or even barely to keep within them: in which 
 case, while we are so amply providing for the in- 
 dustrious poor, we may be imperceptibly descen- 
 ding to the same level. Thousands have thus 
 brought themselves to participate in their necessi- 
 ties, without the advantages of industry to cope 
 with them. It is really painful to observe the ex- 
 pensive habits of some families, especially in this 
 respect, who might support their pretensions to 
 gentility much better by a plainer appearance. 
 Intent only on the present moment, they forget 
 to-morrow. The gratification of being among the 
 first in a new fashion, is purchased at whatever 
 price; and as, when it becomes general it loses 
 its charm, there can be, comparatively, but a few 
 able to attain this distinction, — an honor for which 
 such anxiety, study, and expense, are thought 
 allowable. Alas! what an employment of that 
 time and those talents of which a solemn account 
 will shortly be required! 
 
 This sad propensity, from the titled lady down 
 to the kitchen maid, maintains the most destruc- 
 
46 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 tive progression. The former, in spite of all her 
 exertions, discovers, to her mortification, that she 
 is presently overtaken by the class immediately 
 beneath her; and they, in their turn, are obliged 
 to advance by their neighbors in the rear. Thus 
 is each urged on, till the two extremes nearly ap- 
 proximate. 
 
 It is obvious, that the higher classes (however 
 averse they might be to admit the fact) are event- 
 ually impelled by the lower: for were these to 
 remain stationary, so rapid a progression would 
 become unnecessary; and vanity itself might en- 
 joy a transient repose. It is amusing to observe 
 in what different lights singularity is viewed by 
 amateurs in dress: for while that which is singu- 
 lar as being o/d-fashioned, is ridiculed and 'dis- 
 carded, to be singular in a new one would to some 
 afford the highest gratification. One would imag- 
 ine, that the estate, the reputation, the existence 
 (we will not say the soul) depended, with many, 
 on their sporting something entirely new; while 
 on those who (from attention to higher duties) are 
 not such adepts in the science, they look down 
 with conscious superiority. O, that half this 
 anxiety were manifested, that (in a better sense) 
 "old things might pass away, and all things be- 
 come new! " 
 
 Do but compare for a moment, a woman actuat- 
 ed by this pitiful spirit of competition and love of 
 show, with another, who, occupied by things of 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 47 
 
 real importance, dresses with simplicity, frugality, 
 and propriety, according to her station, totally un- 
 moved by the rivalry and splendor of her dressy 
 neighbors; and then judge which of the two is 
 the most dignified — (or to employ a term more in- 
 telligible to some) the most genteel. 
 
 I wish, my dear Laura, that those among you, 
 with whom this mania has commenced, would but 
 calculate how large a proportion of time, and es- 
 pecially of thought, it commonly engrosses; and 
 then let reason and conscience decide how far it 
 is injurious to mental and moral growth. Does it 
 not seem with some "the one thing needful," to 
 which all that is really so is sacrificed? 
 
 When we contemplate our various relations — 
 what we owe to our fellow creatures, to ourselves, 
 and to God — is it not fearful to reflect upon the 
 large portion of time and the undue degree of in- 
 terest devoted to the ornament of bodies which 
 must so soon decay, and fall into ruin! ' ; Where 
 the treasure is, there will the heart be also." To 
 ascertain the ruling passion of the mind, and its 
 effects, it would be useful to make a pause, and 
 recollect how seldom such vain cogitations are 
 interrupted by these momentous subjects, which 
 ought to predominate in minds destined to an im- 
 mortal existence. And, on the contrary, to let 
 conscience witness how frequently those vanities 
 intrude into the house of God, and even into the 
 closet! Such an observation as this, however, 
 
 : 
 
48 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 would be to many unintelligible: it would be 
 " speaking in an unknown tongue " to those whose 
 closets witness only the business of the toilet, or 
 the perusal of a romance. But there is a time 
 approaching, when " the mantles, and the whim- 
 pies, and the crisping pins, must be laid aside;" for 
 * ' the fashion of this world passeth away ! " ' l Strait 
 is the gate, and narrow is the way that leads to 
 life; and few there be who go in thereat." But 
 that happy few are clothed in robes of spotless 
 whiteness, and unrivalled, for glory and beauty, 
 by the most costly manufactures of this world. 
 Their garb and ornaments, indeed, give them the 
 appearance of singularity in the midst of an evil 
 generation: for they are evidently pilgrims and 
 strangers, passing on to another country: and 
 who partake, with self-denying moderation, of the 
 enjoyments of this, with which they are supplied 
 from stage to stage. 
 
 Let not your ambition, then, my Laura, be de- 
 graded to such things as iC braiding the hair, and 
 gold, and pearls, and costly array;" but rather 
 strive to attain a meek and quiet spirit, and the 
 rest of those christian graces, which manifest to 
 what country we are bound: for these are, " in the 
 sight of God, of great price." Let your language 
 still be with our revered poet, 
 
 " Then will I set my heart to find 
 Inward adornings or the mind; 
 Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace; 
 These are the robes of richest dress." 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 49 
 
 Although, from my neglecting your commission, 
 many will be beforehand with you in the new 
 fashion, you will not be disconcerted at this, nor 
 suffer such a trifle to be a disappointment. Let 
 your chief ambition be, that none shall get the 
 start of you in better things. We are solicitous, 
 as you well know, my dear girl, to gratify all your 
 reasonable wishes, as far as we can; but it is no 
 part of our plan to expend all upon you now; or, 
 by unkind indulgence, to cherish such dispositions 
 as must, eventually, prove inimical to your happi- 
 ness. We would lay a foundation for the welfare 
 of our Laura when her parents are sleeping in 
 the dust. 
 
 Your affectionate Mother. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 I am really surprised, my dear mamma, to find 
 how near Christmas is! This, I am sure, has not 
 appeared a long half year to me: it seems but a 
 little while since that fine summer's morning, 
 when I took a sorrowful leave of you. And this 
 I think I can say, that the pleasure I feel at the 
 prospect of the approaching vacation, arises en- 
 tirely from the delightful hope of seeing you, my 
 vol. v. 5 
 
50 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 dear, dear papa, mamma, and Kitty! and not at 
 all from the thought of being released from the 
 restraints and employments of school. I pity those 
 who are going home to spend the time in idleness 
 and indulgence; and rejoice to think that this 
 would not be my case, even if I were ever so 
 much disposed to it. I hope to return to school, 
 not with reluctance, but with renewed ardor for 
 my pursuits; it will also be a great pleasure to meet 
 many of my school associates again, — dear Grace, 
 especially; besides Mrs. W., whose kindness I 
 shall never forget. 
 
 I shall say nothing about my improvement irr 
 any respect, as you will so soon be able to judge 
 of that for yourselves: only I must just tell you 
 beforehand, not to expect too much, as you know 
 it is only half a year; and I have had a great 
 many things to attend to in that time. 
 
 I am glad, now, that you and papa decided as 
 you did, about some things that I was, at first, 
 very desirous to learn. And so, I think, is Mrs. 
 W. She appears to regret it when the ladies' pa- 
 rents are anxious (as most of them are) for their 
 daughters to acquire a variety of accomplish- 
 ments: because it prevents their making great 
 proficiency in any one of them: and, especially, 
 as it prevents their giving sufficient attention to 
 pursuits, which she considers of far higher impor- 
 tance. 
 
 Even Mr. Biggins, mamma, desired that his 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 51 
 
 daughter might learn every thing that money could 
 pay for; and particularized painting on velvet, and 
 playing on the tambourine! It is well, I think, that 
 Mrs. W. has better ideas of education than poor 
 Mr. Biggins; or his daughter would be rendered 
 more ridiculous — that is, I mean, would be more 
 exposed to ridicule from inconsiderate people, 
 than before she came to school. 
 
 Mrs. W. is constantly urging us to take pains, 
 and pay every attention to whatever we attempt 
 to acquire; but she is very anxious that we should 
 distinguish between mere accomplishments, and 
 that sterling knowledge which furnishes and en- 
 larges the mind. Even accomplishments, she 
 says, are chiefly to be valued as they tend to re- 
 fine the taste, and extend the views: and I have 
 often heard her observe, that life is too short to 
 allow us to devote much of it to any thing that may 
 not directly or indirectly become useful to our- 
 selves or others. She once knew a young lady, 
 who had devoted her whole life to learning to play 
 on the harp. She succeeded, as might be expect- 
 ed, in her object — that of playing on the harp 
 better than any of her friends: but what then? 
 " What a terrible mistake," said Mrs. W. " for 
 a being sent into the world to prepare for immor- 
 tality!" 
 
 You were right, mamma, in your opinion of 
 Miss Biggins- for I really think she is very im- 
 provable by education. You have no idea how 
 
52 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 patiently she applies: and how eagerly she seems 
 to receive the new ideas, that are every day 
 presented to her mind. 
 
 We are just now reading " Gregory's Lessons," 
 which I remember being so much interested in 
 four years ago; especially the astronomical parts,, 
 which made me first love to look at the stars, and 
 to think of them, and of Him who " calls them 
 all by their names," as I lay awake at night, and 
 saw them twinkling through the window-panes. 
 It is all new, as you may suppose, to Miss Big- 
 gins; and she seems quite pleased, and anxious 
 to know more. Now this, as I heard Mrs. W. 
 explaining to her, has opened her mind, furnished 
 it with new ideas, and afforded her a new source 
 of pleasure ; pleasure, too, of a noble and elevating 
 kind. While, if she had been employing the 
 same time in scratching upon a piece of velvet, 
 she might, indeed, have been able to produce a 
 gay screen or work-bag; but her mind would have 
 remained as uncultivated as before. How many 
 young women one may see, as Mrs. W. says, who 
 can display a great variety of showy acquirements, 
 and yet, are pretty nearly as common, narrow, 
 and vulgar-minded, as those who have received 
 no education at all! " Not that I would infer," 
 said she, " that all things which are called accom- 
 plishments should rank no higher in our estima- 
 tion, than drawing a flower; since some of them, 
 when properly studied, approach very nearly, in 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 their effects upon the mind, to more solid acqui- 
 sitions. But yet, with respect to all of them, I 
 would ever keep in mind the brevity of life, and the 
 grand business of it. 55 
 
 I was sure you would be pleased to hear how 
 much Mrs. W.'s ideas, on this subject, accord with 
 yours and papa's; and that, after all your anxiety, 
 you have intrusted your poor Laura to one, who 
 is so much more anxious to make her wise and 
 good, than showy and brilliant. I hope her kind 
 intentions and yours may not be wholly disappoint- 
 ed. I know whose fault it will be if they are. 
 
 We are so very busy now, that perhaps I shall 
 not be able to write again before we meet; and I 
 postpone all further particulars till that happy day. 
 But I hope, dearest mother, that you will afford 
 one more of your kind letters to your affectionate 
 
 Laura. 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 My dear Child, 
 
 It was but a few evenings ago, that poor Kitty 
 suddenly exclaimed, with great animation, " This 
 day fortnight Laura will be here!" " If nothing 
 happens to prevent it," said your papa. " To 
 prevent it!" replied Kitty: " dear papa, what can 
 5* 
 
54 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 happen to prevent it?" " That I cannot tell, 
 indeed," replied he; " and I hope nothing will: 
 but you remember how they are reproved, who 
 speak too confidently of c going into such a city;' 
 and how we are warned not to ' boast of to-morrow, 
 as we know not what a day may bring forth. 5 " 
 The genera] propriety of this, Kitty could not 
 dispute: though, I fear, it did not tend to check 
 the confidence of her expectations in the present 
 instance. 
 
 I relate this little circumstance, my dear Laura, 
 to prepare you for a disappointment, which it 
 gives me a great deal of pain to communicate. 
 As the time approached for your return, we, as 
 well as yourself, began to indulge many agree- 
 able anticipations; and hoping it would increase 
 our pleasure and yours, I had written to request 
 my young friend Charlotte to come, and make 
 her promised visit to us during the Christmas 
 vacation. She accepted the invitation, and has 
 been with us a few days. But how long she may 
 remain, or in what manner be conveyed hence, is 
 extremely uncertain. She came safe and well, 
 but is now confined with an acute fever, which 
 affords little prospect of a speedy recovery. And 
 as our medical attendant cannot yet ascertain what 
 form her disorder may assume, nor how it may 
 terminate, we think it best, that our dear Laura 
 should forego the expected pleasure; provided 
 it is convenient to Mrs. W. to allow you to 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 55 
 
 remain with her, of which she will soon inform 
 you. 
 
 It is highly probable, therefore, that we shall 
 not meet before midsummer: I need not say, my 
 dear girl, that the disappointment is as much ours 
 as yours; but as it is unavoidable, I hope we shall 
 all acquiesce in it cheerfully. As there are few 
 evils without their accompanying good, we hope 
 that you will derive a valuable lesson from the 
 present circumstance. However common-place 
 the observation, it is an established and important 
 truth, and one of which the young need to be 
 continually reminded, that this is a world of un- 
 certainties and disappointments. You may, with 
 propriety, my love, view the event as a sample 
 of your future experience. I was going to add, 
 well will it be if crosses of no greater magnitude 
 await you. But He who dispenses our sorrows 
 is best acquainted with the kind and degree of 
 suffering necessary to our eventual happiness. 
 Our lesser trials, as well as our heavier calamities, 
 come alike under the cognisance of Him who re- 
 gards " a sparrow falling to the ground," as well 
 as the desolating earthquake. It is well, however, 
 that futurity is concealed from our view: as fore- 
 knowledge, if we possessed it, could not enable us 
 to " add one cubit to our stature, nor to make one 
 hair white or black." Could we have foreseen 
 tSe extent of our separation, it would have ren- 
 ered the parting still more painful: could we 
 
56 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 have foreseen what has occasioned it, we might 
 have withheld our invitation to Charlotte; — when, 
 either for her or for us, the circumstance may 
 eventually prove a propitious one. 
 
 Not having seen her since the time of her dear 
 mother's death, when she was an infant, I was 
 anxious to see whether she inherits those excel- 
 lences which I so highly venerated in her parent, 
 and by which she is still endeared to my memory. 
 How far my hopes were fulfilled in this respect, 
 I may tell you on a future occasion: at present, 
 all our attention is engrossed by her alarming- 
 situation. We know not but she may be going 
 to join her parents very soon; and if she is pre- 
 pared for such a change, it is well; for she has 
 now no ability to attend to her eternal interests. 
 Let this affecting occurrence stimulate you, my 
 dear Laura, to " remember your Creator before 
 the evil day comes," which may even now be at 
 hand, " in which you shall have no pleasure 5 ' — 
 no power to attend even to the most trivial con- 
 cerns; much less to those of everlasting import- 
 ance. 
 
 l( A flower may fade before 't is noon — " 
 
 Your affectionate Mother. 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 My dear Mother, 
 
 I will not attempt to conceal from you how ill 
 I bore the first news of my disappointment. It 
 was certainly the most severe one I ever had; as 
 I had indulged myself lately in imagining every 
 circumstance of our expected meeting, and was 
 making many preparations for it, which are now 
 of no use: — but that is all over. 
 
 I presented your letter to Mrs. W. She desires 
 me to say, that it is quite convenient for me to 
 remain with her during the vacation; and is so 
 kind as to add, that she will do all in her power to 
 make it agreeable to me. I am very sorry for 
 poor Charlotte: and felt ashamed of my selfish- 
 ness, when I found how long I continued thinking 
 of my own disappointment, before I began to 
 recollect the occasion of it, or to consider how 
 much lighter my trial is than hers. 
 
 I have often observed, that pleasures are half 
 spoiled to us by some little unforeseen vexation 
 attending them. Now I have made another dis- 
 covery, which surprised me still more; and that 
 is, that even pains and disappointments have 
 their pleasures. You would be pleased to hear 
 how many things have happened, to reconcile me 
 to my fate. In the first place, there was the 
 sympathy of my companions. I have heard, that 
 
58 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 friendship is best tried by adversity, and so I 
 found it. There were none, indeed, who did not 
 express some concern for me; and some from 
 whom I least expected it I am sure meant what 
 they said. Fanny Fielding, who had been of 
 late so intent upon her employments, in prepara- 
 tion for going home, that she has not had a word 
 to spare for any body, surprised me by her 
 warm, unaffected expressions of concern: while 
 Jessy Cooke, who had just heard that she was to 
 spend the vacation with her relations in London, 
 was so engrossed by her own happiness, that she 
 could scarcely take the trouble even to saij that 
 she was sorry. Oh, how much I was mistaken 
 in Jessy at first! Nothing gratified me more than 
 the sympathy of some of the little ones, who, in 
 the midst of their delight at the thought of going 
 home, came running to kiss and comfort me; 
 wishing, as they said, "that poor Laura was 
 going to see her mamma." 
 
 Grace did not say much, for she is never lavish 
 of words; but such is the generosity of her friend- 
 ship, that I could see her own pleasure was really 
 lessened by my disappointment. If she could, I 
 know she would gladly have shLred it with me. 
 She did all in her power to comfort me; and what 
 was better, gave me excellent advice for bearing* 
 it well. What I most dreaded was witnessing the 
 busy preparations in which I was to have no share,, 
 and seeing the happy parties set off. She. there- 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 fore, advised me, instead of being an idle specta- 
 tor, to engage in the bustle myself, by assisting 
 the rest. She told me to be, not only patient, but 
 cheerful; and prophesied, that the satisfaction of 
 submitting heroically, would compensate for all 
 the pain. And now, mamma, — would you believe 
 it: — those three days of bustle, while the school 
 was breaking up, passed as happily as almost any 
 I can remember. I was all the time at every 
 body's call; packing for one, and finishing some- 
 thing for another. I found particular pleasure in 
 assisting those who felt the least for me; because, 
 you know, my services to them were more disin- 
 terested. I packed all Jessy's things, and mounted 
 several drawings for her, ready to take home. 
 By these means, I scarcely felt a pang when the 
 last chaise drove off, and I returned to the silent 
 empty school-room. And what do you imagine I 
 found there? — a beautiful writing-desk, very com- 
 pletely fitted up, and a letter directed to me. It 
 was written in the name of the whole school, and 
 signed by all their names; and was to beg my 
 acceptance of the desk, as an expression of their 
 united affection. Mrs. W. says, that as soon as 
 they heard of my disappointment, they asked her 
 permission to raise a subscription among them- 
 selves for this purpose. Was it not kind? — and, 
 instead of complaining, ought I not to be con- 
 tented and happy? I am now using it for the 
 first time; and it would be shameful, I am sure, 
 
60 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 to write a murmuring word upon my pretty 
 present. 
 
 Nothing can exceed dear Mrs. W.'s kindness 
 to me. She leaves me entirely at liberty to dis- 
 pose of my time during the vacation; only re- 
 commending me to continue a regular application 
 to my studies, as the best way to prevent lassi- 
 tude, and to make the time pass pleasantly. By 
 this means, she says, I shall also be able to ascer- 
 tain the progress I have made ; and see how far I 
 can go without help, and whether I have acquired 
 so much strength of mind, and strength of habit, 
 as to be attentive and industrious when restraints 
 are removed. But while she recommends this, 
 she is kindly planning many little pleasures and 
 recreations for us, to make it appear like holyday 
 time. 
 
 I forgot to tell you that another is spending the 
 vacation here as well as myself. A young lady 
 who has lately lost both her parents: she came 
 last quarter; and having no comfortable home to 
 go to, Mrs. W. offered to retain her here. I 
 cannot say, however, that this renders my stay 
 so much more agreeable as you might suppose. 
 If I could have chosen a companion, it would have 
 been delightful indeed (and you can easily guess 
 who it would have been); but Miss Morrison — 
 though, on account of her circumstances, I would 
 wish to be particularly kind and attentive to her — 
 is not the kind of girl I should have made choice 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 61 
 
 of. JVor does she at all answer the idea one 
 naturally forms of an orphan. Before she came, 
 I imagined her to be a pale, interesting-looking 
 girl; rather tall, with light blue eyes, in deep 
 mourning, and very melancholy. Instead of this, 
 she is stout and healthy; fond of romping and 
 school-jokes; and not'at all intelligent. So that 
 she rather spoils the pleasure I should otherwise 
 enjoy in Mrs. W.'s society: as well as that, while 
 we are 'together, I am obliged to talk to her, when 
 I would so much rather indulge my own reflec- 
 tions: for now I have you, and Grace, and a 
 great many things to think of. Besides, she 
 talks such nonsense, sometimes! I think Mrs. 
 W. perceives that we are not very suitable com- 
 panions. She was saying the other day, that 
 when we are placed in the society of persons who 
 are uncongenial and uninteresting to us, we have 
 an opportunity of exercising unmixed benevo- 
 lence; which is far from being the case when as- 
 sociating with those we love, whose esteem we 
 most desire, and whose society is flattering and 
 delightful to us. There is often, she says, more 
 of selfishness than we suspect in the attentions 
 we pay to favorite friends. But to interest our- 
 selves in the concerns of those who are compara- 
 tively indifferent to us, — to be kind and courteous, 
 and to converse with them when we had rather be 
 silent, — this, she said, is genuine good nature: 
 and the self-denial it demands will be amply re- 
 vol. v. 6 
 
62 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 paid by the esteem of others, as well as by the 
 satisfaction of our own minds. She also said, 
 that it is a great mistake, very common to young 
 people, which time and experience would correct, 
 to despise the good opinion of any one. And, 
 that it not unfrequently happens, that the good 
 will of those whose esteem we scarcely thought 
 worth obtaining, proves far more valuable to us 
 than that which we have been most solicitous to 
 win. 
 
 I find great pleasure in rising at the usual hour, 
 though no bell calls me; and in applying assidu- 
 ously when no one requires it. If I am industri- 
 ous during the whole vacation, I shall get very 
 forward; and commence again with great advan- 
 tage. I assure you, I quite enjoy myself when I 
 am hard at work in the empty school-room. 
 
 Hoping soon to hear a better account of your 
 guest, I remain your lonely 
 
 Laura. 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 My dear Laura, 
 
 After a period of painful anxiety, on behalf of 
 our dear invalid, I have at length the pleasure to 
 inform you of her gradual recovery. I think I 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 63 
 
 promised to give you some account of her; a task 
 more pleasing now than it would have been when 
 first she came under our roof. Perhaps my af- 
 fection for her dear mother might operate to her 
 disadvantage, by causing me to raise my expec- 
 tations too high. Indeed, prejudice is always 
 injurious, even when exercised in favor of an ob- 
 ject. There was a confident and unembarrassed 
 air, even in Charlotte's first introduction to us, 
 which never fails (in a young person especially) 
 to make an unfavorable impression. But poor 
 Charlotte had been educated at a fashionable 
 boarding-school, and under the guardianship of a 
 dissipated aunt. She has been introduced into 
 the world as a young woman of fortune; with 
 the addition of personal advantages, and various 
 accomplishments. She had, therefore, every thing 
 to elate, and (being a stranger to herself) nothing 
 to humble her. How widely different is the con- 
 fidence and self-sufficiency of a vain, thoughtless 
 mind, from that holy boldness which enables the 
 meanest Christian to exclaim, "Whom shall I 
 fear? — The Lord is the strength of my life, of 
 whom shall J be afraid r" 
 
 It was soon apparent, that Charlotte's visit to 
 us was rather in polite compliance with our repeat- 
 ed invitations, than from any inclination of her 
 own. She was aware, I believe, that our princi- 
 ples and habits were quite dissimilar to hers. I 
 observed too, that Kitty, who for some time before 
 
64 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 her arrival had thought and talked of little but 
 Charlotte, felt chilled and disappointed at the 
 first interview. The feelings with which she was 
 prepared to meet her new friend were repressed 
 by a certain manner, which is not calculated to 
 interest the heart. 
 
 She had been with us but a few hours before I 
 perceived, from the alternate flushings and palj- 
 ness of her cheek, that she was not well. She 
 had a slight cough, a constant inclination to 
 approach the fire, and frequent shiverings, which, 
 however, she took great care to conceal. When 
 I intimated my apprehensions, she made light of 
 them; and utterly rejected any precautionary 
 means, which might, in this stage of the complaint, 
 have prevented the consequences which followed. 
 
 She had, it seems, on the night preceding her 
 journey, been to an assembly, and acknowledged 
 that she caught a slight cold by coming out while 
 heated with dancing. But she said she was 
 proof against such accidents; that she never con- 
 fined or nursed herself; and on my repeatedly 
 urging her to do so on the present occasion, she 
 laughed, and asked Kitty if she was always serv- 
 ed so when she had a cold. But notwithstand- 
 ing these bravados, it was very evident that the 
 disorder rapidly gained ground; especially after 
 she had persisted, in spite of my remonstrances, 
 in walking about the garden, with little extra 
 covering, although it was a damp and foggy 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 65 
 
 morning. But with one so competent to judge 
 for herself (as doubtless every young lady of her 
 age must be) all friendly interference was deemed 
 superfluous. 
 
 But at length Charlotte could brave it out no 
 longer. Sickness had laid a powerful hand on 
 her, and peremptorily confined her to her bed; 
 and death stood at the door. Nor could all the 
 skill of the physician, nor the assiduities of friend- 
 ship, afford hope for some days, that the disorder 
 would not finally prevail. Delirium ensued: — it 
 was the delirium of a dissipated mind, betraying 
 its habits and propensities by every incoherent 
 expression. Alas! it was but a remove from the 
 vain rovings of her distempered imagination when 
 she thought herself well and happy. But, with 
 the return of her recollection and reasoning 
 powers, a conviction of the vanity and insufficien- 
 cy of those things, which heretofore had constitut- 
 ed her supreme felicity, seemed to penetrate her 
 mind. She, at least, perceived that, however 
 congenial they might be to her taste and wishes, 
 she held them by a very precarious tenure, and 
 that something more was necessary to constitute 
 genuine happiness, than delights of which she 
 might be deprived at a moment's warning. Her 
 self-complacency, too, seemed to have received a 
 considerable shock: she now felt herself to be a 
 poor dependent creature; depressed or elated by 
 circumstances at which, a few weeks before, she 
 6* 
 
66 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 would have spurned. When she had gained suf- 
 ficient strength to sit up in her bed, she requested 
 a glass to be brought. I complied; and watched 
 with interest the turn of her countenance when 
 she beheld her altered appearance. The shock 
 was almost too much for her feeble frame. The 
 pallid cheek, sunk eye, and languid expression, 
 enforced a lesson which, I hope, will not soon be 
 forgotten. " Surely," I said, cc c all flesh is 
 grass, and the beauty thereof as the flower of the 
 field!'" She assented mournfully; and I added. 
 " But although ' the grass withereth, and the flow- 
 er fadeth, the word of the Lord endureth forever:' 
 that word, which is not only able to raise the de- 
 cayed body even from the dust of death, but to 
 renew the depraved soul, and make it fit for 
 heaven." " I perceive," said she, "that either 
 you have too much religion, or I too little." I 
 replied, that whatever might be the case with her, 
 I was quite sure the supposition did not apply to 
 me. She afterwards said, she had never felt half 
 so grateful for all the blessings with which she 
 had been favored, as she now did (enfeebled as 
 she was) for the hope of recovery. She seemed, 
 however, to shrink from the trials and difficulties 
 which she perceived must attend a new, a reli- 
 gious life; and greatly to fear her own stability. 
 " What strength of mind and self-command must 
 religious people have!" she said. " They have 
 strength, indeed," I replied; " but it is derived 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 67 
 
 strength. The apostle says, c I can do all things 
 through Christ that strengtheneth me;' and the 
 weakest Christian can make the same boast. If 
 you find, my dear Charlotte," I said, "any dis- 
 position to apply the solemn lesson you have re- 
 ceived to your soul's advantage, regard it as the 
 striving of the spirit of God on your heart, taking 
 occasion, by your recent sufferings and danger, 
 to impress divine things upon your mind. And 
 the same powerful aid, if sought and cherished, 
 will be afforded to finish what, I hope, is begun. 
 May you be induced to co-operate with these 
 gentle influences; and accept the Gospel on the 
 terms on which it is offered! — accept a Saviour, 
 to do all in and for you." 
 
 Thus I would hope that our young friend is at 
 least inquiring the way to Zion. May she find 
 the right road, and not be turned aside to either 
 hand, by the tern ptat ions that await her! There 
 are so many who, in consequence of such alarm- 
 ing warnings, " run well " for a time, but are 
 afterwards "hindered," that at present we can 
 but " rejoice with trembling." 
 
 I am glad to find, my dear Laura, that you 
 have gained a little experience since you quitted 
 home; sufficient, I would hope, to prevent your 
 forming a very hasty judgment in future, either of 
 persons or things. Even Mrs. W. appears to be 
 more agreeable than you had supposed a gover- 
 ness could be. — Miss Dacre, whose amiableness 
 
68 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 you were at first disposed to question, proves to 
 be your most valued friend: — while Jessy, who 
 stood so high in your estimation for a few days, 
 recedes into the back ground. You perceive 
 also, that events are not to be judged of prema- 
 turely, any more than persons. "When you left 
 home, it would have greatly embittered the sepa- 
 ration could you have known that you were not to 
 see it again till your final return. Yet, how many 
 agreeable circumstances have sprung from your 
 disappointments! 
 
 Well, my Laura, if trivial events like these 
 produce such unlooked-for benefits, how much 
 more may you expect, if you walk in " Wisdom's 
 ways," to find, though set with many a thorn, 
 that they will prove to be " paths of peace and 
 pleasantness;" and that all things, however ad- 
 verse they may appear, shall work together for 
 your ultimate good! — Such observations, also, 
 will tend to abate your surprise at the frequent 
 difference between our views and modes of think- 
 ing and your own. If, in a few months, you have 
 gained so much experience, our stock, in a much 
 greater number of years, ought to have accumu- 
 lated in a proportionate degree. The result of 
 which will sometimes be, that what appears de- 
 cidedly good or evil to you, may seem otherwise 
 to us; we may < v if not compelled to form a judg- 
 ment quite the reverse") at least wish to suspend 
 our opinion respecting it. In this imperfect state, 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 69 
 
 diffidence of our own judgment becomes every 
 age; but how unbecoming must confidence, pos- 
 itiveness, and impatience of contradiction be in 
 those who have neither years nor experience to 
 support it! 
 
 Your affectionate Mother. 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 My dear Mamma, 
 
 I am rejoiced to hear of poor Charlotte's re- 
 covery; and especially of the hopeful conse- 
 quences of her illness. Pray give my love to her; 
 for I am sure I should love her noic. I can well 
 remember my own sensations when I was ill three 
 years ago, and when I discovered, by your looks, 
 that you were uneasy about me. I thought that 
 if I recovered I should never forget the impres- 
 sions I then felt; but, oh, when health returned, 
 how soon they wore off ! When I am quite well, 
 and busy and happy (as, indeed, lam very often), 
 how difficult it is, to think religion of as much 
 importance as it appears to be on a sick bed! 
 
 Well! the vacation is over; and we are all 
 going on just as usual again. Considering my 
 disappointment, the time passed as pleasantly as 
 
70 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 I could expect. I saw more of Mrs. W. in those 
 few weeks than during the whole previous half 
 year; and I assure you I love her better than I 
 ever did before. 
 
 I have been sitting a long time, with the pen in 
 my hand, considering whether I should expose my 
 vanity and folly, by confessing a little mortification 
 I had the first week or two of the vacation; but as 
 it did me a great deal of good, I think I must tell 
 you. I mentioned in my last, that Miss Morrison 
 was staying here with me; and, from what I then 
 said, you would, perhaps, perceive that I fancied 
 myself, in many things, very much her superior. 
 Yes, mamma, I felt this so much, — so much 
 more, indeed, than I was aware, — that I made no 
 doubt Mrs. W. thought the same; and conclud- 
 ed, that she would value my company much the 
 most; feel hers a kind of interruption; and address 
 her conversation chiefly to me. But, instead of 
 this, her attentions were so equally divided between 
 us, that it would have been impossible for any 
 body to guess which of us she preferred. I should 
 not have regarded her bestowing even more kind- 
 ness upon Miss Morrison, if she had but flattered 
 me by engaging in conversation with me on sub- 
 jects that would not have interested her. But as 
 she did not. I concluded it was only from delicacy 
 to Miss Morrison's feelings; and still hoped, that 
 she would take some opportunity, when we were 
 alone, to say as much. But, although there were 
 
A MOTHEH AXD DAUGHTER. 71 
 
 many opportunities, nothing of the kind was said, 
 or hinted at. 
 
 Mrs. W. had several little jobs to be done during 
 the vacation, in which she requested our assist- 
 ance. This we both willingly gave: and nothing 
 would have gratified me more than rendering my- 
 self useful to her. But, in almost every tiling we 
 undertook, Miss Morrison succeeded better than 
 I. She did things more adroitly, and readily, 
 notwithstanding my anxiety to do my best. Mrs. 
 W.j I saw, was pleased with her; especially as in 
 
 all she did her manner was so obliging and atten- 
 ds o 
 
 tive. At last, I thought of something in which I 
 was pretty sure she could not rival me. It was 
 Mrs. W.'s birthday; and I determined, foolish as 
 I was, to write some verses on the occasion. I 
 was nearly the whole day about it; and as soon 
 as they were finished, I went to leave them in her 
 closet, where she would find them in the evening. 
 In the closet I found Miss Morrison, who showed 
 me a large pile of Christinas bills, which she had 
 been employed all day in casting up for Mrs. W. 
 At supper time, Mrs. W. came down, with a 
 kind smile on her face, my verses in one hand, 
 and these bills in the other. And first she thank- 
 ed me, more than I deserved, for my address to 
 her; and added, that " it was certainly very well 
 for a first attempt/' I cannot say this compli- 
 ment quite equalled my expectations; especially 
 as I knew it was by no means a. first attempt. But 
 
72 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 I was still less satisfied with myself when she 
 said, turning to Miss Morrison, " 3Iy dear, I have 
 examined several of these bills, and I find they 
 are quite right; and I thank you: you have been 
 very useful to me; you have saved me a great 
 deal of time and trouble to-day." Indeed, mam- 
 ma, I felt at that moment very much humbled; 
 and I felt (what I believe Mrs. W. wished me to 
 feel) that although a better education has cer- 
 tainly given me the advantage of Miss Morrison, 
 in some respects, yet that in many useful quali- 
 ties she quite as much surpasses me; and that 
 there is by no means so great a difference be- 
 tween us as I vainly imagined. I have since 
 thought less of myself, and better of her; and you 
 cannot think how much easier and happier I have 
 been since I gave up all thought of preeminence; 
 and Mrs, W., I think, has been better pleased 
 with me. 
 
 I was very glad, however, when the school re- 
 opened, and all my companions returned. Grace 
 was among the first who arrived; and a happy 
 meeting it was; for you may suppose how many 
 things we had to say after six weeks 5 absence. 
 We have two new scholars this half year. They 
 are acquaintances that Jessy Cooke made in 
 London, and very proud she is of them. It was 
 in consequence of her recommendation, she says, 
 that they are come to Mrs. W.'s. They have 
 been at a high school in London, and are very 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 gay, dashing girls: and they seem to look down 
 with contempt upon every thing and every body 
 here. I am afraid, indeed, they cannot be much 
 pleased with their new situation; for ?»Irs. W. is 
 the last person in the world to pay any extra at- 
 tention to young people on account of fortune, 
 or fashion, or any thing of that kind: and, al- 
 though they have learned a great many showy 
 things, they are really not, as to information, 
 equal to some of the youngest girls in our school. 
 Poor Jessy pays such court to them! and at pres- 
 ent is quite in favor; but how long it will last, 
 time will show. 
 
 I hope I shall remember the advice Mrs. W. 
 gave us on recommencing our pursuits. u There 
 was," she said, " as we must perceive, a consid- 
 erable difference in the degrees of progress we 
 had severally made. And this difference, " she 
 begged us to observe, " was not always in pro- 
 portion to our ages, nor to the time we had been 
 in the school, nor even in proportion to our natu- 
 ral talents: since some of the younger ones had 
 overtaken their seniors, and many of slower parts 
 had got the start of those who appeared most 
 quick and promising. How, then, was this to be 
 accounted for? It all depended," she assured us, 
 11 upon the degree of our personal industry; and 
 the pains each one took with herself. There 
 could not be a greater mistake than expecting 
 masters, and school-discipline, to do every thing 
 vol. v. 7 
 
74 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 in education. They could do very little indeed, 
 without individual energy and diligence. It was 
 for want of this," she said, " that so many young 
 people leave a school very little better, and in 
 some respects much worse, than they entered it; 
 and that so many parents are disappointed in 
 their hopes. To expect an indolent, thoughtless, 
 frivolous girl, to become cultivated and intelligent, 
 by merely passing, for a few years, through the 
 routine of even a well-conducted school, was as 
 unreasonable, as to expect a machine to perform 
 its functions without the moving spring. There 
 were some," she said, Ct who seemed to take it 
 for granted, that they were always to remain at 
 the lower end of their class; and to be satisfied 
 that it should be so. But, to be in this way con- 
 tented with inferiority, she considered as one of 
 the worst symptoms of a weak and indolent mind. 
 She, therefore, urged each of us to make redoub- 
 led efforts, and to remember, that our welfare and 
 respectability through nfe depend very greatly 
 upon the habits we form, and the progress we 
 make noic." Dear mother, believe me your ever 
 affectionate daughter, 
 
 Laura. 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 My dear Laura, 
 
 Our friend Charlotte has but just left us; and, 
 although we were all grieved to part, it was with 
 no small degree of satisfaction that we reflected 
 upon the circumstances of her visit, unpromising 
 as they at first appeared. A sick chamber is 
 not the place we should have chosen, wherein to 
 spend the cheerful season to which we had been 
 looking forward. But I hope we have all found 
 " the house of mourning to be better than the 
 house of mirth." 
 
 Kitty seems impressed by what she has witnes- 
 sed: and I would hope it is more than the tran- 
 sient thoughtfulness, which scenes of sickness, 
 and fears of approaching death, can scarcely fail 
 to produce. At first, her mind was oppressed by 
 a superstitious belief that Charlotte would not 
 recover; which, as I afterwards found, originated 
 with the gossip of the servants, to which she had 
 unfortunately been exposed during my absence 
 above stairs. One related divers omens, and 
 presages of death, in the house; which were con- 
 firmed by a wonderful dream of another's. And, 
 although poor Kitty would not allow herself seri- 
 ously to listen to them, they produced insensibly 
 an effect upon her spirits, and increased her ap- 
 prehensions. Had the event proved such as we 
 
 
76 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 had reason to fear, it would, probably, have ope- 
 rated still more powerfully; and might have oc- 
 casioned us some trouble to convince her of the 
 fallacy of these vulgar prognostics. How much 
 more rational is it, — how much more pleasing to 
 Him " in whose hands our times are," — if, in- 
 stead of regarding these unmeaning suggestions 
 of ignorance, we were in the habit of contemplat- 
 ing those unquestionable presages of our mortal- 
 ity, presented to us by nature, by experience, 
 and by the Holy Scriptures! There we are assur- 
 ed, that "it is appointed unto all men once to die." 
 But as we know not at what hour we may receive 
 the summons — whether " at noon, at midnight, or 
 at the cock-crowing," it behooves us ever to 
 "watch and be ready." Regardless of the wind- 
 ing-sheet and the death-watch, and the dream of 
 superstition, let us listen to the operations of 
 Time, who, as with a chisel, is heard every mo- 
 ment chipping off a portion of our short life in the 
 ticking of the clock. To the slow funeral, and 
 tolling bell, let us pay the most solemn attention; 
 as these are monitors of our own mortality, whose 
 warning voice admits of no mistake. May a well- 
 founded hope of future happiness enable us all to 
 contemplate such subjects without dismay! 
 
 When any considerable change takes place 
 in the sentiments of a young person, even though 
 that change be for the better, it is generally at- 
 tended by some views that are erroneous or ex- 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 77 
 
 travagant. Charlotte came hither with a mind 
 evidently prejudiced against us, or rather, against 
 the religion we profess. We rejoice on our own 
 account, as well as on hers, that she has been 
 induced to change her opinion. But, in going 
 from one extreme, she has approached another: 
 and we have had some trouble to moderate and 
 regulate her feelings. With the enthusiasm of 
 her age, she would now estimate us as the 
 standard of perfection; and, as the price of her 
 approbation and good will, would require in others 
 such an exact conformity to our manners and 
 opinions, as it is, indeed, unreasonable to expect. 
 Beneath our roof, almost exclusively, she imag- 
 ines she could spend her days in tranquillity. 
 The most trivial circumstances connected with us 
 assume, in her estimation, something of import- 
 ance. Among the many unhappy consequences 
 to which such feelings tend, was the extreme pain 
 with which she thought of quitting us. She also 
 thought of the society of her aunt, with more dis- 
 taste than even the want of congeniality in their 
 present views would warrant: and anticipated her 
 return home with feelings not entirely calculated 
 to promote the happiness of cither. We endeav- 
 ored to convince her, that without the utmost 
 circumspection, she might rather prejudice the 
 cause of true religion than promote it: as many 
 well-meaning persons do, by cherishing a zeal 
 without prudence. We reminded her of the obli- 
 7* 
 
78 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 gat ions she was under to one, who had, at least, 
 discharged her duty towards her according to her 
 own notions of it; that even the pains she had 
 taken in introducing her to the gay world with 
 advantage, was, in her estimation, acquitting 
 herself of one part of her trust; that, although 
 too much immersed in the pleasures of the world, 
 she still possessed many estimable qualities; and 
 had many demands upon her niece's gratitude and 
 affection . We represented to her the great im- 
 portance of making it evident, that the new views 
 she had received tended to render her more amia- 
 ble and affectionate, and not less so. In avoiding 
 sinful compliances, we entreated her to let it ap- 
 pear that it was always for conscience' sake, 
 never from a spirit of perverseness or caprice. 
 By such prudent and gentle conduct we encour- 
 aged her to hope, that, with the divine blessing, 
 the happiest consequences might follow. 
 
 All this was said, and much more, before we 
 could reduce Charlotte to that temper of mind in 
 which we wished her to return home; although 
 gratitude, and sincere affection for her aunt, 
 aided us in pleading her cause. There is a de- 
 gree of inflexibility in Charlotte's temper, which 
 sometimes leads her into a spirit of argument and 
 disputation not quite consistent with her years. 
 I have witnessed a strong contest between these 
 and other faults in her character, and those right 
 and powerful principles by which, I trust, she is 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 79 
 
 sincerely influenced. How does Christianity re- 
 fine and exalt the character! It is but a few 
 months since all her pleasures were circumscribed 
 within the narrow limits of twenty years; for, she 
 said, she could not conceive of being happy after 
 she had past her meridian; although numbers are 
 eager in the pursuit of earthly happiness long 
 after that period, of which she might have seen 
 a striking instance in her poor aunt. But now 
 (provided her impressions are real and perma- 
 nent) every period, every condition, promises 
 solid satisfaction. She can contemplate the time 
 with cheerfulness, when every outward grace shall 
 have faded; and even when she shall stand on 
 the brink of Jordan, and be about to quit these 
 mortal shores. She no longer views the short 
 period of twenty, or forty, or seventy years, as 
 the termination of her happiness. Her prospects 
 extend beyond the ken of mortal eye: they are 
 boundless as eternity. 
 
 I have not, you will be assured, my dear 
 Laura, detailed the circumstances of this visit, to 
 gratify an idle curiosity, but in the hope that you 
 also may derive some improvement from the salu- 
 tary lesson. In the meantime, I am very glad to 
 find that you are receiving other lessons, of great 
 importance to the formation of your character; 
 although like this, and like most salutary lessons, 
 not unattended with pain. 
 
 Your affectionate Mother. 
 
80 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 My dearest Mother, 
 
 This is a fine spring morning: the air is as soft, 
 and the sky as blue, as — what shall I say? — as the 
 sky and air on a spring morning. It is still early; 
 and I have been walking in the garden, which is 
 now quite gay with snowdrops and crocuses, vio- 
 lets and primroses. My heart bounded with joy. 
 1 thought of home and of midsummer, as I always 
 do when I am particularly happy; and, after taking 
 a turn or two, hastened in to begin a letter to you, 
 while I am in a mood for writing. There! the 
 bell rings! so, good-by till evening, when I hope 
 to be with you again. 
 
 Seven o'clock. — Now, my dear mamma, for a 
 little chat with you! I forget what I was going to 
 write about this morning; so must only tell you, 
 that since you heard last we have raised a little 
 contribution among ourselves for the Bible Socie- 
 ty. This, I know, will please you; but you will 
 be surprised, perhaps, to hear, that it was first 
 proposed by those fine ladies, Jessy Cooke's 
 friends, of whom I told you. They informed us 
 how it used to be conducted in the school they 
 have left; and inquired if we had not seen in the 
 
 printed list, "Young ladies at Mrs. seminary 
 
 11. 7s." It was soon agreed, that we should like 
 \ery much to do something of the kind, if Mrs. W 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 81 
 
 had no objection. The ladies, however, advised, 
 not to mention it to Mrs. W. till we had organized 
 the society ourselves. We must form a committee, 
 they said, and appoint a treasurer and a secretary; 
 and it was determined, that we should call it 
 " The Juvenile Ladies' Branch Bible Association." 
 This gave general satisfaction, and we were pro- 
 ceeding very eagerly to business, when Grace 
 interrupted us, for a moment, by saying, " There 
 is a pretty little girl who calls here sometimes 
 with water-cresses. I saw her this morning, as I 
 was crossing the hall, and asked her if she could 
 read; she said, 'Yes: 5 I then asked her if she 
 could read in the Bible; and she said, ' O, yes: 
 she was a very good scholar, but she had not got 
 a Bible, nor her mother either.' — Shall we give 
 her one, then?" said Grace: " Will you" — 
 (speaking to the elder of the sisters) — " will you 
 be half the expense with me?" " I '11 think of it," 
 said she: " perhaps I may; though I don't know 
 why I should, in particular: indeed, at present I 
 have very little to spare; besides, we are just now 
 talking of something quite different." " Not 
 quite different, is it?" said Grace. " If our ob- 
 ject is to give poor people Bibles, it is, you know, 
 exactly the same thing: but if we are only wishing 
 for the fun or the credit of having a ' Juvenile La- 
 dies' Branch Bible Association,' it is, certainly, as 
 you say, quite different." Little Phillis Parker 
 jogged my elbow as Grace said this: but no other 
 
82 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 notice was taken, I believe. They went on talk- 
 ing very fast about their plan, and Grace did not 
 press it any further. I know, however, that the 
 little girl had a new Bible given her the next 
 time she called; and jet Grace was accused of 
 want of zeal about the subscription. The next 
 thing was a droll dispute between the two sisters 
 concerning the offices of treasurer and secretary; 
 they both preferring the former. Words ran pret- 
 ty high; till one of the little ones ventured to 
 come forward, and say, " She thought Miss 
 Dacre deserved to be secretary, or treasurer, or 
 something." Grace smiled, and said, " Thank 
 you, my dear; I have no wish to be either." 
 The ladies, however, thought it safest, I suppose, 
 after that, to defer their dispute; and they said, 
 both at once, " Well, at least, Miss Dacre, we 
 must have you on the committee." Just at that 
 instant Mrs. W. entered the room. She looked 
 rather surprised, and said, " Committee! my 
 dears, what committee?" The two London ladies, 
 and Jessy, and one or two others, began immedi- 
 ately, and altogether, to explain the affair; and to 
 request her permission and patronage. Mrs. W. 
 quite approved of our design; but, she said, that 
 as, if some one would undertake to receive the 
 subscriptions, all the business would be done, she 
 did not see the necessity for calling a committee, 
 or for taking any further trouble about it. At 
 that, although we had nothing to object, many 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 looked disappointed; and I really believe the 
 whole affair would have dropped then, if Airs. W. 
 had not taken it up herself, and fixed a time for us 
 to pay our subscriptions. 
 
 When the time came, the ladies who first pro- 
 posed it were first applied to. They mentioned 
 the sum they intended to subscribe, which was 
 very handsome: and requested 3Irs. W. to pay 
 it, and their papa would settle it for them, as they 
 could not then spare any thing from their own 
 allowance. But Mrs. YV. said she did not ap- 
 prove of receiving it so; she wished such affairs 
 to be entirely voluntary. Those who thought they 
 could not afford to contribute were at liberty to 
 decline it, or to give as small a sum as they 
 pleased. Our parents, she said, contributed, if 
 they thought proper, for themselves; but this was 
 our concern; and from our own private purses 
 only she would receive it. Upon this, both the 
 sisters eagerly assured Mrs. W. that they were 
 sure their papa would not have the smallest pos- 
 sible objection; for he always particularly desired 
 they should do every thing of the kind that was 
 customary, but never expected them to give char- 
 ity out of their allowance. And the younger said 
 to me, in a scornful whisper, " Dear! as if such a 
 trifle as that were any object to papa!" 
 
 Mrs. W., however, persisted in her refusal; 
 and proceeded to receive our contributions, with- 
 out applying to them again. She did not then 
 
84 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 stay to explain herself further, and took no notice 
 of the discontent which was very evident in some 
 quarters: but on Sunday evening, when she 
 always spends some time in conversation with us, 
 she introduced the subject. She was speaking 
 of the importance of self-examination, and said, 
 11 That if this exercise was needful when we are 
 conscious of having done ivrong, it was doubly so 
 when we imagine that we have done right: be- 
 cause conscience will often do the work for us 
 in the former case, but in the latter, it sometimes 
 leaves us to gross self-deception. In these times," 
 she said, " when it is so much the fashion to do 
 good, there is so great danger of it, that we can- 
 not be too watchful or too jealous of our motives. 
 It was particularly on this account," she added, 
 " that I objected, the other day, to receiving any 
 subscriptions but from your own purses, that you 
 might have an opportunity of ascertaining wheth- 
 er your zeal was genuine. If you were unwilling 
 to deny yourselves some little gratification, for 
 the sake of the good cause, you may be certain 
 that it was not so. There are, indeed, many 
 ways in which our sincerity may be put to the 
 proof. Suppose, for instance, we know that a 
 poor neighbor is without a Bible: — if that circum- 
 stance gives us no pain, — if we make no effort to 
 furnish one, while, at the same time, we are very 
 anxious for our names to appear in a public sub- 
 scription, we can be at no uncertainty whether 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 our motives are good or bad. Let us never take 
 credit to ourselves for that charity which costs us 
 nothing, — no sacrifice of our own pleasure or 
 convenience; much less for that by which we 
 gain credit and applause. There cannot, there- 
 fore, in my opinion," said she, "be a more inju- 
 dicious indulgence, than for parents to pay their 
 children's charities* For the same reasons, it is 
 always desirable to conduct concerns of this kind 
 with as little noise and bustle as possible. You 
 would have found some amusement, I dare say, 
 in calling your committee, and giving yourselves 
 a long name; and in an affair of a different nature, 
 I might not have thought it worth while to spoil 
 your pleasure: but we should never trifle in 
 serious things; and it is of great consequence 
 that we learn to distinguish between the trifling 
 and the real in every thing; especially when there 
 is any danger of mistaking childish parade for 
 christian benevolence. In simply paying your 
 contributions to me there was little fear of mis- 
 take. If you are conscious that you made the 
 effort with a willing mind, it was doubtless an ac- 
 ceptable sacrifice to Him who ' loves a cheerful 
 giver,' however small the gift. 
 
 " The active spirit of the present times," con- 
 tinued Mrs. W., (i is, happily, not confined to 
 men or women. Young people, and even child- 
 ren, are honored by being allowed to unite their 
 efforts. But this, advantageous as it is, exposes 
 vol. v. 8 
 
86 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 them to some peculiar temptations; against which 
 they cannot too vigilantly watch and pray." 
 
 So much, mamma, for oar Bible Society! — 
 " How well it is, " said Grace, "that views and 
 motives cause no fluctuation in the value of money 
 and Bibles!" 
 
 I must now only add, that I am your affec- 
 tionate 
 
 Laura. 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 I am never more forcibly reminded of my dear 
 Laura than on a sabbath day, when I see so many 
 young people enter their pews, and engage in the 
 solemn acts of devotion to that Being who has pro- 
 mised to regard the voung worshipper; who at the 
 same moment is listening to the devout aspirations 
 of multitudes, and I would hope, among the num- 
 ber, to those of my dear child also. Yet, I con- 
 fess, there is an occasional sigh extorted from me, 
 when I witness the nods, whispers, and significant 
 looks, which are sometimes exchanged among 
 them during the time of worship, when they can 
 conveniently elude the eyes of others; forgetful 
 of that Eye from which no vigilance can conceal 
 them — that Presence to which they are now mak- 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 ing a more direct approach. When you went with 
 your parents, and the multitude, " to keep a holy 
 day," it was our constant aim to impress you with 
 the solemnity of the sacred season; that in enter- 
 ing these earthly courts, you might consider them 
 as no less than " the house of God, and the gate 
 of heaven." We hope that no change of situation, 
 or of society, has tended to erase those impressions 
 from your mind. 
 
 When Solomon, at the dedication of the temple, 
 had concluded his affecting prayer, then " the glory 
 of the Lord filled the house:" but although no 
 visible glory now appears to dazzle our senses, 
 yet on those pious persons who approach His 
 footstool in sincerity, He sheds a radiance still 
 more benign; even by " lifting up upon them 
 the light of his countenance:" and those who 
 do not participate in these favors are informed of 
 the reason of their being " sent empty away;" — 
 they ask and receive not, because they ask amiss. 
 
 How delightful it would be, when we hear so 
 many soft and melodious voices uniting in songs 
 of praise, could we hope that their hearts were all 
 in unison with the sweet melody! This, indeed, 
 would be like " a little heaven below;" and would 
 make us exclaim, " it is good for us to be here!" 
 
 There is little hope that those who are inat- 
 tentive in the duties of prayer and praise should 
 derive any essential benefit from the word preach- 
 ed: indeed, there is great reason to fear, that they 
 
88 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 are proportionally remiss in their attention to it, 
 not listening to the word of God, graciously com- 
 municated to us by a human instrument; nor re- 
 garding their minister as one devoted to their best 
 interests: yet this is the case; and those who des- 
 pise or disregard his instructions, grossly affront 
 the majesty of Heaven, who has commissioned 
 these His servants to proclaim the glad tidings of 
 salvation to all; and it is at our own peril that we 
 neglect the message. 
 
 Cultivate then, my dear Laura, as you have 
 ever been taught, a high esteem and veneration 
 for all faithful ministers, " for their works' sake." 
 Cherish a filial regard for them, as for your spirit- 
 ual fathers; as those who provide for you, "not 
 the meat which perisheth, but that which shall en- 
 dure to eternal life." I know it is unnecessary to 
 recommend our dear pastor to your affectionate 
 respect; who watches over the children of his 
 flock with paternal solicitude, and in whose re- 
 membrance, though far away, you still share a 
 place. 
 
 I am glad Mrs. W. interfered, as she did, in 
 your Bible subscription business. Perhaps, if 
 that had succeeded, the next proposal would have 
 been for one of you to make a speech on the oc- 
 casion. The method she adopted was well calcu- 
 lated to evince in what motives the wish originated. 
 The propagation of religion is the most important 
 of all concerns; and in such a cause, I hope 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 89 
 
 your zeal will ever be lively and effective. But 
 remember, that in proportion to our sense of the 
 value of the Bible, our obligations arise to live, 
 ourselves, under its influence. Even the Apostle 
 Paul was anxious "lest while preaching to others, 
 he himself should become a castaway." In esti- 
 mating our religion by the number of Bibles we 
 distribute, we should be little wiser than those 
 who reckon their devotions by their beads. It 
 would be very inconsistent if, while we are exer- 
 ting ourselves with so much energy to render the 
 sacred volume intelligible to foreign nations, we 
 should suffer it to remain " a sealed book" to 
 ourselves, — its divine truths unstudied, and never 
 made the subject of prayer. There is, however, 
 reason to fear, that it may have found access to 
 distant climes by means of some whose minds it 
 has never enlightened, whose lives have not been 
 regulated by its precepts. While we are " break- 
 ing up the fallow ground " of heathen lands, 
 sowing the good seed, planting the lily and the 
 rose in some wilderness, it behooves us to be 
 earnestly solicitous that our own soil does not lie 
 uncultivated, overgrown with briars, thorns, and 
 noxious weeds. It will eventually avail us but 
 little indeed to have sent civilisation among sav- 
 age tribes, ourselves remaining uncivilized, — if 
 rugged tempers and imperious spirits are unsub- 
 dued, and if we appear destitute of that genuine 
 refinement which adorns the christian character. 
 8* 
 
90 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 Let not those who are affording others " a light 
 to their feet, and a lamp to their paths," be con- 
 tent themselves to grope in darkness; or to fam- 
 ish, while they are distributing so plentiful a feast. 
 Here, eminently, is an instance in which " charity 
 should begin at home;" though, when once be- 
 gun, it will, assuredly, not end there. 
 
 We hope to gratify you occasionally by taking 
 you, by and by, to witness some of the public 
 transactions in this great cause; as they are an- 
 imating and improving occasions. And yet, per- 
 haps, our own domestic circle is better calculated 
 to cherish those virtues which should adorn your 
 sphere, than the attendance on public assemblies, 
 whatever be their object. A lecture from your 
 father's armed-chair may, probably, prove more 
 beneficial to you, than the most eloquent harangue 
 from any other chair, however illustriously filled. 
 
 The opening of the spring flowers has not fail- 
 ed to remind me of midsummer, as well as you, 
 my dear girl! But it is still distant; and at pre- 
 sent, let us be chiefly intent upon improving the 
 precious interval. 
 
 Your Mother. 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 91 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 My dear Mother, 
 
 If you could see how evenly our days pass, and 
 with what order and regularity we live, notwith- 
 standing our number and the many things to be 
 attended to, — you would not be surprised that I 
 should sometimes feel at a loss how to fill a letter. 
 Do not suppose, however, that I feel this weari- 
 some; not at all, I assure you. The less inter- 
 ruption there is in our employments, the more 
 pleasant and interesting they become. Indolence, 
 I think, brings its own punishment, sooner than 
 almost any other fault. If I am careless and in- 
 attentive even for an hour or two, every occupa- 
 tion appears irksome; but all goes on pleasantly 
 while I am taking pains and exerting myself. 
 
 Those who regard all their employments as 
 tasks to be got over as easily as possible, with as 
 much assistance as they can get, and who do no 
 more than they are absolutely compelled to, find 
 the days and weeks pass heavily enough. They 
 are always complaining of school, sometimes even 
 of Mrs. W., counting the days to the vacation, 
 and longing for the time when they shall have 
 done with school altogether: though I question 
 if they will be much happier even then. 
 
 We have one tall girl here, who seems to view 
 her pursuits in this way. Of course she has 
 
92 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 made no great proficiency in any of them. Of 
 this she is aware, and I think it mortifies her; and 
 in order both to amuse herself, and to avoid sink- 
 ing into contempt amongst us, she sets up for a 
 wit, and makes it her business to laugh at every 
 body indiscriminately; not only at her compan- 
 ions, but the masters, the teachers, Mrs. W. 
 herself, and even, sometimes, at our good minis- 
 ter. It evidently gives her particular pleasure to 
 be called satirical; although, as I have heard 
 Grace observe, there is no real keenness in her 
 ridicule — no true wit or humor. There is little 
 Phillis Parker, who has certainly a great deal of 
 wit, and can see what is really ludicrous as soon 
 as any body, is very sparing of her remarks; and 
 you never hear her laugh at any one merely for 
 the sake of it. Our poor music-master is a con- 
 stant butt for this lady's jokes, which, indeed, is 
 very unfeeling, because he is in ill health, and 
 looks unhappy. He has a large family to provide 
 for, and very little employment ; as there is anoth- 
 er master in the neighborhood, who is said to 
 teach in a more fashionable style; though Mrs. 
 W. much prefers his style, and says he has more 
 scientific knowledge, and much more true taste. 
 He comes from several miles distance, twice a 
 week; and by the time he has been with us an 
 hour or two, he looks so fatigued and ill, and has, 
 besides, such sad fits of coughing ! Those who 
 are fond of music, and take pains with their les- 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 sons, have no time, as you may suppose, even if 
 they had inclination, to amuse themselves thus: but 
 those who have no interest in it, and dislike the 
 trouble, are glad of the diversion of laughing at 
 their master. I never saw Grace very angry but 
 once, when some of them were giggling behind 
 his chair, so loud that he must have heard it. 
 She turned, and gave them such a look, that for 
 once, I believe, they did feel ashamed. Grace, who 
 is his best scholar, uniformly treats him with atten- 
 tion and respect, of which I am sure he is sensible. 
 
 When first I came to school, I was in great dan- 
 ger of acquiring that silly habit of laughing at 
 every thing, and every body, which, I believe, is 
 almost universal among the commoner sort of 
 school girls: but I see now, as you, I remember, 
 told me in one of your letters, that instead of its 
 being, as they imagine, a sign of cleverness, it pro- 
 ceeds from vacancy and idleness more than any 
 thing else; and sometimes from envy and ill- 
 nature. Mrs. W., too, has represented this fault 
 as so contemptible, that I am now ashamed of it. 
 
 I received your last letter very opportunely, on 
 a Sunday morning; and I hope it produced some 
 good effect, at least for that day. Yes, my dear 
 mother, there are, indeed, temptations here to levi- 
 ty and carelessness; and I feel them as much as 
 any one can. It seems as though such crowds 
 of vain thoughts never occurred to me, as when I 
 am in a place of worship, when it appears easier 
 
94 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 to fix my mind on any trifle, than on what ought 
 to engage it. I am sure the minister takes great 
 pains to gain our attention, and impress our minds. 
 His eye is frequently directed towards us; and 
 often, I am afraid, he must be grieved by our inat- 
 tentive appearance. 
 
 I hope I am in some degree aware how impor- 
 tant it is to acquire habits of attention and com- 
 mand of the thoughts, now, while habits either 
 good or bad are so easily formed. I remember 
 hearing Mrs. W. say, that she knew no symptom 
 more hopeful in a young person's mind, than the 
 habit of resolutely resisting vain and improper 
 thoughts the moment they were presented. There 
 was nothing good she should not expect from such 
 a character; nor any thing bad that might not be 
 feared for one who was in the habit of indulging 
 them. I was struck, at the time, with the remark; 
 and it has often since occurred to me, just in time 
 to save me from the danger. There is a great dif- 
 ference between the moment in which a foolish 
 thought first presents itself, and the next, in which 
 it must be either dismissed or admitted. This, 
 Mrs. W. says, is the turning point of temptation, 
 — the moment when strength of mind is every 
 thing. It is quite a deception, as I have myself 
 found, to think of indulging an idle thought only 
 for a short time; if the effort is not made at first, 
 all is over; one vain idea leads to another, and an- 
 other; and so time is wasted, and the mind injured. 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 95 
 
 We are expecting, every day, the arrival of a 
 niece of Mrs. W. ; a young lady whom she edu- 
 cated, and who lived here till within the last two 
 years. I believe she is now coming to assist in 
 the school. She is about a year older than Grace, 
 who was here some time before she left; and they 
 were then very intimate. Indeed, I believe, till 
 I came, she was Grace's most intimate friend. I 
 am very impatient to see her. Farewell, dear 
 mamma. 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 Laura. 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 My dear Laura, 
 
 As you have found it necessary to set a guard 
 upon your thoughts, I hope you are also aware of 
 the importance of bridling " that unruly member, " 
 which "as no man can tame," so surely no 
 woman can be too careful to restrain. At a female 
 seminary, where so many triflers, at a trifling age, 
 are assembled, great watchfulness, in this respect, 
 must be needful. I was once present in a young 
 party (when I myself was young) where unre- 
 strained license had been given to our loquacity. 
 After awhile, one of the company, more silent 
 
' 
 
 96 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 than tne rest, drew out her pencil, and wrote 
 down, unobserved, the heterogeneous conversa- 
 tion. This paper she afterwards read to us, and, 
 certainly, each appeared ashamed of her own 
 part. This, though only done in playfulness, 
 might afford a useful hint to every one present; 
 the young lady herself, and other young ladies not 
 excepted. 
 
 Those who accustom themselves to contemplate 
 the human character, especially with a view to 
 their own, will observe and lament the frivolity 
 of mind which characterises a large proportion of 
 society. The levities of youth are, indeed, some- 
 times cured by age and experience. Yet they 
 too frequently prove ineffectual; and the frivolous 
 character, as she advances in life, after affording a 
 theme for ridicule, becomes, at length, an object 
 only of pity. 
 
 Should an intelligent creature be a trifler? It 
 was for no trifling purpose that we were called 
 into existence, and placed in a scene of action 
 and accountability; a state on which the most 
 momentous consequences depend. 
 
 Whether or not we contribute to the welfare 
 and happiness of our immediate connexions, who 
 depend upon us for both, in a thousand ways, is 
 no trifle. To encounter the vicissitudes of life, 
 to deal with the variety of characters we meet 
 with, to engage in the important service demand- 
 ed of us, to be prepared for the unexpected ca- 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 97 
 
 lamities to which human nature is subject, are no 
 trifles. Above all, to be ready against, that un- 
 known hour, when Death shall demand us, is no 
 trifle. Those, then, who indulge a frivolous tem- 
 per, are ill prepared for their journey; and still 
 less for their journey's end. 
 
 Know, therefore, my Laura, that your ap- 
 proaching entrance into life, for which we are so 
 solicitous to prepare you, is no frivolous concern, 
 but serious and important in every point of view. 
 We are training you to live, not only in this 
 world, but in another: and as the same duties as 
 ours may one day devolve on you, we are endeav- 
 oring to prepare you for so arduous a work. 
 
 Yet, do not mistake me: I would not spread a 
 gloom over the spring of life, nor wish you to 
 assume a gravity unsuitable to your age. The 
 playful vivacity of youth is ever pleasing, because 
 it is natural; and may be indulged without incur- 
 ring the censure of frivolity. I say this to caution 
 you against extremes, as it sometimes happens, 
 that those who are disgusted with the levity of 
 their companions, assume an air and demeanor 
 inconsistent with their years, and which is more 
 calculated to excite dislike than respect. So dif- 
 ficult is it to .observe a wise medium; so apt are 
 the young, especially, whatever habits, or notions, 
 or manners they adopt, to carry them to excess, 
 and to suffer those views to be injurious, which 
 are calculated to be beneficial to the character. 
 vol. v. 9 
 
98 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 I would hope, however, that under the mis- 
 taken idea of its being only innocent vivacity, you 
 will never allow yourself to join in any conversa- 
 tion which reason and conscience would tell you 
 is improper,. or tending to impropriety: but either 
 endeavor to give it abetter turn, or else withdraw 
 from the contagion. It would have a very saluta- 
 ry effect upon conversation, could these two op- 
 posite but connected texts be continually kept in 
 view: " Every idle word that men speak, they 
 shall give an account thereof in the day of judg- 
 ment." — "To those who speak often one to 
 another (on divine subjects) the Lord hearkens 
 and hears, and a book of remembrance is writ- 
 ten." 
 
 We hope shortly, my dear child, by taking 
 such sweet counsel together with you, to add to 
 the records of that book, to our own everlasting 
 advantage and yours. 
 
 At a time when you are called to pay some at- 
 tention to the acquirement of external advantages, 
 it is necessary for you continually to recollect, of 
 how little real advantage a graceful carriage and 
 pleasing address will be to you, unless the inter- 
 nal graces are still more carefully cultivated. The 
 other day, I observed a servant cleaning some 
 plate with a red powder: and on inquiring what it 
 was, was answered, " It is a coarse rouge, ma'am, 
 like that the ladies paint their faces with." I felt 
 mortified at receiving this information from such a 
 
A MOTHER AXD DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 quarter, obtained doubtless from some lady's maid. 
 I would hope that among respectable society, there 
 are, comparatively, few who indulge in such a con- 
 temptible practice; yet, are there not many in all 
 classes^of society, who, by substituting external, 
 appearances for internal worth, act as disingen- 
 uous a part, as the vain woman who attempts to 
 conceal a faded face, or a bad complexion, under 
 the borrowed tints of the lily and the rose ? A hag- 
 gard figure appearing in her native deformity, 
 who had before been admired for the symmetry 
 of her form, and the delicacy of her complexion, 
 would excite disgust in proportion to the de- 
 gree of deceit she had practised. The most 
 effectual way of obtaining the approbation of 
 our fellow creatures, and the only way to insure 
 that of our own conscience and of God, is to be 
 what we wish others to think us: and the reality 
 is generally as attainable as its counterfeit. 
 There is this essential difference between the 
 body and the mind — that, little can be effected 
 by all the labors of art bestowed on the former; 
 indeed, inordinate pains often defeat their own 
 end, nor can the most effective efforts be crowned 
 with permanent success; the labors of to-day will 
 be imperceptibly undermined by the operations 
 of time to-morrow: but our intellectual nature is 
 so constituted, that they who labor on that soil 
 shall certainly reap, some thirty, some sixty, some 
 a hundred fold, according to their capacities and 
 
100 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 opportunities for improvement. Time, who is 
 hostile to all material things, and equally friendly 
 to mental progress, accelerates and carries on 
 his operations, in both cases, to the borders of 
 another world. • 
 
 Notwithstanding, however, all that can be ar- 
 gued on the subject, there will ever remain num- 
 berless votaries of the present moment ; and to such, 
 surely, that advice should be acceptable which 
 promises to aid their wishes. Let them know, 
 then, that the best method to preserve a good com- 
 plexion, is to be careful of health. This care 
 might be promoted, by such a general knowledge 
 of the structure of the human frame, as every one 
 should possess; and with which, by judicious read- 
 ing, they ought to be furnished. They would thus 
 be taught, that a life of indolence is totally incom- 
 patible with their object. That daily exercise is 
 as essentially necessary as daily food or nightly 
 repose; and that habitual placidity of temper will 
 produce the happiest elfects on the countenance. 
 These means will prolong beauty where it exists; 
 and where it does not, they will afford a pleasing 
 substitute. Nothing can be more destructive of 
 personal graces than a life of dissipation: they are 
 injured by it beyond all the power of rouge, all the 
 inventions of vanity to repair. If, in the ball-room, 
 personal charms appear in all their brilliancy, it 
 is there also that they are undermined. Nature 
 languishes and suffers premature defcay, under 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 the wear and tear of a life of pleasure, and Time is 
 accelerated in his speed. The bodily powers and 
 mental faculties trip it down hand in hand, till 
 they arrive at the bottom of the dance; the music 
 ceases; they quit the glittering scene; and sally 
 forth into the gloom of night. 
 
 Your affectionate Mother. 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 Do you know, my dear mother, since I last 
 wrote to you I have been very unhappy, and, I am 
 afraid, very unreasonable; and so, as usual, it was 
 my own fault. I think I mentioned to you. that 
 we were expecting Mrs. W.*s niece: and she 
 came soon after I sent my letter. Grace and I 
 were sitting together, when we heard the chaise 
 stop at the door. She started up, and was hasten- 
 ing out to receive her; but recollecting that Mrs. 
 W. might prefer meeting her niece alone, she 
 returned, looking agitated, which, for her, is very 
 unusual. In a few moments I heard a sweet voice, 
 saying, " Where is Grace?" Immediately the door 
 opened, and the most lovely, interesting looking 
 girl I ever beheld, flew into Grace's arms. I saw, 
 in an instant, how dearly they loved each other; 
 9* 
 
102 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 and how much more deserving she was of Grace's 
 friendship than I could be. And, instead of sym- 
 pathizing in her pleasure (as I certainly should 
 have done, if my friendship had been as disinter- 
 ested as I imagined) I felt jealous and miserable. 
 They exchanged but few words then, as she was 
 soon called away by Mrs. W. but they were words 
 of which I well understood the meaning. I left 
 the room at the same instant; for I could not 
 venture to stay and speak to Grace, as the tears 
 were in my eyes; and I should have been asham- 
 ed for her to see it. I therefore ran up stairs to 
 my own room, to recover myself; but had not 
 been there long, before I saw them go, arm in 
 arm, into the garden; where they walked up and 
 down a long time, in earnest conversation: while 
 I stood alone, watching them, and feeling so for- 
 lorn! I was mortified, too, that the other girls 
 should see (as I was sure they soon would) Grace's 
 preference for another friend: by which I was 
 justly punished, for the silly pride I had taken in 
 their witnessing our intimacy. 
 
 The next time Grace and I met, instead of any 
 distance or indifference in her manner, such as I 
 had anticipated, she appeared exactly the same 
 as ever: but she began at once to speak of her 
 friend; and said, she wished I was going to stay 
 another half-year, that I might know and love 
 her as well as she did. To that I was silly 
 enough to reply, " No, Grace, it is much better 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 103 
 
 that I am going — I should only be an intruder." 
 At this, she looked at me, for a moment, with 
 surprise; and then said, with a smile, " Is this 
 Laura, or Jessy V I felt that I deserved this; but 
 still, to justify myself, I said, " Don't suppose, 
 Grace, that I am so unreasonable as to complain 
 of your loving another friend so much better than 
 me: I only thought it would have been more can- 
 did if you had told me so before: I thought I 
 might have deserved that confidence." " What 
 confidence, Laura?" said she; c ' I have told you, 
 many times, that Miss W. was my friend, and 
 that I loved her sincerely : this is all I had to 
 say about it: who told you that 1 loved her ' so 
 much better' than you:" li .Nay," I said, " I 
 needed not for any one to tell me that; for that 
 I was sure it must be so, as she was so much my 
 superior." " Really, Laura," said Grace, "you 
 must have made good use of your opportunity of 
 judging of Miss W.'s character, to know so much 
 about her already. However, I confess there is 
 one respect in which she is your superior: for 
 when we were walking in the garden just now, we 
 were talking about you the greatest part of the 
 time; and I was telling her how much I had 
 enjoyed your friendship: at which, instead of 
 appearing at all displeased, she seemed truly 
 rejoiced; and said, how glad she was that I had 
 found such a friend." I scarcely know whether 
 this reproof was most kind or severe : I could only 
 
104 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 answer it by my tears; and at last, by entreating 
 Grace to forgive my unreasonableness. Since 
 then, she has taken care, by her unaltered man- 
 ner, and constant affection, to convince me that 
 my fears were groundless: and when she and 
 Miss W. are together, they generally invite me 
 to join them, which is very kind: and as for Miss 
 W. the more I see of her, the more I must ad- 
 mire her. But still, I sometimes distress myself 
 with thinking, that Grace does this more from her 
 kind consideration of my feelings, than from in- 
 clination: and there again I am punished for my 
 jealousy; for if I had not betrayed it, there could 
 have been no room for such a suspicion. 
 
 Mrs. W. knew nothing about it till the other 
 day, when, happening to meet her alone, she 
 looked at me and said, " What are you thinking 
 about, Laura? You look uncomfortable/' The 
 thing was, that I had just happened to find Grace 
 and Miss W. in private conversation; and ob- 
 served that they changed the subject as soon as I 
 appeared, so that I knew I had interrupted them, 
 and therefore withdrew immediately: this was all; 
 but I suppose I looked a little disconcerted, 
 though I was not conscious of it. Instead of an- 
 swering Mrs. W.'s question, however, I burst 
 into tears. She inquired the cause very kindly; 
 and as soon as I could, I told her all — all that I 
 had felt about Grace and Miss W. She thanked 
 me for speaking so unreservedly to her; and said 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 105 
 
 she was glad I had done so, as it afforded her an 
 opportunity of giving me advice, which might 
 save me a great deal of pain in future, if I attend- 
 ed to it. P My dear," said she, " I would fain 
 convince you, that these little jealousies, very 
 common in youthful friendships, defeat their own 
 purpose so entirely, that it is much wiser never to 
 indulge them. Suppose now, that when my niece 
 came, you had not admitted a thought of this 
 kind; but knowing Grace's attachment to her, 
 had cordially rejoiced in it, as you would have 
 done if any thing else had occurred to give her 
 equal pleasure. Suppose, that when they were 
 inclined to converse together, you had left them 
 to do so with open good nature and cheerfulness; 
 confiding, as you have reason to do, in their 
 friendship: would not the consequence have been, 
 that instead of fearing to give you uneasiness by 
 every attention she pays to her friend, she would 
 have admired your disinterestedness and good 
 nature, and have loved you just so much the more ? 
 Laura," she added, " there is no way of being 
 loved, but by being amiable; but when we begin 
 to complain and fret, because we are not loved 
 well enough, we cease to appear amiable, and 
 become troublesome. Besides, of this we may 
 assure ourselves, that, although there may be 
 particular cases in which our conduct is mistaken, 
 or our characters not understood, yet, upon the 
 whole, our friends (those I mean who really knoio 
 
V 
 
 106 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 us) love us as well as we deserve. Character 
 will, in time, find its proper level in the estimation 
 of others; and with this just measure of esteem, 
 (though it may fall below what our affection or 
 our vanity would demand) it is eminently the part 
 of humility and of good sense to be contented." 
 
 I felt the truth of all this, and from that time I 
 resolved to subdue my jealousy; and I have in a 
 great degree succeeded. Dear Grace, certainly, 
 has done every thing on her part to remove it. 
 She is to remain with Mrs. W. one more half 
 year; and I think I shall soon be able to say, 
 that I am not only not sorry, but positively glad 
 that she will have a friend with her when I am 
 gone. 
 
 You see, dear mamma, that I tell you all my 
 faults; — no, though I don't mean all, but some 
 of them. Indeed, if I were not to write about 
 what is uppermost in my mind, mine would be 
 such stiff, formal epistles, that you would not 
 like them at all: besides, if I were to appear 
 without a great many faults, I know you would 
 never believe me to be your own daughter, 
 
 Laura. 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 107 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 Could I behold my dear daughter, surrounded 
 by the gay group of her associates, many an in- 
 teresting and anxious reflection would be excited 
 in my mind, both on her behalf and theirs. 
 
 To contemplate a number of intelligent crea- 
 tures rising into life, creates pleasing expectations. 
 We long to see their mental faculties keep pace 
 with their growing stature, that they may become 
 valuable acquisitions to society, which now looks 
 towards them with just and important claims. 
 
 Many of them, fresh and vigorous, are com- 
 mencing what affords promise of a long journey: 
 may they choose the right path, (the path of 
 wisdom) and pursue a steady pace, without swerv- 
 ing to the right hand or to the left! Such are 
 our fond hopes; but experience allays them with 
 fears, while we see many a one making hasty ad- 
 vances towards maturity, without a proportionate 
 progress in wisdom and virtue. 
 
 On the other hand, the delicate form of some 
 of the train would excite apprehensions that their 
 journey will be short; that "the wind will pass 
 over them and they will be gone." Many a tale 
 of wo proclaims, it possible, that " a flower may 
 fade before 'tis noon. 5 ' Youth then, interesting 
 youth, inspires us, alternately, with hope and fear; 
 
108 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 and justifies the salutary admonition, to "remem- 
 ber their Creator " during that advantageous 
 season. 
 
 I should perceive some amid the sprightly train 
 on whom nature has been lavish of her gifts: 
 tc daughters like polished stones, polished accord- 
 ing to the similitude of a palace." Can any one 
 behold so many fair forms without emotions of 
 delight? How unwilling are we to suppose, that 
 the face is not an index to the heart! — That hu- 
 mility, meekness, kindness, modesty, — every vir- 
 tue, and every grace, has not there its abode, to 
 increase in glory and beauty, when " the earthly 
 house of this tabernacle shall be dissolved," and 
 fall into ruins! 
 
 How is the eye dazzled by the gaiety of the 
 group! All the tints of the rainbow are put in 
 requisition, in compliance with the caprices of 
 fancy, or the suggestions of taste. We perceive, 
 perhaps, here and there, one, who, by the simpli- 
 city of her attire, excites a hope that she is cul- 
 tivating those internal graces, on which he who 
 regards not the outward appearance looks with 
 complacency: who, like "the king's daughter," 
 we may hope, " is all glorious within; — her cloth- 
 ing is of wrought gold." 
 
 Some of your number have the gifts of fortune, 
 are born to higher expectations than the rest, and 
 may, therefore, become more extensive blessings 
 to society. May such " know how to abound!" 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 109 
 
 that is, how to use those talents which Providence 
 may intrust to their disposal: not supposing that 
 wealth is bestowed for the mere purpose of pro- 
 curing the luxuries and splendors of life: nor for- 
 getting that it cannot purchase peace of mind, or 
 health of body; much less bribe the king of ter- 
 rors, or give a ransom for the soul. 
 
 Of the individuals composing this young assem- 
 blage, we can judge no further than as external 
 appearances may indicate. Their future charac- 
 ters or destinations in life are concealed from our 
 view. This only we know, that the human race 
 is "born to trouble:" we, therefore, infer, that 
 each one, however joyous now, will have a portion 
 of what all are heirs to: that each will have to 
 struggle, in a greater or less degree, with the 
 vicissitudes and trials of life. 
 
 Some may be called to important services, and 
 more conspicuous stations: how well they will ac- 
 quit themselves, and what figures they may make in 
 the society to which they belong, who can fore- 
 see? While it will be the lot of most (no unen- 
 viable one) to pass through the vale of life com- 
 paratively unobserved, exciting little notice but in 
 their own narrow circle. 
 
 But however diversified the circumstances of 
 these individuals may be, in one thing they are 
 alike. Time carries on his operations with im- 
 partiality: he maintains a steady pace, with his 
 hours, and days, and months, and years. We 
 vol. v 10 
 
110 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 can scarcely now realize the idea of such spright- 
 ly forms bending under decrepit age, and being 
 so metamorphosed by his irresistible hand. Hu- 
 manity would weep over the ruins of nature, did 
 not a cheering voice from Heaven revive our 
 hopes, and bid us look to another period, when 
 cc this mortal shall have put on immortality;" 
 when this now pleasing form, however fallen to 
 decay, shall be renovated, and rise from the dust 
 infinitely improved, and glorious beyond our con- 
 ception. But remember, "this strong consola- 
 tion" belongs only to those, "who have fled for 
 refuge, to lay hold of the hope set before them in 
 the Gospel." If this were, happily, the case with 
 all of you, then, as you now enter the gates of 
 His earthly courts on the sabbath, so, one after 
 another, you would enter the portals of His tem- 
 ple above; each of you, in due time, "appearing 
 before God in Zion;" not one missing; a lovely 
 train, clothed in the white and spotless robes of 
 your Redeemer's righteousness. But if it be 
 true, that " strait is the gate, and narrow the way 
 that leadeth to life," and "that they are few who 
 find it," there is cause for each of you to fear, 
 lest you should not be among that few; lest 
 "the cares of the world, or the deceitfulness of 
 riches," or the thousand temptations that beset 
 your path, should turn you aside into the broad, 
 frequented road that " leads to destruction." 
 Therefore it is, my Laura, that I so frequently 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. Ill 
 
 recall your attention to these great realities; in 
 comparison with which, our most favorite and 
 laudable pursuits are "less than nothing, and 
 vanity." That you should become a proficient in 
 the school where you are placed is, indeed, de- 
 sirable; but it is in the school of Christ, sitting at 
 His feet, and learning of Him, that we are most 
 anxious to see you. You were dedicated to Him 
 in infancy: you have been directed to Him in 
 childhood: devote your youth to Him also. It 
 will be " a sacrifice of a sweet savor," which He 
 will graciously accept: and then, whatever may 
 befall you in this world, be assured, that He will 
 guide you here by his counsel, and afterwards re- 
 ceive you to glory. That this may be the happi- 
 ness of yourself, and of all your dear associates, 
 is the earnest prayer of their sincere friend, and 
 your affectionate Mother. 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 Once more, my dear mother, and perhaps only 
 once more before we meet, I sit down to address 
 you. It is with a strange variety of sensations — 
 some pleasing, some painful, some quite indes- 
 cribable — that I think of my return. 
 
112 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 I cannot help looking back with regret, to the 
 time when I first entered Mrs. W.'s house; com- 
 paring it with that, so fast approaching, when I 
 expect to quit it. Then, all the advantage, all 
 the pleasure were to come; now, all is past; this 
 pleasant and important portion of my life gone by 
 forever! and it is now too late to wish that it had 
 been better improved. 
 
 Upon looking at the past year, I find that I 
 have no painful recollections but such as arise 
 from my faults. It is not the application, the 
 confinement, the privation, that either occasioned 
 uneasiness at the time, or upon reflection; but, 
 on the contrary, from these I have ever derived, 
 and do still, my chief satisfaction. But that I have 
 often been remiss and negligent in my business, 
 and wrong in my temper and conduct, it is this that 
 gives me pain to reflect upon. If the time were 
 to come over again, how differently, in some 
 respects, I should act! I long to assure all those 
 who are now going to school, from my own ex- 
 perience, that the only way to be happy there, 
 and really happy when they leave it, is, to improve 
 their* opportunities. How far 1 have done so, you 
 will soon be able to judge. But, although I hope 
 you will not be greatly disappointed in this respect, 
 yet I am very certain that I might have done more 
 and better than I have. 
 
 I am obliged to refer to the pleasure of going 
 home, whenever the thought of parting with my 
 
a mother and daughter. 113 
 
 dear friends here occurs to me — with Grace and 
 Mrs. W. especially, and, indeed, all my compan- 
 ions; for there is not one of them that it will not 
 pain me to part with: the very idea of it makes 
 me like them better than I thought I did. And 
 even the house, the school-room, the pleasant 
 garden, where I have spent so many happy hours, 
 I dread looking at for the last time. As for Grace, 
 I cannot think what I should do, if it were not for 
 the hope, that before a great while we shall see 
 each other again. She has repeatedly said, that 
 she hopes you will allow me to visit her when she 
 leaves school; and Mrs. W he thinks you 
 
 will, because she believes you would wish our 
 friendship to continue. 1 also venture to hope, 
 that I shall one day have another pleasure, and it 
 is the greatest I can think of: — I mean that of in- 
 troducing Grace to you, if you should approve of 
 my inviting her. We are to correspond, if you 
 have no objection. I must tell you that my jealous 
 fit is quite over. 
 
 Do you know, the two sisters from town were 
 go good natured as to ask me to visit them; but 
 although I should like, exceedingly, to see Lon- 
 don, I am not quite sure that you would wish me 
 to cultivate their acquaintance: besides, I would 
 rather go to visit Grace in the deserts of Arabia, 
 than see all the curiosities of London and West- 
 minster. 
 
 I '11 tell you something: that made me melan- 
 10* 
 
114 CORRESPONDENCE EETWEEN 
 
 choly for a little while. Last week, a lady called 
 on Mrs. W., as she was passing through the town, 
 who had been one of her scholars several years 
 ago. She is now a grave married woman, and had 
 two fine, rosy, little boys with her. Mrs. W. was 
 very much pleased to see her, and so was she to 
 see Mrs. W. While she was here, she came into 
 the school-room, where we all were; and stood, 
 for some time, looking round at every object with 
 great attention. "It seems but yesterday," she 
 said, If since I was here, a lively, happy school- 
 girl, such as these. Do you remember, Mrs. W., 
 what a wild thing I used to be? Altered now, 
 you see! Ah, they were pleasant days! though I 
 did not then know it. Young ladies," said she 
 (speaking to us), " this is your happy time: enjoy 
 it and improve it. A few years ago, I was, like 
 you, looking forward to life very sanguinely; but 
 now that I know a little better what it is, I can 
 assure you you must not expect happier days than 
 these." 
 
 She then inquired of Mrs. W. about several of 
 her old school fellows; and heard of some that 
 were dead, others who had fallen into misfortunes, 
 and of some who were settled in distant places. 
 There was one she seemed particularly interested 
 about: but Mrs. W. only remembered to have 
 heard, that she married years ago, and went 
 abroad. "Poor Mary!" said the lady. "Do 
 you remember what friends w r e were, Mrs. W. ? 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 115 
 
 We used to say, you know, that nothing should 
 ever dissolve our friendship. We corresponded 
 for some time after we left school; but it fell off 
 at last: — I think it dropped with her — mine, I 
 believe, was the last letter. She was, like me, I 
 suppose, engrossed by her own affairs. Such is 
 life, you see!" Here Grace and I looked at each 
 other. 
 
 She next walked round the garden and play- 
 ground, and kindly invited us to accompany her. 
 "Ah, the old poplars," said she, " waving their tops 
 in the biue sky the same as ever! — and yet I 
 thought they had been taller! How this place 
 recalls old days, and old sensations! Every tree, 
 every shrub, seems familiar: I could fancy myself 
 young again." Then she seemed lost in thought, 
 till her two little boys came running towards her, 
 and recalled her recollections. When she had 
 thus visited every spot, looking even at the walls 
 and pales, as old acquaintances, she took leave. 
 Afterwards, Grace and I, and Miss W., had a 
 long, interesting conversation, about life, and hope, 
 and friendship: you might have imagined it was 
 fmlac, and Rasselas, and the Princess Nekayah. 
 But, although we made so many sage remarks, 
 and came to such sober conclusions, I cannot help 
 hoping, especially when I am in high spirits, that 
 I shall be rather more fortunate ; and in spite of 
 philosophy, my heart will sometimes glow and leap 
 at the fair prospect of youth and life that seems to 
 
 
116 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 lie before me. Some people say it is a miserable 
 world; and so I suppose it is: but when I look 
 round upon the woods and fields, and hills and 
 trees, — at the blue sky and cheerful sunshine; — 
 when I hear the birds singing, and the waters 
 flowing, and feel my own heart bounding with 
 youth and joy, — I must say, it seems to me a very 
 pleasant world indeed! 
 
 Well, dear mother, I am now coming home, to 
 see a little more of it than I have done yet. And, 
 notwithstanding all this rambling, I am seriously 
 convinced that my real happiness there, as well as 
 here, must depend upon my own conduct. I re- 
 joice to think that my education is not to be at an 
 end when I leave school: sad, indeed, would it be 
 for me, if I were to make no farther improvement, 
 especially in those things that are really important. 
 Mrs. W. says, it is a great pity when leaving 
 school is considered as a release from mental ex- 
 ertion. It ought rather, she says, to be regarded 
 as the time for making renewed efforts: since it 
 must then, in a greater degree than ever, depend 
 upon ourselves whether we sink into trifling, ordi- 
 nary characters, or rise to respectability and use- 
 fulness. By renewed effort, and continued exer- 
 tion at home, she does not mean merely sitting 
 down to the instrument, or drawing-lesson, for an 
 hour or two of a morning; but that we should use 
 every means for cultivating and strengthening our 
 minds; and for growing in wisdom and virtue — in 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 117 
 
 grace and holiness; so as to become useful and 
 happy. 
 
 I hope at leafet, my dear father and mother, you 
 will not have cause to repent the trouble and ex- 
 pense you have bestowed upon me. Now, that I 
 am coming to be your inmate again, it is my desire 
 to do every thing in my power to make you com- 
 fortable, and repay your kindness; — that, though, 
 I can never do; I mean, rather, to show that I am 
 sensible of it. 
 
 Mrs. W. says, and I hope to remember it, 
 that the order, comfort, and happiness of a family 
 very greatly depend upon the temper and conduct 
 of the younger members of it, when they cease to 
 be children; and that she has seen the declining 
 years of some kind parents completely imbittered 
 by the the pride, self-will, and inconsiderate con- 
 duct of their young people. She says, also, that 
 when a young lady returns home, if she is not so 
 good a daughter as she was before, whatever ac- 
 quisitions she may have made at school, she had 
 better never have been there. 
 
 In hope of a joyful meeting very soon, I remain 
 your dutiful and affectionate 
 
 Laura. 
 
118 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 My dear Child, 
 
 It might scarcely seem necessary that I should 
 send you a long epistle, just on the eve of your 
 return home. But as it is a very important period 
 to you, and a very interesting and anxious one to 
 me, you will not be surprised that I should wish 
 to improve this last opportunity of admonishing 
 you by letter. 
 
 You are about to leave school, and to part with 
 her who has supplied a mother's place; who has 
 had the care both of your body and mind: and 
 the manner in which she has acquitted herself 
 demands your lasting gratitude. A proper ex- 
 pression of it will be gratifying to her feelings: 
 let it be such as will at once do credit to hers and 
 to yours. 
 
 You are also to part with your young compan- 
 ions: from some, with whom you have commenc- 
 ed a friendship that promises to be lasting and 
 advantageous, because it seems to be founded on 
 esteem. I should, indeed, generally, be very 
 cautious in permitting your continued intercourse 
 with them; because it is not sufficient that I 
 should be satisfied respecting the young people 
 themselves; I must know, also, something of 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 119 
 
 their connexions, before I could either admit 
 them here, or trust you under the roof of a stran- 
 ger. As to your friend Grace, I should feel but 
 few scruples; the character and conduct of a 
 young person is no very dubious criterion of those 
 of her connexions. Yet, in a case so important, 
 something more than conjecture is necessary; 
 and this is supplied by Mrs. W.'s recommenda- 
 tion: so that you may set your heart at rest on 
 that subject, and indulge the hope of occasional 
 intercourse with your excellent young friend. 
 
 While I am upon this subject, I may observe, 
 that the first visit of a young lady, on her intro- 
 duction into life, is of more importance than some 
 people seem to be aware of. Inexperienced, 
 giddy, and elated by the novelty of her situation, 
 she frequently, by the levity of her conduct, and 
 her childish imprudences, produces an unfavor- 
 able impression upon her friends, which may re- 
 quire years of subsequent prudence and regularity 
 to erase. Also, if great caution is not observed 
 in the choice of her acquaintance, she is in dan- 
 ger, from a propensity to imitation, of imbibing 
 false principles, and of acquiring bad habits, 
 which cannot be unlearned again at home without 
 much pain and difficulty. Indeed, there are so 
 many snares besetting her in this situation, that 
 it is well if she be not entangled in some of them. 
 She is, perhaps, introduced to a variety of stran- 
 ger^; with some of whom she may form hasty 
 
120 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 intimacies, which afterwards prove undesirable. 
 The efforts which are frequently made to amuse 
 and entertain a visiter operate unfavorably, by 
 dissipating the mind, and producing a disrelish 
 for the sober occupations of home. She is more 
 likely to be flattered for her imaginary excellen- 
 ces, than to be told of her real faults: and the 
 natural consequence of all this is, that her pa- 
 rents, brothers, and sisters, appear to disadvantage, 
 as they cannot, exclusively, devote themselves 
 to her convenience and pleasure. She forgets, 
 that were she to become an inmate, instead of an 
 occasional visiter, she would cease to experience 
 those attentions by which she is now distinguish- 
 ed; and that she would soon have to partake the 
 regular avocations of the rest of the family. To 
 see people as they are, it is necessary to live with 
 them; and by so doing, we should frequently dis- 
 cover, that our first-sight favorites are not so 
 much more excellent than our old friends, as a 
 temporary residence with them had inclined us to 
 suppose. This is a digression; but it may serve 
 at once to moderate your expectations, and to 
 afford a useful hint, whenever such a circum- 
 stance as a visit among new friends may take 
 place. 
 
 But you are returning home. It is a compre- 
 hensive word, my dear Laura: upon your right 
 estimation of its value greatly depends your fu- 
 ture happiness. It is chiefly there that the lustre 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 121 
 
 of the female character is discernible; because 
 home is its proper sphere. Men have much to do 
 with the world without; our field of action is cir- 
 cumscribed; yet, to confine ourselves within its 
 humble bounds, and to discharge our duties there, 
 may produce effects equally beneficial and exten- 
 sive with their wider range. It is no mean art to 
 be able to govern well; and those who have 
 proved most successful in the attainment, are gen- 
 erally such as have themselves submitted to be 
 governed. It is the mistake of some young peo- 
 ple returning from school, that they think them- 
 selves qualified immediately to take the command; 
 and it is a yet greater mistake in those mothers 
 who submit to it. As well might " a house be 
 broken down, and without walls," as to be left to 
 the guidance of such a manager. She might not, 
 indeed, like her infant brothers and sisters, fall 
 into the fire, or into the water, — throw down the 
 china, or cut herself with knives and scissors; but 
 she may, by her exploits, do what is quite as mis- 
 chievous in its consequences, though less instan- 
 taneous in its effects. But you, my dear Laura, 
 have been trained from your childhood in habits 
 of proper subordination: and I should deem such 
 observations altogether superfluous, were it not 
 sometimes seen, that young persons at this period 
 undergo a sudden revolution; and from the en- 
 gaging, meek, and tractable child, start, all at 
 once, into the pert, self-willed young lady. I 
 vol. v. 11 
 
122 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 must say, however, that the spirit in which your 
 letters appear to be written, leaves me little to 
 fear on this subject. 
 
 You are returning home, — I was going to say, 
 not for the purpose of enjoying yourself, and 
 taking your pleasure; but, to a well-regulated 
 mind, the daily routine of duty is enjoyment; to 
 live a life of usefulness, is a perpetual pleasure. 
 Nor does affluence itself, where it is enjoyed, 
 exempt from this obligation: it rather enhances 
 it. Those who suppose otherwise, totally mistake 
 the purpose for which it is bestowed; and deprive 
 themselves of the principal satisfaction it is in- 
 tended to produce. Besides, they are unprepared 
 for adversity; unfit to cope with the deprivations 
 to which they are exposed, who hold their worldly 
 possessions, as well as the breath of life, by an 
 uncertain tenure. No legal process can so en- 
 sure our estates, or secure them from accident, 
 as to render them certainly unalienable; or pre- 
 vent our " riches from taking wings and flying 
 away." We may contemplate with pleasure the 
 prospect of your establishment in the world, in 
 the same circumstances of comfort which have at- 
 tended you hitherto. But we do not forget, that 
 it is the world into which we are sending you: 
 and however well equipped you may be for your 
 journey, we cannot foresee what may befall you 
 in the course of it. And whatever be your future 
 circumstances, habits of activity and economy 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 123 
 
 will prove beneficial, and will be no disparage- 
 ment to any station you may fill. If such had 
 not been our habits, perhaps you might have 
 lacked many advantages which you enjoy at the 
 present moment ; and your future prospects might 
 have been clouded in the same degree. 
 
 Through the kindness of Providence, you are 
 returning to a comfortable home: but remember, 
 it is not a jjaracUse. Your parents have their 
 trials to harass their spirits, and ruffle their tem- 
 pers, as well as others: and in proportion to your 
 filial affection, you will participate in them; and 
 by the tender sympathy of your deportment, man- 
 ifest that in all our afflictions you are afflicted. 
 Indeed, my dear, there can be no temporal alle- 
 viation of our sorrows, equal to that which arises 
 from this source: the cordials administered by the 
 tender hands of affectionate children possess the 
 happiest efficacy. If some young persons were 
 aware of this, surely they would be more frequent 
 in the application of them. 
 
 O, my dear Laura, what a blessing you may 
 prove to us! especially to me, your mother. Shall 
 I find in my beloved child, as she rises to matur- 
 ity, the confidential friend, with whom I may take 
 sweet counsel; and on whose bosom, as she once 
 did on mine, I may repose all my cares? — One, 
 who will be indulgent to my infirmities, attentive 
 to my wants, and who will plant the vale of life, 
 
124 CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN 
 
 into which I am gradually descending, with many 
 a flower, such as she can gather, here and there, 
 from the wilderness around? What a delightful 
 sight it is (and surely a natural one) when a 
 mother and daughter dwell together in unity! It 
 is like the precious ointment, which descended 
 down the vestments of Aaron, and exhaled a fra- 
 grant odor all around. 
 
 Well, you are returning to your father's house: 
 and this, in a higher sense, may, I trust, be said 
 of us. The world is the great school wherein we 
 are each receiving our education: and the pros- 
 perity and adversity which we experience are the 
 means whereby the great Governor trains us for a 
 maturer state. When " He visits our transgres- 
 sions with the rod, and our iniquities with stripes," 
 it is for our final benefit: for " He does not wil- 
 lingly afflict the children of men." When He 
 smiles upon us by His providence, when He in- 
 trusts us with various talents, it is to prove us, 
 whether we will use them for His glory and the 
 good of our fellow creatures. Otherwise He may 
 deprive us of them entirely; or, what is worse, 
 continue them without His blessing; and desist 
 from fatherly correction, saying, " Why should 
 they be smitten any more ? — they will yet 
 revolt. 5 ' 
 
 We have a task assigned us ; and the day of 
 our dismission from it, although to us unknown, 
 
A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 125 
 
 is immutably fixed by Him, who has cc the keys 
 of death." May divine grace so prepare our 
 dear Laura, that when she is summoned home by 
 her heavenly Father, she may obey the call with- 
 out reluctance ; and earnestly longing, as she now 
 is, to return to the abode of her earthly parent, 
 may she then feel a still greater " desire to 
 depart, and to be with Christ, which is far 
 better! 
 
 Your affectionate Mother. 
 
 11* 
 
ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 INFANT MINDS. 
 
 THE TAYLOR FAMILY. 
 
 " In books, or work, or healthful play, 
 Let my first years be passed ; 
 
 That I may give for every day 
 
 Some good account at last."— Wait: 
 
If a hearty affection for that interesting little race, the race of 
 children, is any recommendation, the writers of the following pages 
 are well recommended; and if to have studied in some degree 
 their capacities, habits, and wants, with a wish to adapt these 
 simple verses to their real comprehensions and probable improve- 
 ment — if this has any further claim to the indulgence of the public, 
 it is the last and only one they attempt to make. The deficiency 
 of the compositions as poetry, is by no means a secret to their au- 
 thors ; but it was thought desirable to abridge every poetic freedom 
 and figure, and even every long-syllabled word, which might give, 
 perhaps, a false idea to their little readers, or at least make a 
 chasm in the chain of conception. Images, which to us are so 
 familiar that we forget their imagery, are terrible stumbling-blocks 
 to children, who have none but literal ideas ; and though it may be 
 allowable to introduce a simple kind, which a little maternal at- 
 tention will easily explain, and which may tend to excite a taste 
 for natural and poetic beauty, every tiling superfluous it has been 
 a primary endeavor to avoid. 
 
 To those parents into whose hands this little volume shall happen 
 to fall, it is very respectfully inscribed ; and, very affectionately, 
 to that interesting little race — the race of children. 
 
 
ORIGINAL POEMS. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 The moon rises bright in the east, 
 
 The stars with pure brilliancy shine ; 
 The songs of the woodland have ceased, 
 
 And still is the low of the kine. 
 The men, from their work on the hill, 
 
 Trudge homeward with pitchfork and flail 
 The buzz of the hamlet is still, 
 
 And the bat flaps his wings in the gale. 
 
 And see from those darkly green trees 
 
 Of cypress, and holly, and yew, 
 That wave their black arms in the breeze, 
 
 The old village church is in view. 
 The owl, from her ivied retreat, 
 
 Screams hoarse to the winds of the night ; 
 And the clock, with its solemn repeat, 
 
 Has tolled the departure of light 
 
 My child, let us wander alone, 
 When half the wide world is in bed, 
 
 And read o'er the mouldering stone, 
 That tells of the mouldering dead. 
 
130 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 And let us remember it well, 
 
 That we must as certainly die ; 
 For us too may toll the sad bell, 
 
 And in the cold earth we must lie. 
 
 You are not so healthy and gay, 
 
 So young, so active, and bright, 
 That death cannot snatch you away, 
 
 Or some dreadful accident smite. 
 Here lie both the young and the old, 
 
 Confined in the coffin so small, 
 And the earth closes over them cold, 
 
 And the grave- worm devours them all. 
 
 In vain were the beauty and bloom 
 
 That once o'er their bodies were spread : 
 Now still, in the desolate tomb, 
 
 Each rests his inanimate head. 
 Their hands, once so active for play, 
 
 Their lips, which so merrily sung, 
 Now senseless and motionless lay, 
 
 And stiff is the chattering tongue. 
 
 Then seek not, my child, as the best, 
 
 Those things which so shortly must fade ; 
 Let piety dwell in thy breast, 
 
 And all of thine actions pervade. 
 And then, when beneath the green sod 
 
 This active young body shall lie, 
 Thy soul shall ascend to its God, 
 
 To live with the blest in tht sky. a. t 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 131 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Little Ann and her mother were walking one day, 
 Through London's wide city so fair ; 
 
 And business obliged them to go by the way 
 That ied them through Cavendish Square. 
 
 And as they passed by the great house of a lord, 
 
 A beautiful chariot came 
 To take some most elegant ladies abroad, 
 
 Who straightway got into the same. 
 
 The ladies in feathers and jewels were seen, 
 
 The chariot was painted all o'er, 
 The footmen behind were in silver and green. 
 
 And fine horses galloped before. 
 
 Little Ann by her mother walked silent and sad, 
 
 A tear trickled down from her eye : 
 Till her mother said, Ann, I should be very glad 
 
 To know what it is makes you cry? 
 
 Ah look ! said the child, at that carriage, mamma, 
 
 All covered with varnish and gold, 
 Those ladies are riding so charmingly there, 
 
 While we have to walk in the cold : 
 
 You say, God is kind to the folks that are good, 
 
 But surely it cannot be true ; 
 Or else I am certain, almost, that he would 
 
 Give such a fine carriage to you. 
 
132 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Look there, little girl, said her mother, and see 
 What stands at that very coach door ; 
 
 A poor ragged beggar, and listen how she 
 A halfpenny stands to implore. 
 
 All pale is her face, and deep sunk is her eye, 
 Her hands look like skeleton's bones ; 
 
 She has got a few rags just about her to tie, 
 And her naked feet bleed on the stones. 
 
 Dear ladies, she cries, and the tears trickle down, 
 
 Relieve a poor beggar, I pray ; 
 I 've wandered all hungry about this wide town, 
 
 And not ate a morsel to-day. 
 
 My father and mother are long ago dead, 
 
 My brother sails over the sea ; 
 And I 've not a rag nor a morsel of bread, 
 
 As plainly I 'm sure you may see. 
 
 A fever I caught which was terribly bad, 
 
 But no nurse nor physic had I : 
 An old dirty shed was the house that I had, 
 
 And only on straw could I lie. 
 
 And now that I 'm better, yet feeble and faint, 
 And famished, and naked, and cold, 
 
 I wander about with my grievous complaint, 
 And seldom get aught but a scold. 
 
 Some will not attend to my pitiful call, 
 
 Some think me a vagabond cheat, 
 And scarcely a creature relieves me of all 
 
 The thousands that traverse the street. 
 
 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 133 
 
 Then ladies, dear ladies, your pity bestow ! — 
 
 Just then a tall footman came round, 
 And asking the ladies which way they would go, 
 
 The chariot turned off with a bound. 
 
 Ah ! see, little girl, then her mother replied, 
 
 How foolish it was to complain : 
 If you would have looked at the contrary side, 
 
 Your tears would have dried up again. 
 
 Your house, and your friends, and your victuals, and bed, 
 
 'T was God in his mercy that gave : 
 You did not deserve to be covered and fed, 
 
 And yet all these blessings you have. 
 
 This poor little beggar is hungry and cold, 
 
 No father nor mother has she ; 
 And while you can daily such objects behold, 
 
 You ought quite contented to be. 
 
 A coach and a footman, and gaudy attire, 
 
 Can 't give true delight to the breast ; 
 To be good is the thinir you should chiefly desire, 
 
 And then leave to God all the rest. a. t. 
 
 THE BIRD'S NEST. 
 
 Now the sun rises bright and soars high in the air, 
 
 The trees smile around us in green ; 
 The sweet little birds to the meadows repair, 
 And pick up the moss, and lamb's- wool, and hair, 
 To make their nests soft, warm, and clean. 
 vol. v. 12 
 
134 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 High up in some tree, far away from the town, 
 Where they think naughty boys cannot creep, 
 They build it with twigs, and they line it with down, 
 And lay their neat eggs, speckled over with brown, 
 And sit till the little ones peep. 
 
 Then come, little boy, let as go to the wood, 
 
 And climb up the very tall tree ; 
 And while the old birds are gone to get food, 
 We '11 take down the nest, and the cheruping brood, 
 
 And divide them betwixt you and me. 
 
 But ah ! don 't you think 't would be wicked and bad, 
 
 To take their poor nestlings away ; 
 And after the toil and the trouble they 've had, 
 When they think themselves safe, and are singing so glad, 
 
 To spoil all their work for our play ? 
 
 Suppose that some monster, a dozen yards high, 
 
 Should stalk up at night to your bed ? 
 And out of the window along with you fly, 
 And stop not to bid your dear parents good-by 
 
 Nor care for a word that you said ; 
 
 And take you away, not a creature knows where, 
 
 And fasten you down with a chain ; 
 And feed you with victuals you never could bear, 
 And hardly allow you to breathe the fresh air, 
 
 Or ever to come back again ? 
 
 Oh ! how would you cry for your dearest mamma, 
 
 And long to her bosom to run ; 
 And beat your poor head at your hard prison bar, 
 And hate the vile monster that took you so far, 
 
 For nothing at all but his fun. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 135 
 
 Then say, little boy, shall we climb the tall tree r 
 
 Ah ! no, but this lesson we '11 learn, 
 That 't would just as cruel and terrible be, 
 As if a great monster should take away thee, 
 
 Not ever again to return. 
 
 Then sleep, little innocents, sleep in your nest, 
 
 We mean not to take you away ; 
 And when the next summer shall wear her green vest, 
 And the woods in a robe of rich foliage be drest, 
 
 Your songs shall our kindness repay. 
 
 When the spring shall return, to the woodlands we'll hie, 
 And sit by yon very tall tree ; mm 
 
 And rejoice, as we hear your sweet carols on high, 
 With silken wings soaring amid the blue sky, 
 
 That we left you to sing and be free. ibid 
 
 THE HAND-POST. 
 
 The night was dark, the sun was hid 
 Beneath the mountain gray : 
 
 And not a single star appeared, 
 To shoot a silver ray. 
 
 Across the heath the owlet flew, 
 And screamed along the blast, 
 
 And onward with a quickened step, 
 Benighted Henry passed. 
 
136 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 At intervals, amid the gloom 
 
 A flash of lightning played, 
 And showed the ruts with water filled, 
 
 And the black hedge's shade. 
 
 Again, in thickest darkness plunged, 
 
 He groped his way to find ; 
 And now he thought he spied beyond '• 
 
 A form of horrid kind. 
 
 In deadly white it upward rose, 
 
 Of cloak or mantle bare, 
 And held its naked arms across, 
 
 To catch him by the hair. 
 
 Poor Henry felt his blood run cold 
 
 At what before him stood ; 
 But well, thought he, no harm, 1 'm sure, 
 
 Can happen to the good. 
 
 So calling all his courage up, 
 
 He to the goblin went ; 
 And eager through the dismal gloom 
 
 His piercing eyes he bent. 
 
 And when he came w^ell nigh the ghost 
 That gave him such affright, 
 
 He clapped his hands upon his side, 
 And loudly laughed outright. 
 
 For 't was a friendly hand-post stood, 
 His wand'ring steps to guide ; 
 
 And thus he found that to the good 
 No evil should betide. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 137 
 
 And well, thought he, one thing I 've learned, 
 
 Nor soon shall I forget, 
 Whatever frightens me again, 
 
 To march straight up to it. 
 
 And when I hear an idle tale 
 
 Of goblins and a ghost, 
 1 '11 tell of this my lonely ride, 
 
 And the tall white Hand Post. ibid. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 AH ! see how the ices are melting away, 
 The rivers have burst from their chain ; 
 
 The woods and the hedges with verdure look gay, 
 And daises enamel the plain. 
 
 The sun rises high, and shines warm o'er the dale, 
 The orchards with blossoms are white ; 
 
 The voice of the woodlark is heard in the vale, 
 And the cuckoo returns from her flight. 
 
 Young lambs sport and frisk on the side of the hill, 
 The honey-bee wakes from his sleep, 
 
 The turtle-dove opens her soft-cooing bill, 
 And snow-drops and primroses peep. 
 
 All nature looks active, delightful, and gay, 
 
 The creatures begin their employ ; 
 Ah ! let me not be less industrious than they, 
 
 An idle or indolent boy. 
 
 12* 
 
138 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Now while in the spring of my vigor and bloom, 
 In the paths of fair learning I '11 run ; 
 
 Nor let the best part of my being consume, 
 With nothing of consequence done. 
 
 Thus while to my lessons with care I attend, 
 
 And store up the knowledge I gain, 
 When the winter of age shall upon me descend, 
 
 'T will cheer the dark season of pain. ibid. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 The heats of Summer come hastily on, 
 
 The fruits are transparent and clear ; 
 The buds and the blossoms of April are gone, 
 
 And the deep-colored cherries appear. 
 
 The blue sky above us is bright and serene, 
 
 No cloud on its bosom remains ; 
 The woods and the fields, and the hedges are green, 
 
 And the hay-cock smells sweet from the plains. . 
 
 Down far in the valley where bubbles the spring, 
 Which soft through the meadow-land glides, 
 
 The lads from the mountain the heavy sheep bring ; 
 And shear the warm coat from their sides. 
 
 Ah ! let me lie down in some shady retreat, 
 
 Beside the meandering stream, 
 For the sun darts abroad an unbearable heat, 
 
 And burns with his over-head beam. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 139 
 
 There all the day idle my limbs I '11 extend, 
 
 Fanned soft to delicious repose ; 
 While round me a thousand sweet odors ascend, 
 
 From ev'ry gay wood-flower that blows. 
 
 But hark from the woodlands what sounds do I hear, 
 
 The voices of pleasure so gay ; 
 The merry young haymakers cheerfully bear 
 
 The heat of the hot summer's day. 
 
 While some with bright scythe, singing shrill to the tone, 
 
 The tall grass and butter-cups mow, 
 Some spread it with rakes, and by others 't is thrown 
 
 Into sweet-smelling cocks in a row. 
 
 Then since joy and glee with activity join, 
 
 This moment to labor I '11 rise ; 
 While the idle love best in the shade to recline, 
 
 And waste precious time as it flies. 
 
 To waste precious time we can never recall, 
 
 Is waste of the wickedest kind ; 
 An instant of life has more value than all 
 
 The gold that in India they find. 
 
 Not diamonds, that brilliantly beam in the mine, 
 For one moment's time should be given ; 
 
 For gems can but make us look gaudy and fine, 
 
 But time can prepare us for heaven. ibid. 
 
140 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The sun is far risen above the old trees, 
 
 His beams on the silver dew play : 
 The gossamer tenderly waves in the breeze, 
 
 And the mists are fast rolling away. 
 
 Let us leave the warm bed and the pillow of down, 
 
 The morning fair bids us arise, 
 Little boy, for the shadows of midnight are flown, 
 
 And sun beams peep into our eyes. 
 
 We 'It pass by the garden that leads to the gate, 
 
 But where is its gaiety now ? 
 The Michaelmas daisy blows lonely and late, 
 
 And the yellow leaf whirls from the bough. 
 
 Last night the glad reapers their harvest home sung, 
 
 And stored the full garners with grain ; 
 Did you hear how the woods with their merry shouts 
 rung, 
 
 As they bore the last sheaf from the plain? 
 
 But hark ! from the woodlands the sound of a gun, 
 
 The wounded bird flutters and dies : 
 Ah ! surely 'tis wicked, for nothing but fun 
 
 To shoot the poor thing as it flies. 
 
 The timid hare too, in affright and dismay, 
 Runs swift through the brushwood and grass ; 
 
 How she turns, how she winds, and she tries every way, 
 But the cruel dogs won't let her pa?£. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 141 
 
 Ah ! poor little partridge, and pheasant and hare, 
 
 I wish they would leave you to live ; 
 For my part, I w r onder how 7 people can bear 
 
 To see all the torment they give. 
 
 When a reynard at midnight steals down to the farm, 
 
 And kills the poor chickens and cocks ; 
 Then rise, farmer Goodman, there can be no harm 
 
 In chasing a thief of a fox. 
 
 But the innocent hare, and the pheasant so sleek, 
 
 T were cruel and wicked to slay : 
 The partridge with blood never reddened her beak, 
 
 Nor hares stole the poultry away. 
 
 If folks would but think of the torture they give, 
 
 To creatures who cannot complain, 
 I think they would let the poor animals live, 
 
 Nor ever go shooting again. ibtd. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Behold the gray branches that stretch from the trees, 
 
 Nor blossom nor verdure they wear ! 
 They rattle and shake to the northerly breeze, 
 
 And wave their long arms in the air. 
 
 The sun hides his face in a mantle of cloud, 
 
 Dark vapors roll over the sky ; 
 The wind through the wood halloos hoarsely and loud, 
 
 And sea-birds across the land fly 
 
142 ORIGLNAL POEMS 
 
 Come hi, little Charles, for the snow patters down, 
 
 No paths in the garden remain : 
 The streets and the houses are white in the town, 
 
 And white are the fields and the plain. 
 
 Come in, little Charles, from the tempest of snow, 
 'T is dark, and the shutters we '11 close ; 
 
 We '11 put a fresh fagot to make the fire glow, 
 Secure from the storm as it blows. 
 
 But how many wretches, without house or home, 
 
 Are wandering naked and pale ; 
 Obliged on the snow-covered common to roam, 
 
 And pierced by the pitiless gale ; 
 
 No house for their shelter, no victuals to eat, 
 
 No bed for their limbs to repose ; 
 Or a crust dry and mouldy, the best of their meat, 
 
 And their pillow a pillow of snows. 
 
 Be thankful, my child, that 't is not your lot 
 
 To wander an orphan and poor ; 
 A father, and mother, and home you have got, 
 
 And yet you deserve them no more. 
 
 Be thankful, my child, and forget not to pay 
 
 Your thanks to that Father above, 
 Who gives you so many more blessings than they, 
 
 And crowns your whole life with his love. ibid. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 143 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY, ON GIVING IT 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 Poor harmless insect, thither fly, 
 
 And life's short hour enjoy : 
 'T is all thou hast, and why should I 
 
 That little all destroy ? 
 
 Why should my tyrant will suspend 
 
 A life by w r isdom given, 
 Or sooner bid thy being end, 
 
 Than was designed by Heaven ? 
 
 Lost to the joy which reason knows, 
 
 Ephemeral and frail, 
 'T is thine to wander where the rose 
 
 Perfumes the cooling gale. 
 
 To bask upon the sunny bed, 
 
 The damask flower to kiss, 
 To range along the bending shade. 
 
 Is all thy little bliss. 
 
 Then flutter stilL thy silken wings, 
 
 In rich embroidery dressed, > 
 
 And sport upon the gale that flings 
 Sweet odors from his vest. 
 
144 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 THE TEMPEST 
 
 See the dark vapors cloud the sky, 
 The thunder rumbles round and round : 
 The lightning's flash begins to fly, 
 Big drops of rain bedew the ground : 
 The frightened birds, with ruffled wing, 
 Fly through the air, and cease to sing. 
 
 Now nearer rolls the mighty peal, 
 Incessant thunder roars aloud ; 
 Tossed by the winds the tall oaks reel, 
 The forked lightning breaks the cloud : 
 Deep torrents drench the swimming plain, 
 And sheets of fire descend with rain. 
 
 'T is God who on the tempest rides, 
 And with a word directs the storm ; 
 'T is at his nod the wind subsides, 
 Or heaps of heavy vapors form ; 
 In fire and cloud he walks the sky, 
 And lets his stores of tempest fly. 
 
 Then why with childish terror fear, • 
 What waits his will to do me harm ? 
 The bolt shall never venture near, 
 Or give me cause for dire alarm, 
 If he directs the fiery ball, 
 And bid it not on me to fall. 
 
 V 
 
 Yet though beneath his power divine, 
 I wait, depending on his care, 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 145 
 
 Each right endeavor shall be mine, 
 Of every danger I '11 beware, 
 Far from the metal bell- wire stand, 
 Nor on the door-lock put my hand. 
 
 When caught amidst the open field, 
 I '11 not seek shelter from a tree ; 
 Though from the falling rain a shield, 
 More dreadful might the lightning be : 
 Its tallest boughs might draw the fire, 
 And I, with sudden stroke, expire. 
 
 Thus, while with lawful care I try 
 
 To shun each dangerous thing and place, 
 
 I '11 lift to God my prayerful eye, 
 
 And beg protection from his grace : 
 
 If spared, to him the praise I '11 give, 
 
 Or if I die, in heaven shall live. ibid. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 Awake, little girl, it is time, so arise, 
 
 Come, shake drowsy sleep from your eye ; 
 
 The lark is loud warbling* his notes in the skies, 
 Aaid the sun is far mounted on high* 
 
 O come, for the fields with gay flowers o'erflow, 
 The glistening dew-drop is trembling still, 
 
 The lowing herds graze in the pastures below, 
 And the sheep-bell is heard from the hill. 
 
 VOL. V. 13 
 
146 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 O come, for the bee has flown out of his bed, 
 
 To begin his day's labor anew ; 
 The spider is weaving her delicate thread, 
 
 Which brilliantly glitters with dew. 
 
 O come, for the ant has crept out of her cell 
 
 Her daily employment to seek : 
 She knows the true value of moments too well 
 
 To waste them in indolent sleep. 
 
 Awake, little sleeper, and do not despise 
 
 Of insects instruction to ask; 
 From your pillow with good resolutions arise, 
 
 And cheerfully go to your task. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Little girl, it is time to retire to rest ; 
 
 The sheep are put into the fold ; 
 The linnet forsakes us and flies to her nest, 
 
 To shelter her young from the cold. 
 
 The owd has flown out from his lonely retreat, 
 And screams through the tall shady trees ; 
 
 The nightingale takes on the hawthorn her seat, 
 And sings to the evening breeze. 
 
 The sun, too, now seems to have finished his race, 
 
 And sinks once again to his rest ; 
 But though we no longer can see his bright face, 
 
 He leaves a gold streak in the west. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 147 
 
 Little girl, have you finished your daily employ, 
 
 With industry, patience, and care ? 
 If so, lay your head on your pillow with joy, 
 
 No thorn to disturb shall be there. 
 
 The moon through your curtains shall cheerfully peep, 
 
 Her silver beam dance on your eyes, 
 And mild evening breezes shall fan you to sleep, 
 
 Till bright morning bids you arise. j. t. 
 
 THE IDLE BOY. 
 
 Thomas was an idle lad, 
 And lounged about all day ; 
 
 And though he many a lesson had, 
 He minded nought but play. 
 
 He only cared for top or ball, 
 Or marbles, hoop, and kite ; 
 
 But as for learning, that was all 
 Neglected by him quite. 
 
 In vain his mother's kind advice, 
 
 In vain his master's care, 
 He followed every idle vice, 
 
 And learned to curse and swear ! 
 
 And think you when he grew a man, 
 He prospered in his ways ? 
 
 No, wicked courses never can 
 Bring good and happy days. 
 
148 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Without a shilling in his purse, 
 
 Or cot to call his own, 
 Poor Thomas grew from bad to worse, 
 
 And hardened as a stone. 
 
 And oh, it grieves me much to write 
 
 His melancholy end ; 
 Then let us leave the dreadful sight, 
 
 And thoughts of pity lend. 
 
 But may we this important truth 
 
 Observe and ever hold, 
 " All those who 're idle in their youth, 
 
 Will suffer when they 're old." j. t. 
 
 THE INDUSTRIOUS BOY. 
 
 I>- a cottage upon the heath wild, 
 That always was cleanly and nice, 
 
 Lived William, a good little child, 
 Who minded his parents' advice. 
 
 'T is true he loved marbles and kite, 
 And spin-top, and nine-pins, and ball, 
 
 But this 1 declare with delight, 
 His book he loved better than all. 
 
 In active and useful employ 
 His youth gaily glided away ; 
 
 While rational pleasures and joy 
 Attended his steps every day. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 149 
 
 And now let us see him grow up, 
 Still cheerfulness dwelt in his mind, 
 
 Contentment yet sweetened his cup, 
 For still he was active and kind. 
 
 His wife for gay riches ne'er sighed ; 
 
 No princess so happy as she ; 
 While William would sit by her side, 
 
 With a sweet smiliug babe on his knee. 
 
 His garden well loaded with store, 
 
 His cot by the side of the green, 
 Where woodbines crept over the door, 
 
 And jessamines peeped in between. 
 
 These filled him with honest delight, 
 And rewarded him well for his toil ; 
 
 He went to bod cheerful at night, 
 And woke in the morn with a smile. 
 
 Nor knew he the feelings of dread, 
 When infirmity brought him to die ; 
 
 While his grandchildren knelt round his bed, 
 And his dutiful sons closed his eye. 
 
 then may I diligent be, 
 
 And as active as ever I can, 
 That I may be happy and free, 
 
 Like him when I grow up a man ! j. t. 
 
 13* 
 
150 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 THE LITTLE FISHERMAN. 
 
 There was a little fellow once, 
 
 And Harry was his name, 
 And many a naughty trick had he ; 
 
 I tell it to his shame. 
 
 He minded not his friends' advice, 
 But followed his own wishes ; 
 
 And one most cruel trick of his 
 Was that of catching fishes. 
 
 His father had a little pond, 
 
 Where often Harry went, 
 And in this most inhuman sport, 
 
 He many an evening spent. 
 
 One day he took his hook and bait. 
 
 And hurried to the pond, 
 And there began the cruel game, 
 
 Of which he was so fond. 
 
 And many a little fish he caught, 
 And pleased was he to look, 
 
 And see them writhe in agony, 
 And struggle on* the hook. 
 
 At last when having caught enough, 
 
 And tired too himself, 
 He hastened home, intending there 
 
 To put them on a shelf. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 151 
 
 But as he jumped to reach a dish 
 
 To put his fishes in, 
 A sharp meat hook, that hung close by, 
 
 Did catch him by the chin. 
 
 Poor Harry kicked and called aloud, 
 And screamed, and cried, and roared, 
 
 While from the wound the crimson blood 
 In dreadful torrents poured. 
 
 The maids came running, frightened much 
 
 To see him hanging there, 
 And soon they took him from the hook, 
 
 And sat him in a chair. 
 
 The surgeon came, and stopped the blood, 
 
 And up he bound his head ; 
 And then they carried him up stairs, 
 
 And laid him on his bed. 
 
 Conviction darted on his mind, 
 
 As groaning there he lay ; 
 lie with remorse and horror thought 
 
 Upon his cruel pipy. 
 
 "And oh," said he, "poor little fish, 
 
 What tortures they have borne; 
 While T, well pleased, have stood to see 
 
 Their tender bodies torn ! 
 
 " O, what a wicked boy I 've been, 
 
 Such torments to bestow ; 
 Well I deserve the pain I feel, 
 
 Since T could serve them so. 
 
152 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 " But now I know how great the smart, 
 
 How terrible the pain ! 
 As long as I can feel myself, 
 
 I '11 never fish again." 
 
 OLD AGE. 
 
 Who is it comes tottering along! 
 
 His footsteps are feeble and slow, 
 His beard is grown curling and long, 
 
 And his head is turned white as the snow. 
 
 His dim eye is sunk in his head, 
 
 And wrinkles deep furrow his brow ; 
 
 Animation and vigor are fled, 
 And yield to infirmity now. 
 
 Little stranger, his name is Old Age, 
 His journey will shortly be o'er, 
 
 He soon will leave life's busy stage, 
 To be torn by affliction no more. 
 
 Little stranger, though healthy and strong, 
 
 You now all adversity brave, 
 Like him you must totter ere long, 
 
 Like him you must sink to the grave. 
 
 Those limbs that so actively play, 
 That face, beaming pleasure and mirth, 
 
 Like his must drop into decay, 
 And moulder awav in the earth. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 153 
 
 Then, ere that dark season of night, 
 
 When youth and its energies cease, 
 O ! follow, with zeal and delight, 
 
 Those paths that are pleasure and peace. 
 
 So triumph and hope shall be nigh, 
 When failing and fainting you breathe ; 
 
 T will light a bright spark in your eye, 
 As it closes forever in death. 
 
 THE APPLE-TREE. 
 
 Old John had an apple-tree, healthy and green, 
 Which bore the best codlins that ever were seen, 
 
 So juicy, and mellow and red ; 
 And when they were ripe, as old Johnny was poor, 
 He sold them to children that passed by his door, 
 
 To buy him a morsel of bread. 
 
 Little Dick, his next neighbor, one often might see 
 With longing eye viewing this nice apple-tree, 
 
 And wishing a codlin would fall ; 
 One day, as he stood in the heat of the sun, 
 He began thinking whether he might not take one, 
 
 And then he looked over the wall. 
 
 And as he again cast his eye on the tree, 
 
 He said to himself, " O, how nice they would be, 
 
 So cool and refreshing to-day ! 
 The tree is so full, and I 'd only take one, 
 And old John won't see, for he is not at home, 
 
 And nobody is in the way." 
 
154 
 
 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 But stop, little boy, take your hand from the bough, 
 Remember, though old John can 't see you just now, 
 
 And no one to chide you is nigh, 
 There is One, who by night, just as well as by day, 
 Can see all you do, and can hear all you say, 
 
 From his glorious throne in the sky. 
 
 Oh then, little boy, come away from the tree, 
 Content, hot or weary or thirsty to be, 
 
 Or any thing rather than steal ! 
 For the great God, who even through darkness can look, 
 Writes down every crime we commit, in his book, 
 
 However we think to conceal. j. t. 
 
 THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 In tears to her mother poor Harriot came, 
 
 Let us listen to hear what she says: 
 ' O see, dear mamma, it is pouring with rain, 
 
 We cannot go out in the chaise. 
 
 'All the week have I longed for the journey, you know, 
 
 And fancied the minutes were hours, 
 And now that I 'm dressed and all ready to go, 
 
 O see, dear mamma, how it pours.' 
 
 I 'm sorry, my dear, her good mother replied, 
 
 The rain won't permit us to go, 
 And I 'm sorry to see, for the sake of a ride, 
 
 That you cry and distress yourself so. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 155 
 
 These slight disappointments and crosses you hate, 
 
 Are sent you your mind to prepare ; 
 That you may with courage and fortitude wait 
 
 More serious distresses to bear. 
 
 Oh think not, my child, as you grow up in life, 
 
 That pleasures unceasing will flow; 
 Disappointment, and trouble, and sorrow, and strife, 
 
 Will follow wherever you go. 
 
 Though now the bright prospect seems opening fair, 
 
 And hope paints a scene of delight, 
 Too soon you will see it all vanish in air, 
 
 And leave you to darkness and night. 
 
 Ah then, my dear girl, when these sorrows appear, 
 
 And trouble flows in like a tide, 
 You '11 wonder that you ever wasted a tear 
 
 On merely the loss of a ride. 
 
 But though this world's pleasures are fading and vain, 
 
 Religion is lasting and true : 
 Real pleasure and joy in her paths you may gain, 
 
 Nor will disappointment ensue. j. t. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD BOY. 
 
 Upon a mountain's grassy side 
 Where many a tall fir grew, 
 
 Young Colin wandered with his flocks, 
 And many a hardship knew. 
 
156 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 No downy pillow for his head, 
 
 No sheltered home had he, 
 The green grass was his only bed 
 
 Beneath some shady tree. 
 
 Dry bread, and water from the spring, 
 Composed his temp'rate fare : 
 
 Yet Colin ate with thankful heart, 
 Nor felt a murmur there. 
 
 A cheerful smile upon his face 
 
 Was ever seen to play, 
 He envied not the rich nor great, 
 
 More happy far than they. 
 
 While 'neath some spreading shade he sat, 
 
 Beside his fleecy flocks, 
 His soft pipe warbled through the wood, 
 
 And echoed from the rocks. 
 
 An ancient castle on the plain 
 
 In silent grandeur stood, 
 And there the young lord Henry dwelt ; 
 
 The proud, but not the good. 
 
 And oft he wandered o'er the plain, 
 
 Or on the mountain's side, 
 Or with surprise and envy too 
 
 The humble Colin eyed. 
 
 '•And why," said he, "am I denied 
 
 That cheerfulness and joy, 
 That ever smiles upon the face 
 
 Of this poor shepherd boy? 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 157 
 
 " Nor titles, honors, nor estates, 
 
 No wealth, nor power has he ; 
 And yet, though destitute and poor, 
 
 He seems more blessed than me." 
 
 For this lord Henry did not know, 
 
 That pleasure ne'er is found 
 Where angry passions reign and rule, 
 
 And evil deeds abound. 
 
 Colin, though poor, was humble too, 
 
 Benevolent and kind : 
 While passion, anger, rage, and pride, 
 
 Disturbed lord Henry's mind. 
 
 Thus Colin, though a shepherd boy, 
 
 Was ever glad and gay ; 
 And Henry, though a noble lord, 
 
 To discontent a prey. j. t. 
 
 THE ROBIN. 
 
 Away, pretty Robin, fly home to your nest, 
 To make you my captive I still should like best, 
 
 And feed you with worms and with bread: 
 Your eyes are so sparkling, your feathers so soft, 
 Your little wings flutter so pretty aloft, 
 
 And your breast is all colored with red. 
 vol. v. 14 
 
158 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 But then 't would be cruel to keep you, I know, 
 So stretch out your wings, little Robin, and go, 
 
 Fly home to your young ones again ; 
 Go, listen again to the notes of your mate, 
 And enjoy the green shade in your lonely retreat, 
 
 Secure from the wind and the rain. 
 
 But when the leaves fall, and the winter winds blow, 
 And the green fields are covered all over with snow, 
 
 And the clouds in white feathers descend ; 
 When the springs are all ice, and the rivulets freeze, 
 And the long, shining icicles drop from the trees, 
 
 Then, Robin, remember your friend. 
 
 When with cold and with hunger quite perish'dand weak ? 
 Come tap at my window again with your beak, 
 
 And gladly I '11 let you come in ; 
 You shall fly to my bosom, or perch on my thumbs, 
 Or hop round the table and pick up the crums, 
 
 And never be hungry again. j. t. 
 
 THE SHOULDER OF MUTTON. 
 
 Young Jem at noon returned from school, 
 
 As hungry as could be, 
 He cried to Sue the servant maid, 
 
 1 My dinner give to me.' 
 
 Said Sue, c It is not yet come home, 
 
 Besides it is not late ;' 
 ' No matter that,' cried little Jem, 
 
 1 I do not like to wait.' 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 159 
 
 Quick to the baker's Jemmy went, 
 
 And asked ' Is dinner done ? ' 
 1 It is,' replied the baker's man, 
 
 1 Then home I '11 with it run.' 
 
 ' Nay, sir,' replied he, prudently, 
 
 i I tell you 't is too hot. 
 And much too heavy 't is for you ' 
 
 ' 1 tell you it is not. 
 
 5 Papa, mamma, are both gone out, 
 
 And I for dinner long ; 
 So give it me : It is all mine, 
 
 And, baker, hold your tongue. 
 
 ' A shoulder 't is of mutton nice ! 
 
 And batter-pudding too ; 
 I 'm glad of that, it is so good ; 
 
 How clever is our Sue ! ' 
 
 Now near his door young Jem was come, 
 
 He round the corner turned ; 
 But O, sad fate, unlucky chance ! 
 
 The dish his fingers burned. 
 
 Low in the kennel down fell dish, 
 
 And down fell all the meat ; 
 Swift went the pudding in the stream, 
 
 And sailed down the street. 
 
 The people laughed, and rude boys grinned, 
 
 At mutton's hapless fall ; 
 But though ashamed, young Jemmy cried, 
 
 1 Better lose part than all.' 
 
160 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 The shoulder by the knuckle seized, 
 
 His both hands grasped it fast, 
 And, deaf to all their gibes and cries, 
 
 He gained his home at last. 
 
 ' Impatience is a fault,' says Jem, 
 
 t The baker said too true ; 
 In future, patient I will be, 
 
 And mind what says our Sue.' Adelaide. 
 
 FALSE ALARMS. 
 
 Little Mary one day most loudly did call ; 
 
 1 Mamma ! O mamma, pray come here ! 
 A fall I have had ; oh, a very sad fall.' 
 
 Mamma ran in haste and in fear ; 
 Then Mary jumped up, and she laughed in great glee, 
 
 And cried, ' Why, how fast you can run ! 
 No harm has befallen, I assure you, to me, 
 
 My screaming was only in fun.' 
 
 Her mother was busy at work the next day, 
 
 She heard from without a loud cry 
 1 The big dog has got me ! O help me ! O pray ! 
 
 He tears me — he bites me — I die ! ' 
 Mamma, all in terror, quick to the court flew, 
 
 And there little Mary she found : 
 Who laughing, said, 'Madam, pray how do you do?' 
 
 And curtseyed quite down to the ground. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 161 
 
 That night, little Mary when long gone to bed, 
 
 Shrill cries, and loud shriekings were heard ; 
 ( I'mon fire, O mamma ! come up or I'm dead ! ' 
 
 Mamma, she believed not a word. 
 * Sleep, sleep, naughty child,' she called out from below, 
 
 4 How often have I been deceived ! 
 You 're telling a story, you very well know : 
 
 Go to sleep, for you can't be believed.' 
 
 Yet still the child screamed ; now the house filled with 
 smoke ; 
 
 That fire is above, Jane declares. 
 Alas ! Mary' s words they soon found were no joke, 
 
 When every one hastened up stairs. 
 All burnt and all seamed is her once pretty face, 
 
 And terribly marked are her arms, 
 Her features all scarred, leave a lasting disgrace 
 
 For giving mamma false alarms. Adelaide. 
 
 THE CHILD'S MONITOR. 
 
 The wind blows down the largest tree, 
 And yet the wind 1 cannot see. 
 Playmates far off, that have been kind, 
 My thought can bring before my mind, 
 The past by it is present brought, 
 And yet I cannot see my thought. 
 The charming rose perfumes the air, 
 Yet I can see no perfumes there. 
 Blithe Robin's notes — how sweet, how clear ! 
 From his small bill they reach my ear ; 
 14* 
 
162 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 And whilst upon the air they float, 
 
 I hear, yet cannot see a note. 
 
 When I would do what is forbid, 
 
 By something in my heart I 'm chid ; 
 
 When good I think, then quick and pat, 
 
 That something says, * My child, do that. 5 
 
 When I too near the stream would go, 
 
 So pleased to see the waters flow, 
 
 That something says, without a sound, 
 
 8 Take care, dear child, you may be drowned.' 
 
 And for the poor whene'er I grieve, 
 
 That something says, ' A penny give.' 
 
 Thus Spirits good and ill there be, 
 
 Although invisible to me ; 
 
 Whate'er I do, they see me still, 
 
 But O, good Spirits, guide my will ! Adelaide. 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 The Butterfly, an idle thing, 
 
 Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing, 
 
 Like to the bee and bird ; 
 Nor does it, like the prudent ant, 
 Lay up the grain for time of want, 
 
 A wise and cautious hoard. 
 
 My youth is but a summer's day, 
 Then, like the bee and ant, I '11 lay 
 
 A store of learning by ; 
 And though from flower to flower 1 rove, 
 My stock of wisdom I '11 improve, 
 
 Nor be a Butterfly. Adelaide. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 163 
 
 THE BOYS AND THE APPLE-TREE. 
 
 As Billy and Tommy were walking one day, 
 
 They came by a fine orchard side ; 
 They 'd rather eat apples then spell, read, or play, 
 
 And Tommy to Billy then cried : 
 
 Oh brother, look ! see ! what fine clusters hang there, 
 
 1 '11 jump and climb over the wall ; 
 I will have an apple ; I will have a pear, 
 
 Or else it shall cost me a fall. 
 
 Said Billy to Tommy, to steal is a sin, 
 
 Mamma has oft told this to thee ; 
 I never yet stole, nor now will begin ; 
 
 So, red apples, hang on the tree. 
 
 You are a good boy, as you ever have been, 
 
 Said Tommy, let 's walk on, my lad ; 
 We '11 call on our school-fellow, little Bob Greene, 
 
 And to see us I know he '11 be glad. 
 
 They came to a house, and they rang at the gate, 
 And asked, * Pray is Bobby at home ? ' 
 
 But Bobby's good manners did not let them wait ; 
 He out of the parlor did come. 
 
 Bob smiled and he laughed, and he capered with joy, 
 
 His little companions to view — 
 We called in to see you, said each little boy. 
 
 Said Bobby : I 'm glad to see you. 
 
164 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Come walk in our garden, so large and so fine ; 
 
 You shall, for my father gives leave ; 
 And more, he insists that you '11 stay here to dine ; 
 
 A rare jolly day we shall have ! 
 
 But when in the garden, they found 't was the same 
 
 They saw as they walked in the road ; 
 And near the high wall, when these little boys came, 
 
 They started, as if from a toad. 
 
 That large ring of iron, which lies on the ground, 
 
 With terrible teeth like a saw, 
 Said Bobby, the guard of our garden is found : 
 
 It keeps wicked robbers in awe. 
 
 The warning without, if they should set at naught, 
 
 This trap tears their legs ; O so sad ! 
 Says Billy to Tommy, so you 'd have been caught, 
 
 A narrow escape you have had. 
 
 Cried Tommy, I '11 mind what my good mother says, 
 
 And take the advice of a friend ; 
 I never will steal to the end of my days, 
 
 I 've been a bad boy, but I '11 mend. Adelaide. 
 
 THE WOODEN DOLL AND THE WAX DOLL. 
 
 There were two friends, a charming little pair ! 
 Brunette the brown, and Blanchidine the fair : 
 This child to love Brunette did still incline, 
 And much Brunette loved sweet Blanchidine. 
 Brunette in dress was neat yet wond'rous plain, 
 But Blanchidine of finery was vain. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 165 
 
 Now Blanchidine a new acquaintance made, 
 A little miss, most splendidly arrayed : 
 Feathers and laces beauteous to behold, 
 And India frock, with spots of shining gold. 
 Said Blanchidine, a miss so richly dressed, 
 Most sure by all deserves to be caressed ; 
 To play with me if she will condescend, 
 Henceforward she shall be my only friend. 
 For this new miss, so dressed and so adorned, 
 Her poor Brunette was slighted, left, and scorned. 
 
 Of Blanchidine's vast stock of pretty toys, 
 A wooden Doll her every thought employs ; 
 Its neck so white, so smooth, its cheeks so red, 
 She 'd kiss, she 'd hug, she 'd take it to her bed. 
 
 Mother now brought her home a Doll of wax, 
 Its hair in ringlets white and soft as flax ; 
 Its eyes could open, and its eyes could shut, 
 And on it with much taste its clothes were put, 
 My dear wax doll, sweet Blanchidine would cry : 
 Her doll of wood was thrown neglected by. 
 
 One summer's day, 't was in the month of June, 
 The sun blazed out in all the heat of noon, 
 My waxen doll, she cried, my dear ! my charm ! 
 You feel quite cold, but you shall soon be warm. 
 She placed it in the sun— misfortune dire ! 
 The wax ran down as if before the fire ! 
 Each beauteous feature quickly disappeared, 
 And melting left a blank all soiled and smeared. 
 
 She stared, she screamed with horror and dismay, 
 You odious fright, she then was heard to say ; 
 
166 ORIGINAL POEMS. 
 
 For you my silly heart I have estranged, 
 
 From my sweet wooden Doll, that never changed. 
 
 Just so may change my new acquaintance fine, 
 
 For whom I left Brunette, that friend of mine. 
 
 No more by outside show will I be lured, 
 
 Of such capricious whims I think I 'm cured : 
 
 To plain old friends my heart shall still be true, 
 
 Nor change for every face because 't is new. 
 
 Her slighted wooden doll resumed its charms, 
 
 And wronged Brunette she clasped within her arms. 
 
 ADELAIDE. 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 The Thrush sings nobly on the tree, 
 In strength of voice excelling me, 
 
 Whilst leaves and fruits are on. 
 Think how poor Robin sings for you, 
 When nature's beauties bid adieu, 
 
 And leaves and fruits are gone. 
 All, then, to me some crums of bread O fling ! 
 And through the year my grateful thanks I '11 sing. 
 
 When winter's winds blow loud and rude, 
 And birds retire in sullen mood, 
 
 And snow makes white the ground ; 
 I sing, your drooping hearts to charm, 
 And, sure that you '11 not do me harm, 
 
 I hop your .window round. 
 Ah, then, to me some crums of bread O fling ! 
 And through the year my grateful thanks F 11 sing. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 167 
 
 Since, friends, in you I put my trust, 
 As you enjoy, you should be just, 
 
 And for your music pay ; 
 And when I find a traveller dead, 
 My bill with leaves the corpse shall spread, 
 
 And sing his passing lay. 
 Ah, then, to me some crums of bread O fling! 
 And through the year my grateful thanks I' 11 sing. 
 
 ADELAIDE 
 
 IDLE DICKY AND THE GOAT. 
 
 John Brown is a man without houses or lands, 
 Himself he supports by the work of his hands ; 
 He brings home his wages each Saturday night, 
 To his wife and his children a very good sight. 
 
 His eldest boy, Dicky, on errands when sent, 
 To loiter and chatter was very much bent : 
 The neighbors all called him an odd little trout, 
 His shoes they were broke, and his toes they peeped out. 
 
 To see such old shoes all their sorrows were rife ; 
 John Brown he much grieved and so did his wife, 
 He kissed his boy Dicky, and stroked his white head, 
 You shall have a new pair, my dear boy, he then said, 
 I' ve here twenty shillings, and money has wings; 
 Go first get this note changed, I want other tilings. 
 
 Now here comes the mischief — this Dicky would stop 
 At an ill-looking, mean-looking, green grocer's shop. 
 For here lived a chattering dunce of a boy ; 
 To prate with this urchin gave Dicky great joy. 
 
168 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 And now, in his boasting, he shows him his note, 
 And now, to the green-stall up marches a goat. 
 They laughed, foi it was this young Nanny-goat's way, 
 With those who passed by her to gambol and play. 
 All three now went on in their froJicksome bouts, 
 Till Dick dropped the note on a bunch of green sprouts. 
 
 Now what was Dick's wonder ! to see the vile goat, 
 In munching the gre^n sprouts, eat up his bank note ; 
 He crying ran back to John Brown with the news. 
 By stopping to idle he lost his new shoes. Adelaide. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Thy plaintive notes, sweet Philomel, 
 All other melodies excel ! 
 
 Deep in the grove retired, 
 Thou seem'st thyself and song to hide, 
 Nor dost thou boast or plume with pride, 
 
 Nor wish to be admired. 
 
 So, if endued with power and grace, 
 And with that power my will keep pace, 
 
 To act a gen'rous part ; 
 Hence — paltry, ostentatious show ! 
 Nor let my liberal actions know, 
 
 A witness but my heart. Adelaide 
 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 169 
 
 NEVER PLAY WITH FIRE. 
 
 My prayers I said, I went to bed, 
 
 And soon I fell asleep : 
 But soon I woke, my sleep was broke, 
 
 I through my curtains peep. 
 
 I heard a noise of men and boys, 
 
 The watchman's rattle too ; 
 Ajid Fire they cried — and then cried I, 
 
 Oh dear, what shall I do ? 
 
 A shout so loud came from the crowd, 
 
 Around, above, below ; 
 And in the street the neighbors meet, 
 
 Who would the matter know. 
 
 Now dowTi the stairs run threes and pairs 
 
 Enough to break their bone?, 
 The firemen swear, the engines tear 
 
 And thunder o'er the stones. 
 
 The roof and wall, and stair and all, 
 
 And rafters tumble in, 
 Red flames and blaze now all amaze, 
 
 And make a dreadful din ! 
 
 And horrid screams, wheu bricks and beams 
 
 Came tumbling on their heads ; 
 And some are smashed, and some are crashed ; 
 
 Some leap on feather beds. 
 vol. v. 15 
 
170 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Some burn, some choke, with fire and smoke ! 
 
 And oh, what was the cause ? 
 My heart 's dismayed, last night I played 
 
 With Tommy, lighting straws ! Adelaide. 
 
 THE LARK. 
 
 From his humble grassy bed, 
 
 See the warbling lark arise ! 
 By his grateful wishes led, 
 
 Through those regions of the skies. 
 
 Songs of thanks and praise he pours, 
 
 Harmonizing airy space, 
 Sings, and mounts, and higher soars, 
 
 Towards the throne of heavenly grace. 
 
 Small his gifts compared to mine, 
 
 Poor my thanks with him compared ; 
 I 've a soul almost divine ; 
 
 Angels' blessings with me shared. 
 
 Wake, my soul ! to praise aspire, 
 
 Reason, every sense accord ; 
 Join in pure seraphic fire ; 
 
 Love, and thank, and praise the Lord ! Adelaide. 
 
 THE TRUANT BOYS. 
 
 The month was April, and the morning cool, 
 
 Wlien Hal and Ned, 
 To walk together to the neighboring school, 
 
 Rose early from their bed : 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 171 
 
 When reached the school, Hal said, < Why con your task 
 
 Demure and prim ? 
 Ere we go in, let me one question ask : 
 
 Ned, shall we go swim ? ' 
 
 Fearless of future punishment or blame, 
 
 Away they hied, 
 Through many verdant fields, until they came 
 
 Unto the river side. 
 
 The broad stream narrowed in its onward course, 
 
 And deep and still 
 It silent ran, and yet with rapid force, 
 
 To turn a neighboring mill. 
 
 Under the mill an arch gaped wide, and seemed 
 
 The jaws of death ! 
 Through this the smooth deceitful waters teemed 
 
 On dreadful wheels beneath. 
 
 They swim the river wide, nor think nor care ; 
 
 The waters flow ; 
 And by the current strong they carried are 
 
 Into the mill-stream now. 
 
 Through the swift waters, as young Ned was rolled, 
 
 The gulf when near, 
 On a kind brier by chance he laid fast hold, 
 
 And stopped his dread career. 
 
 But luckless Hal was by the mill-wheel torn, 
 
 A warning sad ! 
 And the untimely death, all friends now mourn, 
 
 Of this poor truant lad ! Adelaide. 
 
172 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 
 
 His petticoats now George cast off, 
 
 For he was four years old ; 
 His trousers were nankeen so fine, 
 
 His buttons bright as gold — 
 ' May I,' said little George, ' go out 
 
 My pretty clothes to show ? 
 May I, papa ? may I, mamma ? ' 
 
 The answer was, ' No, no. 
 
 Go, run below, George, in the court, 
 
 But go not in the street, 
 Lest naughty boys should play some trick, 
 
 Or gypsies you should meet.' 
 Yet, though forbade, George went unseen, 
 
 The little boys to see, 
 And all admired him when he lisped — 
 
 ' Now who so fine as me ? ' 
 
 But while he strutted to and fro, 
 
 So proud, as I 've heard tell, 
 A sweep-boy passed, whom to avoid 
 
 He slipped and down he fell. 
 The sooty lad was kind and good, 
 
 To Georgy boy he ran, 
 He raised him up, and kissing said, 
 
 1 Hush, hush, my little man ! ' 
 
 He rubbed and wiped his clothes with care, 
 And hugging said, 'Don't cry ! — 
 
 Go home, as quick as you can go ! 
 Sweet little boy, good- by,' 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 173 
 
 Poor George looked down, and lo ! his dress 
 
 Was blacker than before ; 
 All over soot, and mud, and dirt, 
 
 He reached his father's door. 
 
 He sobbed, and wept, and looked ashamed, 
 
 His fault he did not hide ; 
 And since so sorry for his fault, 
 
 Mamma she did not chide. 
 That night when he was gone to bed, 
 
 He jumped up in his sleep, 
 And cried, and sobbed and cried again, 
 
 1 1 thought I saw the sweep ! ' Adelaide. 
 
 SOPHIA'S FOOL'S-CAP. 
 
 Sophia was a little child, 
 Obliging, good, and very mild, 
 Yet, lest of dress she should be vain, 
 Mamma still dressed her well but plain — 
 Her parents, sensible and kind, 
 Wished only to adorn her mind ; 
 No other dress, when good, had she, 
 But useful, neat simplicity. 
 
 Though seldom, yet when she was rude 
 Or ever in a naughty mood, 
 Her punishment was this disgrace, 
 A large fine cap adorned with lace, 
 With feathers and with ribands too ; 
 The work was neat, the fashion new ! 
 Yet as a fool's-cap was its name, 
 She dreaded much to wear the san 
 15* 
 
174 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 A lady, fashionably gay, 
 
 Did to mamma a visit pay, 
 
 Sophia stared, then whispering said, 
 
 * Why, dear mamma, look at her head ! 
 
 To be so tall and wicked too, 
 
 The strangest thing I ever knew ! 
 
 What naughty tricks, pray, has she done, 
 
 That they have put a fool's-cap on ? ' Adelaide. 
 
 WASHING AND DRESSING. 
 
 Ah ! why will my dear little girl be so cross, 
 
 And cry, and look sulky, and pout ? 
 To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss, 
 
 I can 't even kiss her without. 
 
 You say you do n't like to be washed and be dressed, 
 
 But would you be dirty and foul ? 
 Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast, 
 
 And clear your sweet face from its scowl. 
 
 [f the water is cold, and the comb hurts your head, 
 
 And the soap has got into your eye, 
 Will the water grow warmer for all that you 've said, 
 
 And what good will it do you to cry ? 
 
 It is not to tease you, and hurt you, my sweet, 
 
 But only for kindness and care, 
 That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look 
 neat, 
 
 And comb out your tanglesome hair. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. H5 
 
 I do n't mind the trouble, if you would not cry, 
 
 But pay me for all with a loss. 
 That 's right, take the towel and wipe your wet eye, 
 
 I thought you 'd be good after this. ann 
 
 THE PLUM CAKE. 
 
 4 Oh, I 've got a plum cake, and a rare feast I '11 make, 
 
 I '11 eat, and I '11 stuff, and I '11 cram : 
 Morning, noontime, and night, it shall be my delight ; 
 
 What a happy young fellow I am.' 
 
 Thus said little George, and, beginning to gorge, 
 
 With zeal to his cake he applied : 
 While fingers and thumbs, for the sweetmeats and plums, 
 
 But woful to tell, a misfortune befell, 
 
 Which ruined his capital fun ; 
 After eating his nil, he was taken so ill, 
 
 That he trembled for what he had done. 
 
 As he grew worse and worse, the doctor and nurse 
 
 To cure his disorder were sent: 
 And rightly, you '11 think, he had physic to drink, 
 
 Which made him his folly repent. 
 
 And while on his bed he rolled his hot head, 
 
 Impatient with sickness and pain, 
 He could not but take this reproof from his cake, 
 
 1 Do 'nt be such a glutton again.' ann. 
 
176 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 ANOTHER PLUM CAKE. 
 
 * Oh ! I 've got a plum cake, and a feast let us make, 
 
 Come, school-fellows, come at my call ; 
 I assure you, 't is nice, and we '11 each have a slice, 
 
 Here 's more than enough for us all.' 
 
 Thus said little Jack, as he gave it a smack, 
 
 And sharpened his knife for the job ! 
 While round him a troop formed a clamorous group, 
 
 And hailed him the king of the mob. 
 
 With masterly strength he cut through it at length, 
 
 And gave to each playmate a share : 
 Dick, William, and James, and many more names, 
 
 Partook his benevolent care. 
 
 And when it was done, and they 'd finished their fun, 
 
 To marbles or hoop they went back, 
 And each little boy felt it always a joy 
 
 To do a good turn for good Jack. 
 
 In his task and his book, his best pleasures he took, 
 
 And as he thus wisely began, 
 Since he 's been a man grown, he has constantly shown, 
 
 That a good boy will make a good man. anw. 
 
 FOR A NAUGHTY LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 My sweet little girl should be cheerful and mild, 
 And should not be fretful and cry ! 
 
 Oh, why is this passion ? remember, my child, 
 God sees you, who lives in the sky 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 177 
 
 That dear little face, which I like so to kiss, 
 
 How frightful and sad it appears ! 
 Do you think I can love you, so naughty as this, 
 
 Or kiss you all wetted with tears ? 
 
 Remember, though God is in heaven, my love, 
 
 He sees you, within and without, 
 And always looks down from his glory above, 
 
 To notice what you are about. 
 
 If I am not with you, or if it be dark, 
 
 And nobody is in the way, 
 His eye is as able your doings to mark, 
 
 In the night as it is in the day. 
 
 Then dry up your tears, and look smiling again, 
 
 And never do things that are wrong, 
 For I 'm sure you must feel it a terrible pain, 
 
 To be naughty, and crying so long. 
 
 We '11 pray that God may your passion forgive, 
 
 And teach you from evil to fly ; 
 And then you '11 be happy as long as you live, 
 
 And happy whenever you die.' ann. 
 
 HONEST OLD TRAY. 
 
 Oh ! do n't hurt the dog, poor honest old Tray ; 
 What good will it do you to drive him away ? 
 
 Kind usage is justly his right! 
 Remember how faithful he is to his charge, 
 And barks at the rogues when we set him at large, 
 
 And guards us by day and by night. 
 
178 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Though you, by and by, will grow up to a man, 
 And Tray is a dog, let him grow as he can, 
 
 Remember, my good little lad, 
 A dog that is honest, and faithful, and mild, 
 Is not only better than is a bad child, 
 
 But better than men that are bad. 
 
 If you are a boy, and Tray but a beast, 
 
 I think it should teach you one lesson at least, 
 
 You ought to act better than he ; 
 And if without reason, or judgment, or sense, 
 Tray does as we bid him, and gives no offence, 
 
 How diligent Richard should be ! 
 
 If I do but just whistle, as often you 've seen, 
 He seems to say, * Master, what is it you mean ? 
 
 My courage and duty are tried.' 
 And see, when I throw my hat over the pale, 
 He fetches it back, and comes wagging his tail, 
 
 And lies it down close by my side. 
 
 Then, honest old Tray, let him sleep at his ease, 
 While you from him learn to endeavor to please 
 
 And obey me with spirit and joy ; 
 Or else we shall find (what would grieve me to say) 
 That Richard 's no better than honest old Tray ! 
 
 And a brute has more sense than a boy ! ann. 
 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 179 
 
 TO A LITTLE GIRL THAT HAS TOLD A LIE. 
 
 Ajvd has my darling told a lie ! 
 Did she forget that God was by ? 
 That God, who saw the thing she did, 
 From whom no action can be hid ; 
 Did she forget that God could see, 
 And hear, wherever she might be ? 
 
 He made your eye?, and can discern, 
 Which ever way you think to turn ; 
 He made your ears, and he can hear, 
 When you may think nobody 'a near; 
 In every place, by night or day, 
 He watches all you do and say. 
 
 You thought, because you were alone, 
 Your falsehood never could be known, 
 But liars always are found out, 
 Whatever ways they wind about; 
 And always be afraid, my dear, 
 To tell a lie, for God can hear ! 
 
 I wish, my dear, you 'd always try 
 To act as shall not need a lie ; 
 And when you wish a thing to do, 
 That has been once forbidden you, 
 Remember that, nor ever dare 
 To disobey — for God is there ! 
 
 Why should you fear to tell me true ? 
 Confess, and then I '11 pardon you : 
 Tell me you 're sorry, and wijl try 
 
 
180 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 To act the better by and by, 
 
 And then, whate'er your crime has been, 
 
 It won't be half so great a sin. 
 
 But cheerful, innocent, and gay, 
 
 As passes by the smiling day, 
 
 You '11 never have to turn aside, 
 
 From any one your faults to hide : 
 
 Nor heave a sigh, nor have a fear, 
 
 That either God, or I should hear. ann. 
 
 THE TWO GARDENS. 
 
 When Harry and Dick had been striving to please, 
 
 Their father (to whom it was known) 
 Made two little gardens, and stocked them with trees, 
 
 And gave one to each for his own. 
 
 Harry thanked his papa, and with rake, hoe, and spade. 
 
 Directly began his employ : 
 And soon such a neat little garden was made, 
 
 That he panted with labor and joy. 
 
 There was always some bed or some border to mend, 
 
 Or something to tie or to stick ; 
 And Harry rose early his garden to tend, 
 
 While snoring lay indolent Dick. 
 
 The tulip, the ro^e, and the lily so white, 
 
 United their beautiful bloom ; 
 And often the honey-bee stopped from his flight 
 
 To sip the delicious perfume. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 181 
 
 A neat row of peas in full blossom were seen, 
 French beans were beginning to shoot • 
 
 And his gooseberries and currants, though yet they were 
 green, 
 Foretold him a plenty of fruit. 
 
 But Richard loved better in bed to repose, 
 
 And snug as he curled himself round, 
 Forgot that no tulip, nor lily, nor rose, 
 
 Nor plant in his garden was found. 
 
 Rank weeds and tall nettles disfigured his beds, 
 
 Nor cabbage nor lettuce were seen, 
 The slug and the snail showed their mischievous heads, 
 
 And eat every leaf that was green. 
 
 Thus Richard the idle, who shrunk from the cold, 
 
 Beheld his trees naked and bare ; 
 Whilst Harry the active was charmed to behold 
 
 The fruit of his patience and care. an>\ 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 Who fed me from her gentle hi- 
 And hushed me in her arms to rest, 
 And on my cheek sweet kisses pressed ? 
 
 If j Mother. 
 
 When sleep forsook my open eye, 
 
 Who was it sang sweet lullaby, 
 
 And rocked me that I should not cry ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 vol. v. 16 
 
182 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Who sat and watched my infant head, 
 When sleeping on my cradle bed, 
 And tears of sweet affection shed ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 When pain and sickness made me cry, 
 Who gazed upon my heavy eye, 
 And wept for fear that I should die ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay, 
 And taught me pretty how to play, 
 And minded all I had to say ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who ran to help me when I fell, 
 And would some pretty story tell, 
 Or kiss the place to make it well ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Who taught my infant lips to pray, 
 And love God's holy book and day, 
 And walk in wisdom's pleasant way? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 And can 1 ever cease to be 
 Affectionate and kind to thee, 
 Who was so very kind to me ? 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 Ah ! no, the thought I cannot bear, 
 And if God please my life to spare, 
 I hope I shall reward thy care, 
 
 My Mother 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 183 
 
 When thou art feeble, old, and gray, 
 My healthy arms shall be thy stay, 
 And I will soothe thy pains away, 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 And when I see thee hang thy head, 
 'T will be my turn to watch thy bed, 
 And tears of sweet affection shed, 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 For God, who lives above the skies, 
 Would look with vengeance in his eyes, 
 If I should ever dare despise 
 
 My Mother. 
 
 MY FATHER. 
 
 Who took me from my mother's arms, 
 
 And. smiling at her soft alarms, 
 
 Showed me the world and nature's charms ? 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Who made me feel and understand 
 
 The wonders of the sea and land, 
 
 And mark, through all, the Maker's hand ? 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Who climbed with me the mountain height, 
 And watched my look of dread delight, 
 While rose the glorious orb of light ? 
 
 My Father. 
 
184 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Who, from each flower, and verdant stalk, 
 Gathered a honeyed store of talk, 
 To fill the long, delightful walk ? 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Not on an insect would he tread ; 
 Nor strike the stinging nettle dead ; 
 Who taught at once my heart and head ? 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Who wrote upon that heart the line 
 Religion graved on Virtue's shrine, 
 To make the human race divine ? 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Who taught my early mind to know 
 The God from whom all blessings flow, 
 Creator of all things below ? 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Who now, in pale and placid light 
 Of memory, gleams upon my sight, 
 Bursting the sepulchre of night ? 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Oh ! teach me still the christian plan ! 
 Thy practice with thy precept ran : 
 Nor yet desert me now a man, 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice, 
 With charms of thy angelic voice, 
 Still prompt the motive and the choice, 
 
 My Father. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. H5 
 
 For yet remains a little space, 
 Till I shall meet thee face to face : 
 And not, as now, in vain embrace, 
 
 My Father. 
 
 Soon, and before the Mercy-seat, 
 Spirits made perfect — we shall meet ! 
 Thee with what transport shall I greet, 
 
 My Father ? 
 
 THE PALACE AND COTTAGE. 
 
 High on a mountain's haughty steep 
 
 Lord Hubert's palace stood ; 
 Before it rolled a river deep, 
 
 Behind it waved a wood. 
 
 Low in an unfrequented vale, 
 
 A peasant built his cell ; 
 Sweet flowers perfumed the cooling gale, 
 
 And graced his garden well. 
 
 Loud riot through lord Hubert's hall 
 
 In noisy clamors rang : 
 He scarcely closed his eyes at all, 
 
 Till breaking day began. 
 
 In scenes of quiet and repose 
 Young William's life was spent ; 
 
 With morning's early beam he rose, 
 And whistled as he went. 
 
186 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 On sauces rich, and viands fine, 
 
 Lord Hubert daily fed ; 
 His goblet filled with sparkling wine, 
 
 His board with dainties spread. 
 
 Warm from the sickle or the plough, 
 
 His heart as light as air, 
 His garden ground, and dappled cow, 
 
 Supplied young William's fare. 
 
 On beds of down beset with gold, 
 
 With satin curtains drawn, 
 His feverish limbs lord Hubert rolled, 
 
 From midnight's gloom to morn. 
 
 Stretched on a hard and flocky bed, 
 
 The cheerful rustic lay ; 
 And sweetest slumbers lulled his head, 
 
 From eve to breaking day. 
 
 Fever, and gout, and aches, and pains, 
 Destroyed lord Hubert's rest ; 
 
 Disorder bun it in all his veins, 
 And sickened in his breast. 
 
 A stranger to the ills of wealth, 
 
 Behind his rugged plough, 
 The cheek of William glowed with health, 
 
 And cheerful was his brow. 
 
 No gentle friend, to soothe his pain, 
 Sat near lord Hubert's bed ; 
 
 His friends and servants, light and vain, 
 From scenes of sorrow fled. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 187 
 
 But when on William's honest head 
 
 Time scattered silver hairs, 
 His wife and children, round his bed, 
 
 Partook and soothed his cares. 
 
 The solemn hearse, the waving plume, 
 
 A train of mourners grim, 
 Carried lord Hubert to the tomb, 
 
 But no one cared for him. 
 
 No weeping eye, no gentle breast, 
 
 Lamented his decay, 
 Nor round his costly coffin pressed, 
 
 To gaze upon his clay. 
 
 But when upon his dying bed 
 
 Old William came to lie, 
 When clammy sweats had chilled his head, 
 
 And death had dimmed his eye ; 
 
 Sweet tears, by fond affection dropped, 
 
 From many an eyelid fell, 
 And many a lip, by anguish stopped, 
 
 Half spoke the sad farewell. 
 
 No marble pile, nor costly tomb, 
 
 Describes where William sleeps ; 
 But there wild thyme and cowslips bloom, 
 
 And there affection weeps. ann. 
 
188 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 BALL. 
 
 My good little fellow, do n't throw your ball there, 
 
 You '11 break neighbor's windows, I know ; 
 On the end of the house there is room and to spare : 
 Go round, you can have a delightful game there, 
 Without fearing for where you may throw. 
 
 Harry thought he might safely continue his play, 
 
 With a little more care than before ; 
 So forgetful of all that his father could say, 
 As soon as he saw he was out of the way, 
 
 He resolved to have fifty throws more. 
 
 Already as far as to forty he rose, 
 
 And no mischief happened at all ; 
 One more, and one more, he successfully throws, 
 But when, as he thought, just arrived at the close, 
 
 In popped his unfortunate ball. 
 
 Poor Harry stood frightened, and turning about, 
 
 Was gazing at what he had done ; 
 As the ball had popped in, so neighbor popped out, 
 And with a good horsewhip he beat him about, 
 
 Till Harry repented his fun. 
 
 When little folks think they know better than great, 
 
 And what is forbidden them do ; 
 We must always expect to see, sooner or late, 
 That such wise little fools have a similar fate, 
 
 And that one of the fifty goes through. ann. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 189 
 
 THE FOX AND THE CROW. 
 
 The fox and the crow, 
 
 In prose I well know 
 Many good little girls can rehearse ; 
 
 Perhaps it will tell 
 
 Pretty nearly as well, 
 If we try the same fable in verse. 
 
 In a dairy a crow 
 
 Having ventured to go, 
 Some food for her young ones to seek, 
 
 Flew up in the trees, 
 
 With a fine piece of cheese, 
 Which she joyfully held in her beak. 
 
 A fox who lived nigh, 
 
 To the tree saw her fly, 
 And to share in the prize made a vow ! 
 
 For having just dined, 
 
 He for cheese felt inclined, 
 So he went and sat under the bough, 
 
 She was cunning, he knew, 
 
 But so was he too, 
 And with flattery adapted his plan ; 
 
 For he knew if she 'd speak, 
 
 It must fall from her beak, 
 So bowing politely, began : 
 
 ' 'T is a very fine day ; ' 
 ( Not a word did she say ;) 
 4 The wind, I believe, ma'am, is south ; 
 
190 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 A fine harvest for pease : ' 
 He then looked at the cheese, 
 But the Crow did n't open her mouth. 
 
 Sly Reynard, not tired, 
 
 Her plumage admired, 
 ' How charming ! how brilliant its hue ! 
 
 The voice must be fine 
 
 Of a bird so divine, 
 Ah ! let me just hear it — pray do. 
 
 ' Believe me, I long 
 
 To hear a sweet song.' 
 The silly crow foolishly tries. 
 
 She scarce gave one squall, 
 
 When the cheese she let fall, 
 And the fox ran away with the prize. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Ye innocent fair, 
 
 Of coxcombs beware, 
 To flattery never give ear ; 
 
 Try well each pretence, 
 
 And keep to plain sense, 
 And then ve have little to fear. 
 
 LITTLE D. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S WISH. 
 
 May cloudless beams of grace and truth 
 Adorn my daughter's opening youth ; 
 Long, happy in her native home, 
 Among its fragrant groves to roam. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 191 
 
 May choicest blessings her attend, 
 Blessed in her parents, sisters, friend ! 
 May no rude wish assail her breast, 
 To love this world, by all confessed 
 As only given us to prepare 
 For one eternal, bright, and fair. 
 This world shall then no force retain, 
 Its syren voice shall charm in vain ; 
 Religion's aid true peace shall bring, 
 Her voice with joy shall praises sing, 
 To him whose streams of mercy flow 
 To cheer the heart o'ercharged with wo ; 
 And whilst retirement's sweets we prove, 
 For ever praise redeeming love. 
 
 WRITTEN AT BARMING. 
 
 TO MARIA. 
 
 How happy the days of your youth, 
 Instructed in virtue and truth, 
 
 By the parents you love and revere. 
 Your dwelling is healthy and neat, 
 Of sisters so dear the retreat, 
 
 And of neighbors abundance are near. 
 
 Oh think whence these blessings arise, 
 From a being so gracioifs and wise. 
 
 And should they by him be withdrawn; 
 Should every degree of distress, 
 My dearest of daughters oppress, 
 
 When torn from the sweet verdant lawn , 
 
192 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 From what must she then seek relief, 
 When her mind is disturbed with grief, 
 
 But from God who but chastens to bless ? 
 Fine garments, rich food, and bright wine, 
 With which the voluptuous dine, 
 
 Enervate beyond all redress. 
 
 In the sad sober moments of wo, 
 Which each mortal is destined to know, 
 
 With joy will a Christian perceive, 
 That life as a vision recedes, 
 That faith rendered bright by good deeds, 
 
 A blessed reward will receive. 
 
 Should you as a mother or wife, 
 Be called on to act in this life, 
 
 Oh ! strive every virtue to trace : 
 On the minds you may have to attend, 
 Join at once the kind mother and friend, 
 
 And pray for their virtue and grace. 
 
 WRITTEN AT BARMING. 
 
 THE SNAIL. 
 
 The snail, how he creeps slowly over the wall, 
 He seems not to make any progress at all, 
 
 About where you leave him you find him : 
 His long shining body he stretches out well, 
 And drags along with him his round hollow shell, 
 
 And leaves a bright path- way behind him. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 193 
 
 Do look, said young Tom, at that lazy old snail, 
 He 's almost an hour crawling over a pale, 
 
 Enough all one's patience to worry ; 
 Now, if I were he, I would gallop away, 
 Half over the world — twenty miles in a day, 
 
 And turn business off in a hurry. 
 
 Well, Tom, said his father, but as 1 'm afraid 
 That into a snail you can never be made, 
 
 But still must remain a young master: 
 As such sort of wishes can nothing avail, 
 Take a hint for yourself from your jokes on the snail, 
 
 And do your own work rather faster. j. t. 
 
 THE HOLYDAYS. 
 
 Ah ! do n't you remember 't is almost December, 
 And soon will the holydays come ? 
 
 O ! 't will be so funny, I 've plenty of money, 
 I '11 buy me a sword and a drum. 
 
 Thus said little Harry, unwilling to tarry, 
 
 Impatient to hurry from school ; 
 But we shall discover, this holyday-lover 
 
 Spoke both like a child and a fool. 
 
 For when he alighted, so highly delighted, 
 
 Away from his sums and his books, 
 Though playthings surrounded, and sweetmeats 
 abounded, 
 Chagrin still appeared in his looks. 
 vol. v. 17 
 
194 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Though first they delighted, his toys were now slighted, 
 
 And thrown away out of his sight ; 
 He spent every morning in stretching and yawning, 
 
 Yet went to bed weary at night. 
 
 He had not that treasure which really makes pleasure, 
 
 (A secret discovered by few,) 
 You '11 take it for granted, more playthings he wanted, 
 
 O no — it was something to do. 
 
 He found that employment created enjoyment, 
 
 And passed the time cheerful away ; 
 That study and reading, by far were exceeding 
 
 His cakes, and his toys, and his play. 
 
 To school now returning, to study and learning, 
 
 With pleasure did Harry apply ; 
 He felt no aversion to books, 't was diversion, 
 
 And caused him to smile, not to sigh. 
 
 OLD SARAH. 
 
 With haggard eye and wrinkled face, 
 Old Sarah goes, with tott'ring pace, 
 
 From door to door to beg ; 
 With gypsy hat and tattered gown, 
 And petticoat of dirty brown, 
 
 And many-colored leg. 
 
 No blazing fire, no cheerful home, 
 She wanders comfortless and lone, 
 While winds and tempests blow ; 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 195 
 
 And every traveller passing by, 
 She follows with a doleful cry, 
 Of poverty and wo. 
 
 But see ! her arm no basket bears, 
 With laces gay and wooden wares, 
 
 And garters, blue and red ; 
 To stroll about and drink her gin, 
 She loves far better than to spin, 
 
 Or work to earn her bread. 
 
 Old Sarah every body knows, 
 Nor is she pitied as she goes, 
 
 A melancholy sight ; 
 For people do not like to give 
 Their alms to those who idle live, 
 
 And won't work when they might. j. t. 
 
 OLD SUSAN. 
 
 Old Susan, in a cottage small, 
 
 Though low the roof, and mud the wall, 
 
 And goods a scanty store, 
 Enjoys within her peaceful shed, 
 Her wholesome crust of barley bread, 
 
 Nor does she covet more. 
 
 Though old and feeble she must feel, 
 She daily plies her spinningwheel, 
 
 Within her cottage gate ; 
 And thus with industry and care, 
 Though low her purse and hard her fare, 
 
 She envies not the great. 
 
196 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 A decent gown she always wears, 
 Though many an ancient patch it bears, 
 
 And many a one that 's new : 
 No dirt is seen within her door, 
 Red sand she sprinkles on the floor, 
 
 As tidy people do 
 
 Old Susan every body knew, 
 And every one respected, too, 
 
 Her industry and care ; 
 And when in sickness or in wo, 
 Her neighbors gladly would bestow 
 
 The little they could spare. j. t. 
 
 THE GLEANER. 
 
 Before the bright sun rises over the hill, 
 
 In the cornfield poor Mary is seen, 
 Impatient her little blue apron to fill 
 
 With the few scattered ears she can glean. 
 
 She never leaves on; nor runs out of her place, 
 
 To play, or to idle, and chat ; 
 Except now and then just to wipe her hot face, 
 
 And fan herself with her broad hat. 
 
 ' Poor girl, hard at work in the heat of the sun, 
 
 How tired and hot you must be : 
 Why do n't you leave off as the others have done, 
 
 And sit with them under the tree ? \ 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 197 
 
 c Oh no ! for my mother lies ill in her bed, 
 
 Too feeble to spin or to knit ; 
 And my poor little brothers are crying for bread, 
 
 And yet we can 't give them a bit ? 
 
 < Then could I be merry, and idle, and play, 
 
 While they are so hungry and ill ? 
 O no, I had rather work hard all the day, 
 
 My little blue apron to fill.' 
 
 SNOW. 
 
 O come to the window, dear brother, and see, 
 What mischief was done in the night ; 
 
 The snow has quite covered the nice apple-tree, 
 And the bushes are sprinkled with white. 
 
 The spring in the grove is beginning to freeze, 
 
 The pond is hard frozen all o'er ; 
 Long icicles hang in bright rows from the trees, 
 
 And drop in odd shapes from the door. 
 
 The old mossy thatch, and the meadows so green, 
 
 Are covered all over with white ; 
 The snow-drop and crocus no more can be seen, 
 
 The thick snow has covered them quite. 
 
 And see the poor birds how they fly to and fro, 
 They 're come for their breakfast again ; 
 
 But the little worms all are hid under the snow, 
 They hop about chirping in vain. 
 17 
 
198 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Then open the window, I '11 throw them some bread, 
 
 I 've some of my breakfast to spare : 
 I wish they would come to my hand to be fed, 
 
 But they 're all flown away, I declare. 
 
 Nay, now, pretty birds, do n't be frightened, I pray, 
 
 You shall not be hurt I '11 engage ; 
 I 'm not come to catch you and force you away, 
 
 And fasten you up in a cage. 
 
 I wish you could know you 've no cause for alarm, 
 
 From me you have nothing to fear ; 
 Why, my little fingers could do you no harm, 
 
 Although you came ever so near. j. t. 
 
 THE PIGS. 
 
 Do look 4 at those pigs as they lay in the straw, 
 
 Little Richard said to his pa ; — 
 They keep eating longer than ever I saw, 
 
 What nasty fat gluttons they are. 
 
 I see they are feasting, his father replied, 
 
 They eat a great deal, I allow : 
 But let us remember, before we deride, 
 
 'T is the nature, my dear, of a sow. 
 
 But when a great boy, such as you, my dear Dick, 
 
 Does nothing but eat all the day, 
 And keeps sucking good things till he makes himself sick, 
 
 What a glutton ! indeed, w 7 e may say. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 199 
 
 When plumcake and sugar for ever he picks, 
 
 And sweetmeats and comfits, and figs ; 
 Pray let him get rid of his own nasty tricks, 
 
 And then he may laugh at the pigs. j. t. 
 
 FINERY. 
 
 In a frock neatly trimmed with a beautiful lace, 
 And hair nicely dressed, hanging over her face, 
 Thus decked, Harriet went to the house of a friend, 
 With a large little party the evening to spend. 
 
 Ah ! how they will all be delighted, I guess, 
 And stare with surprise at my elegant dress ; 
 Thus said the vain girl, and her little heart beat, 
 Impatient the happy young party to meet. 
 
 But alas ! they were all too intent on their fun, 
 To observe the gay clothes this fine lady had on ; 
 And thus all her trouble quite lost its design, 
 For they saw she was proud, but forgot she was fine. 
 
 T was Lucy, though only in simple white clad, 
 (Nor trimmings, nor laces, nor jewels she had) 
 Whose cheerful good-nature delighted them more, 
 Than all the fine garments that Harriet wore. 
 
 'T is better to have a sweet smile on one's face, 
 Than to wear a rich frock with an elegant lace, 
 For the good-natured girl is loved best in the main 
 If her dress is but decent, though ever so plain. j. t. 
 
200 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 CRAZY ROBERT. 
 
 Poor Robert is crazy — his hair is turned gray, 
 
 His beard is grown long, and hangs down to Ins breast ; 
 
 Misfortune has taken his reason away, 
 
 His heart has no comfort, his head has no rest. 
 
 Poor man, it would please me to soften thy woes, 
 To soothe thy affliction, and yield thee support : 
 
 But see, through the village, wherever he goes, 
 The cruel boys follow, and turn him to sport. 
 
 'T is grievous to see how the pitiless mob 
 
 Run round him and mimic his mournful complaint, 
 
 And try to provoke him, and call him old Bob, 
 And hunt him about till he 's ready to faint. 
 
 But ah ! wicked children, I fear they forget 
 That God does their cruel diversion behold ; 
 
 And that in his book dreadful curses are writ, 
 
 For those who shall mock at the poor and the old. 
 
 Poor Robert, thy troubles will shortly be o'er, 
 Forgot in the grave thy misfortunes will be ; 
 
 But God will his vengeance assuredly pour 
 
 On those wicked children who persecute thee. j. t. 
 
 EMPLOYMENT. 
 
 Who 'll come and play with me here under the tree, 
 
 My sisters have left me alone ; 
 My sweet little Sparrow, come hither to me, 
 
 And play with me while they are gone. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 201 
 
 no, little lady, I can 't come, indeed, 
 I 've no time to idle away, 
 
 1 Ve got all my dear little children to feed, 
 And my nest to new cover with hay. 
 
 Pretty Bee, do not buzz about over the flower, 
 
 But come here and play with me, do : 
 The Sparrow won't come and stay with me an hour, 
 
 But stay, pretty Bee — will not you ? 
 
 no, little lady, for do not you see, 
 Those must work who would prosper and thrive, 
 
 If I play, they would call me a sad idle bee, 
 And perhaps turn me out of the hive. 
 
 Stop ! stop ! little Ant — do not run off so fast, 
 Wait with me a little and play : 
 
 1 hope I shall rind a companion at last, 
 You are not so busy as they. 
 
 no, little lady, I can 't stay with you, 
 We 're not made to play, but to labor: 
 
 1 always have something or other to do, 
 If not for myself, for a neighbor. 
 
 What then, have they all some employment but me, 
 
 
 Who lay lounging here like a dunce ? 
 O then, like the Ant, and the Sparrow, and Bee, 
 I '11 go to my lesson at once. j. t. 
 
202 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 THE FIGHTING BIRDS. 
 
 Two little birds, in search of food, 
 
 Flew o'er the fields, and skimmed the flood, 
 
 At last a worm they spy ; 
 But who should take the prize they strove, 
 Their quarrel sounded through the grove, 
 
 In notes both shrill and high. 
 
 But now a hawk, whose piercing sight 
 
 Had marked his prey, and watched their fight, 
 
 With certain aim descended : 
 And pouncing on their furious strife, 
 He stopped their battle with their life, 
 
 And so the war was ended. 
 
 Thus, when in discord brothers live, 
 And frequent bJows of anger give, 
 
 With hate their bosoms rending ; 
 In life, with rogues perchance they meet, 
 To take advantage of their heat, 
 
 Their lives in sorrow ending. j. t. 
 
 CREATION. 
 
 Come, child, look upwards to the sky, 
 
 Behold the sun and moon, 
 Th' expanse of stars that sparkle high, 
 
 To cheer the midnight gloom. 
 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 203 
 
 Come, child, and now behold the earth 
 
 In varied beauty stand : 
 The product view of six days' birth, 
 
 How wond'rous and how grand ! 
 
 The fields, the meadows, and the plain, 
 
 The little laughing hills, 
 The waters too, the mighty main, 
 
 The rivers and the rills. 
 
 Come then, behold them all and say, 
 
 1 How came these things to be ? 
 That stand before, which ever way 
 
 I turn myself to see ?' 
 
 'T was God who made the earth and sea, 
 
 To whom the angels bow ; 
 'T was God who made both thee and me, 
 
 The God who sees us now. J. t. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Hark ! 't is the tempest's hollow sound / 
 The bursting thunder and the rain, 
 
 While dense and heavy clouds unbound, 
 In torrents fall upon the plain. 
 
 See too the lightning's vivid flash, 
 In quick succession fire the sky ; 
 
 All form a universal crash 
 Of elements at enmitv. 
 
204 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 The solid earth, as if with fear, 
 Trembles beneath the mighty War : 
 
 The waters, too, in mountains rear, 
 Loosed from the yoke of nature's law. 
 
 Behold the bellowing herds the heath 
 Forsake with haste, for shelter fled ; 
 
 While shepherds fly, with panting breath, 
 In equal speed and greater dread. 
 
 And see yon ancient massive oak, 
 The forest's pride, for ages stood, 
 
 Its sturdy stem in shivers broke, 
 
 Its head driv'n downwards in the flood. 
 
 Tossed by the waves, the wretched bark 
 
 Alternate see it sink and rise ; 
 Now fixed on rocks, a shattered mark 
 
 For furious winds and billows, lies. 
 
 In vain the drowning sailors cry, 
 
 Their shrieks are lost while thunders roar ; 
 
 In vain their moans, no help is nigh, 
 Or ship or hospitable shore. 
 
 And does this tempest rage in vain ? 
 
 And does no power, with potent arm, 
 Its fury suffer or restrain, 
 
 From injuring hold, or guide the harm? 
 
 Ah yes — a power indeed presides — 
 Yes, there 's a potent Being reigns ; 
 
 Above the storm the Almighty rides — 
 These awful scenes 't is he ordains. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 205 
 
 Then calm each fear, and silent stand 
 
 To learn his wisdom and his care, 
 The flash, unloosed from out his hand, 
 
 Proclaims in thunder — God is there. j. t. 
 
 ADDRESS TO AN INFANT. 
 
 Welcome, happy little stranger, 
 
 To this busy world of care ! 
 Nothing can thy peace endanger, 
 
 Nothing now thy steps ensnare- 
 Precious Babe ! thou art excluded 
 
 From all thought of trouble near ; 
 No distress has yet intruded, 
 
 Keen remorse, nor restless fear. 
 
 Innocence and peace attend thee ! 
 
 Balmy slumbers now are thine — 
 Every change to thee is friendly : 
 
 Love and Joy around thee shine. 
 
 Yet, alas ! behind the curtain, 
 Tribulation veils her form ; 
 
 Disappointment's stamp is certain ; 
 Virtue only shields from harm. 
 
 Now a mother's care is wanted ; 
 All thy cravings are supplied ; 
 All thy infant claims are granted ; 
 
 Not one comfort is denied. 
 vol. v. 18 
 
206 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 How her bosom pants with pleasure I 
 All her feelings are awake : 
 
 Gladly would she, little treasure, 
 All thy pains and sufferings take. 
 
 Mayst thou, if designed by heaven 
 Future days and years to see, 
 
 Soothe her, make her passage even, 
 Let her heart rejoice in thee ! 
 
 May her anxious care and labors 
 
 Be repaid by filial love ; 
 And thy soul be crowned with favors 
 
 From the boundless source above. 
 
 TURNIP TOPS. 
 
 While yet the white frost sparkles over the ground, 
 And daylight just peeps from the misty blue sky, 
 
 In yonder green fields, with my basket I 'm found ; 
 Come buy my sweet turnip tops — turnip tops buy. 
 
 Sadly cold are my fingers, all drenched with the dew, 
 For the sun has scarce risen the meadows to dry, 
 
 And my feet have got wet with a hole in my shoe, 
 Come haste then, and buy my sweet turnip tops, buy 
 
 While you were asleep with your bed curtains drawn, 
 On pillows of down, in your chambers so high, 
 
 I tripped with the first rosy beam of the morn 
 
 To cull the green tops — come, my turnip tops buy. 
 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 207 
 
 Then, with the few halfpence or pence I can earn, 
 A loaf for my poor mammy's breakfast I '11 buy : 
 
 And to-morrow again, little Ann shall return 
 
 With turnip tops green and fresh gathered, to cry. 
 
 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. ' 
 
 ■ But mamma, now,' said Charlotte, ' pray do n't you 
 believe 
 
 That I 'm better than Jenny, my nurse ? 
 Only see my red shoes, and the lace on my sleeve ; 
 
 Her clothes are a thousand times worse. 
 
 I ride in a coach, and have nothing to do, 
 
 And the country folks stare at me so : 
 And nobody dares to control me but you, 
 Because I 'm a lady, you know. 
 
 < Then servants are vulgar, and I am genteel, 
 
 They are creatures that nobody knows, 
 So I 'm sure now, mamma, that I 'm better a deal, 
 
 Than maids, and such people as those.' 
 
 1 True gentility, Charlotte,' her mother replied, 
 
 1 Is confined to no station or place, 
 And nothing 's so vulgar as folly and pride, 
 
 Though dressed in red slippers and lace. 
 
 ' Not all the fine things that fine ladies possess, 
 Should teach them the poor to despise, 
 
 For 't is in good manners, and not in good dress, 
 That the truest gentility lies.' 
 
208 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 THE HORSE. 
 
 A horse, long used to bit and bridle, 
 But always much disposed to idle, 
 Had often wished that he was able 
 To steal unnoticed from the stable. 
 
 He panted, from his inmost soul, 
 To be at nobody's control, 
 Go his own pace, slower or faster, 
 In short, do nothing — like his master. 
 
 But yet, he ne'er had got at large, 
 If Jack (who had him in his charge) 
 Had not, as many have before, 
 Forgot to shut the stable door. 
 
 Dobbin, with expectation swelling, 
 Now rose to quit his present dwelling, 
 But first peeped out, with cautious fear, 
 T' examine if the coast was clear. 
 
 At length he ventured from his station, 
 And with extreme self-approbation, 
 As if delivered from a load, 
 He galloped to the public road. 
 
 And here he stood awhile debating, 
 (Till he was almost tired of waiting) 
 Which way he 'd please to bend his course, 
 Now there was nobody to force. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 209 
 
 At last, unchecked by bit or rein, 
 He sauntered down a pleasant lane, 
 And neighed forth many a jocund song, 
 In triumph as he passed along. 
 
 But when dark night began t' appear, 
 In vain he sought some shelter near, 
 And he was sure he could not bear 
 To sleep out in the open air. 
 
 The grass felt very damp and raw, 
 Much colder than his master's straw, 
 Yet on it lie was forced to stretch, 
 A poor, cold, melancholy wretch. 
 
 The night was dark, the country hilly. 
 Poor Dobbin feh extremely chilly; 
 Perhaps a feeling 'ike remorse, 
 Just now might sting the gentle horse. 
 
 As soon as day began to dawn, 
 Dobbin, with lomr am ] weary yawn, 
 Arose from this his sleepless night, 
 But in low spirits and bad plight. 
 
 If this (thought he) is all I get 
 A bed unwholesome, cold, and wet ; 
 And thus forlorn about to roam, 
 I think I 'd better be at home. 
 
 'T was long ere Dobbin could decide, 
 Betwixt his wishes and his pride, 
 Whether to live in all this danger, 
 Or go back sneaking to the manger. 
 18* 
 
210 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 At last his struggling pride gave way.; 
 The thought of savory oats and hay 
 To hungry stomach, was a reason 
 Unanswerable at this season. 
 
 So off he set, with look profound, 
 
 Right glad that he was homeward bound ; 
 
 And trotting fast as he was able, 
 
 Soon gained once more his master's stable. 
 
 Now Dobbin, after this disaster, 
 Never again forsook his master, 
 Convinced 't was best to let him mount, 
 Than travelling on his own account 
 
 MEDDLESOME MATTY. 
 
 Oh, how one ugly trick has spoiled 
 The sweetest and the best ! 
 
 Matilda, though a pleasant child, 
 One ugly trick possessed. 
 
 Which, like a cloud before the skies, 
 
 Hid all her better qualities. 
 
 Sometimes she 'd lift the tea-pot lid, 
 To peep at what was in it ; 
 
 Or tilt the kettle, if you did 
 But turn your back a minute. 
 
 In vain you told her not to touch, 
 
 Her trick of meddling grew so much. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 211 
 
 Her grandmamma went out one day, 
 
 And by mistake she laid 
 Her spectacles and snuff-box gay 
 
 Too near the little maid ; 
 Ah ! well, thought she, I '11 try them on, 
 As soon as grandmamma is gone. 
 
 Forthwith she placed upon her nose 
 
 The glasses, large and wide : 
 And looking round, as I suppose, 
 
 The snuff-box too she spied. 
 
 what a pretty box is this, 
 
 1 '11 open it, said little miss. 
 
 I know that grandmamma would say, 
 
 Do n't meddle with it, dear: 
 But then, she 's far enough away, 
 
 And no one else is near ; 
 Beside, what can there be amiss 
 In opening such a box as this? 
 
 So thumb and finger went to work 
 
 To move the stubborn lid ; 
 And presently, a mighty jirk 
 
 The mighty mischief did ; 
 For all at once, ah ! woful case, 
 The snuff came puffing in her face ! 
 
 Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth, and chin, 
 
 A dismal sight presented ; 
 And as the snuff got further in, 
 
 Sincerely she repented. 
 In vain she ran about for ease, 
 She could do nothing else but sneeze ! 
 
212 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 She dashed the spectacles away, 
 To wipe her tingling eyes: 
 
 And as in twenty bits they lay, 
 Her grandmamma, she spies. 
 
 Hey day ! and what 's the matter now? 
 
 Cried grandmamma, with lifted brow. 
 
 Matilda, smarting with the pain, 
 And tingling still, and sore, 
 
 Made many a promise, to refrain 
 From meddling evermore ; 
 
 And 't is a fact, as I have heard, 
 
 She ever since has kept her word. 
 
 THE LAST DYING SPEECH AND CONFESSION 
 OF POOR PUSS. 
 
 Kind masters and misses, whoever yon be, 
 Do stop for a moment, and pity poor me ; 
 While here on my death-bed I try to relate 
 3Iy many misfortunes, and miseries great. 
 
 My dear mother Tabby, I 've often heard say, 
 That I have been a very fine cat in my day ; 
 But the sorrows in which my whole life has been 
 Have spoiled all my beauty, and killed me at last. 
 
 Poor thoughtless young thing ! if I recollect right, 
 I was kittened in March on a clear frosty night ; 
 And before I could see, or was half a week old, 
 I nearly had perished, the barn was so cold. 
 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 213 
 
 But this chilly spring, I got pretty well over, 
 And moused in the hayloft, or played in the clover ; 
 And when this displeased me, or mousing was stale, 
 I used to run round and round, after my tail. 
 
 But ah ! my poor tail and my pretty sleek ears ! 
 The farmer's boy cut them all off with his shears ; 
 And little I thought, when I licked them so clean, 
 I should be such a figure, not fit to be seen. 
 
 Some time after this, when my sores were all healed, 
 As I laid in the sun, sound asleep, in a field, 
 Miss Fanny crept slily, and griping me fast, 
 Declared she had caught the sweet creature at last. 
 
 Ah ! me, how I struggled my freedom to gain, 
 But alas! all my kicking and scratching w r ere vain, 
 For she held me so tight in her pin-a-fore tied, 
 That before she got home I had like to have died. 
 
 From this dreadful morning my sorrows arose ; 
 Wherever I went I was followed with blows ; 
 Some kicked me for nothing while quietly sleeping, 
 Or flogged me for daring the pantry to peep in. 
 
 And then the great dog ! I shall never forget him ; 
 How many 's the time Master Jacky would set him, 
 And while I stood terrified, all of a quake, 
 Cried * Hey cat ; and seize her boy, give her a shake.' 
 
 Sometimes, when so hungry I could not forbear 
 Just taking a scrap, that I thought they could spare, 
 Oh ! what I have suffered with beating and banging, 
 Or starved for a fortnight, or threatened with hanging. 
 
 i 
 
214 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 But kicking, and beating, and starving, and that, 
 I 've borne with a spirit becoming a cat ; 
 There was but one thing which I could not sustain, 
 So great was my sorrow, so hopeless my pain. 
 
 One morning, safe hid in a warm little bed, 
 That down in the stable I 'd carefully spread, 
 Three sweet little kittens as ever you saw, 
 I concealed, as I thought, in some trusses of straw. 
 
 I was never so happy, I think, nor so proud, 
 I mewed to my kittens, and purred out aloud ; 
 And thought with delight of the merry carousing, 
 We 'd have, when I first took them with me a mousing. 
 
 But how shall I tell you the sorrowful ditty, 
 I 'm sure it would melt even Growler to pity, 
 For the very next morning my darlings I found, 
 Lying dead by the horse-pond, all mangled and drown'd ! 
 
 Poor darlings ! I dragged them along to the stable, 
 And did all to warm them a mother was able, 
 But alas ! all my licking and mewing were vain, 
 And I thought I should ne'er have been happy again. 
 
 However, time gave me a little relief, 
 And mousing diverted the thoughts of my grief, 
 And at last I began to be gay and contented, 
 Till one dreadful morning, forever repented. 
 
 Miss Fanny was fond of a favorite sparrow, 
 And often I longed for a taste of its marrow ; 
 So, not having eaten a morsel all day, 
 I flew to the bird-cage and tore it away. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 215 
 
 Now tell me, kind friends, was the like ever heard, 
 That a cat should be killed just for catching a bird ? 
 And I 'm sure, not the slightest suspicion I had, 
 But that catching a mouse was exactly as bad. 
 
 Indeed, I can say with my paw on my heart, 
 
 I would not have acted a mischievous part ; 
 
 But as dear mother Tabby was often repeating, 
 
 I thought birds and mice were on purpose for eating. 
 
 Be this as it may, with the noise of its squeaking, 
 Miss Fanny came in while my whiskers were reeking, 
 And on my poor back the hot poker flying, 
 She gave me those bruises of which I am dying. 
 
 But I feel that my breathing grows shorter apace, 
 And cold clammy sweats trickle down from my face : 
 I forgive little Fanny this bruise on my side ; 
 She stopped, gave a sigh, and a struggle, and died ! 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 No longer the beautiful day. 
 
 Shines over the landscape so light; 
 The shadows of evening gray 
 
 Are closed in the darkness of night: 
 The din of employment is o 'er, 
 
 Not a sound nor a whisper is heard ; 
 The wagon bell tinkles no more, 
 
 And still is the song of the bird. 
 
216 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 The landscape, once blooming so fair, 
 
 With a garment of flowers o'erspread ; 
 The landscape indeed is still there, 
 
 But all its fair colors are fled. 
 The sun sinking under the hill, 
 
 No longer shoots bright to the earth ; 
 The bustle of business is still, 
 
 And hushed is the clamor of mirth. 
 
 The busy hand, busy no more, 
 
 Is sunk from its labors to rest ; 
 Closed tight every window and door, 
 
 Where once the gay passengers pressed, 
 The houses of frolic and fun 
 
 Are empty, and dreary, and dark ; 
 The din of the coaches is done, 
 
 And the tired horse rests from his work. 
 
 Just such is the season of death, 
 
 Which comes upon each of us fast; 
 The bosom can 't flutter with breath, 
 
 When life's little daytime is past. 
 The blood freezes cold in its vein, 
 
 The heart sinks forever to rest ; 
 Not a fancy flits over the brain, 
 
 Nor a sigh finds its way from the breast. 
 
 The tongue stiff and silent is grown, 
 
 The pale lips move never again ; 
 The smile and the dimple are flown, 
 
 And the voice both of pleasure and pain. 
 Clay cold the once feverish head, 
 
 The bright eye is sullen and dark ; 
 For death's gloomy shadows have spread 
 
 That night in which no man can work. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 217 
 
 But as from the silence and gloom, 
 
 Another gay morning shall rise, 
 So, bursting awake from the tomb, 
 
 We shall mount far away to the skies. 
 And those, who with meekness and prayer 
 
 In the paths of religion have trod, 
 Shall worship all glorious there, 
 
 Among the archangels of God. 
 
 
 DAY. 
 
 The sun rises bright in the air, 
 
 The dews of the morning are dry, 
 Men and beasts to their labors repair, 
 
 And the lark wings his way to the sky : 
 Now fresh from his moss-dappled shed, 
 
 The husbandman trudges along, 
 And like the lark over his head, 
 
 Begins the new day with a song. 
 
 Just now all around was so still, 
 
 Not a bird drew his head from his wing ; 
 Not an echo was heard from the hill, 
 
 Not a water-fly dipped in the spring; 
 Now, every thing wakes from its sleep, 
 
 The shepherd boy pipes to his flock, 
 The common is speckled with sheep, 
 
 And cheerfully clamors the cock. 
 
 Now, winding along on the road 
 Half hid by the hedges so gay, 
 
 The wagon drags slow with its load, 
 And its bells tinkle, tinkle, away. 
 
 VOL. V. 19 
 
218 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 The husbandman follows his plough, 
 Across the brown fallow field's slope, 
 
 And toils in the sweat of his brow, 
 Repaid by the pleasures of hope. 
 
 The city, so noisy and wide, 
 
 Begins to look smoky and gray, 
 Now business, and pleasure, and pride, 
 
 March each in a different way. 
 My lord, and my lady so fair, 
 
 The merchant, with dignified look, 
 And all to their business repair, 
 
 From the nobleman down to his cook. 
 
 For the dews of the morning have flown, 
 
 And the sun rises bright in the sky ; 
 Alike in the field and the town, 
 
 Men and beasts to their labor apply, 
 And idle no hand must remain, 
 
 Nor eye sink in slumber so dark, 
 For evening is coming again, 
 
 And the night, in which no man can work. 
 
 And what is our life but a day ? 
 
 A short one that soon will be o'er ; 
 Without stopping it gallops away, 
 
 And will never return any more ! 
 Then while its bright beamings we have, 
 
 Let us keep its grand business in view, 
 Before our sun sets in the grave, 
 
 Which we know not how soon it may do. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 219 
 
 DEAF MARTHA. 
 
 Poor Martha is old, and her hair is turned gray, 
 And her hearing has left her this many long year ; 
 
 Ten to one if she knows what it is that you say, 
 Though she puts her poor wither'd hand close to her ear. 
 
 I Ve seen naughty children run after her fast, 
 And cry ' Martha, run, there 's a bullock so bold,' 
 
 And when she was frightened, laugh at her at last, 
 Because she believed the sad stories they told. 
 
 I Ve seen others put their mouths close to her ear, 
 And make signs as if they had something to say : 
 
 And when she said, 'Master, I 'm deaf and can't hear,' 
 Point at her, and mock her, and scamper away. 
 
 Ah ! wicked the children, poor Martha to tease, 
 As if she had not enough else to endure ; 
 
 They rather should try her affliction to ease, 
 And soothe a disorder that nothing can cure. 
 
 One day, when those children themselves are grown old, 
 And one may be deaf, and another be lame ; 
 
 Perhaps they may find, that sonic children as bold, 
 May tease them, and mock them, and serve them the 
 same. 
 
 Then, when they reflect on the days of their youth, 
 They '11 think of poor Martha, and all that they said, 
 
 And remember with shame and repentance the truth, 
 * That all wicked actions are surely repaid? 
 
220 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 THE PIN. 
 
 1 Dear me ! what signifies a pin, 
 Wedged in a rotten board ? 
 
 I 'm certain that I won't begin, 
 At ten years old to hoard ! 
 
 I never will be called a miser, 
 
 That I 'm determined,' said Eliza. 
 
 So onward tripped the little maid, 
 
 And left the pin behind, 
 Which very snug and quiet laid, 
 
 To its hard fate resigned ; 
 Nor did she think (a careless chit) 
 5 T was worth her while to stoop for it. 
 
 Next day a party was to ride 
 
 To see an air balloon ; 
 And all the company beside, 
 
 Were dressed and ready soon, 
 But she a woful case was in, 
 For want of just a single pin! 
 
 In vain her eager eye she brings 
 
 To every darksome crack, 
 There was not one ! and all her things 
 
 Were dropping off her back. 
 She cut her pincushion in two, 
 But no ! not one had slidden through. 
 
 At last, as hunting on the floor 
 
 Over a crack she lay, 
 The carnage rattled to the door, 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 221 
 
 Then rattled fast away ; 
 But poor Eliza was not in, 
 For want of just — a single pin. 
 
 There 's hardly any thing so small, 
 
 So trifling or so mean, 
 That we may never want at all, 
 
 For service unforeseen ; 
 And wilful waste, depend upon 't, 
 Is, almost always, woful want ! 
 
 THE LITTLE BIRD'S COMPLAINT TO HIS 
 MISTRESS. 
 
 Here in the wiry prison, where I sing, 
 
 And think of sweet green woods, and long to fly : 
 
 Unable once to stretch my feeble wing, 
 Or wave my feathers in the clear blue sky. 
 
 Day after day the selfsame things I see, 
 
 The cold white ceiling, and tbis wiry bouse ; 
 Ah ! how unlike my healthy native tree, 
 
 Rocked by the winds that whistle through the boughs. 
 
 Mild spring returning, strews the ground with flowers, 
 And hangs sweet May-buds on the hedges gay; 
 
 But no warm sunshine cheers my gloomy hours, 
 Nor kind companion twitters on the spray! 
 
 Oh! how I long to stretch my weary wings, 
 
 And fly away as far as I can see ; 
 And from the topmost bough, where Robin sings, 
 
 Pour my wild songs, and be as blithe as he. 
 19* 
 
222 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Why was I taken from the waving nest ? 
 
 From fiow'ry fields, wide woods and hedges green, 
 Torn from my tender mother's downy breast, 
 
 In this sad prisonhouse to die unseen ! 
 
 Why must I hear, in summer evenings fine, 
 A thousand happier birds in merry choirs ? 
 
 And I, poor lonely I, forbid to join, 
 
 Caged by these wooden walls and golden wires ! 
 
 Kind mistress, come, with gentle pitying hand, 
 Unbar my prison door, and set me free ; 
 
 Then on the white thorn bush I '11 take my stand, 
 And sing sweet songs to freedom and to thee. 
 
 THE MISTRESS'S REPLY TO HER LITTLE BIRD. 
 
 Dear little bird, do n't make this piteous cry, 
 My heart will break to hear thee thus complain ; 
 
 Gladly, clear little bird. I 'd let thee fly, 
 If that were likely to relieve thy pain. 
 
 Sad was the bo} r who climbed the tree so high, 
 And took thee bare and shivering from thy nest ; 
 
 But no, dear little bird, it was not I, 
 
 There 's more of soft compassion in my breast : 
 
 But when I saw thee, gasping wide for breath, 
 Without one feather on thy callow skin, 
 
 I begged the cruel boy to spare thy death, 
 Paid for thy little life and took thee in. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 223 
 
 Fondly I fed thee, with the tenderest care, 
 And filled thy gaping beak with nicest food ; 
 
 Gave thee new bread and butter from my share, 
 And then with chick weed green, thy dwelling strewed. 
 
 Soon downy feathers dressed thy naked wing, 
 Smoothed by thy little beak with beauish care ; 
 
 And many a summer's evening wouldst thou sing, 
 And hop from perch to perch with merry air. 
 
 But if I now should loose thy prison door, 
 And let thee out into the world so wide, 
 
 Unused to such a wondrous place before, 
 
 Thou 'dst want some friendly shelter where to hide. 
 
 Thy brother birds would peck thy little eyes, 
 And fight the stranger from the woods away ; 
 
 Fierce hawks would chase thee tumbling thro' the skies, 
 Or crouching pussy mark thee for her prey. 
 
 Sad on the lonely blackthorn wouldst thou sit, 
 Thy mournful song unpitied and unheard, 
 
 And when the wintry wind and driving sleet 
 Came sweeping o'er, they 'd kill my pretty bird. 
 
 Then do not pine, my fav'rite, to be free, 
 
 Plume up thy wings, and clear that sullen eye ; 
 
 I would not take thee from thy native tree, 
 But now, 't would kill thee soon to let thee fly. 
 
224 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 THE TRUE HISTORY OF A POOR LITTLE 
 MOUSE. 
 
 A poor little mouse had once made him a nest, 
 As he fancied, the warmest, and safest, and best, 
 
 That a poor little mouse could enjoy ; 
 So snug, so convenient, so out of the way, 
 This poor little mouse and his family lay, 
 
 They feared neither pussy nor boy. 
 
 It was in a stove that was seldom in use, 
 
 Where shavings and papers were scattered in loose, 
 
 This poor little mouse made his hole : 
 But alas ! Master Johnny had seen him one day, 
 As in a great fright he had scampered away, 
 
 With a piece of plum-pudding he stole. 
 
 As soon as young Johnny (who wicked and bad, 
 No pitiful thoughts for dumb animals had) 
 
 Descried the poor fellow's retreat, 
 He crept to the shavings and set them alight, 
 And before the poor mouse could run off in its fright, 
 
 It was scalded to death in the heat ! 
 
 Poor mouse how it squeaked, I can 't bear to relate, 
 Nor how its poor little ones hopped in the grate, 
 
 And died one by one in the flame ! 
 I should not much wonder to hear that one night, 
 This wicked boy's bed-curtains catching alight, 
 
 He suffered exactly the same. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 225 
 
 THE CHATTERBOX. 
 
 From morning till night it was Lucy's delight 
 
 To chatter and talk without stopping ; 
 There was not a day but she rattled away, 
 
 Like water forever a dropping ! 
 
 As soon as she rose, while she put on her clothes, 
 
 T was vain to endeavor to still her ; 
 Nor once did she lack, to continue her clack, 
 
 Till again she laid down on her pillow. 
 
 You '11 think now, perhaps, that there would have been 
 gaps, 
 
 If she had not been wonderful clever ; 
 That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate, 
 
 That it would be forthcoming forever : 
 
 But that 's quite absurd, for have you not heard, 
 That much tongue and few brains, are connected, 
 
 That they are supposed to think least who talk most, 
 And their wisdom is always suspected ? 
 
 While Lucy was young, if she 'd bridled her tongue, 
 
 With a little good sense and exertion ; 
 Who knows but she might now have been our delight, 
 
 Instead of our jest and aversion ? 
 
ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 I saw a snowdrop on the bed, 
 
 Green taper leaves among ; 
 Whiter than driven snow, its head 
 
 On the slim stalk was hung. 
 
 The wintry winds came sweeping o'er, 
 
 A bitter tempest blew ; 
 The snowdrop faded — never more 
 
 To glitter with the dew. 
 
 I saw a smiling infant laid 
 
 In its fond mother's arms ; 
 Around its rosy cheek there played 
 
 A thousand dimpling charms. 
 
 A bitter pain was sent to take 
 
 The smiling babe away ; 
 How did its little bosom shake, 
 
 As in a fit it lay ! 
 
 Its beating heart was quickly stopped 
 
 And in the earth so cold, 
 I saw the little coffin dropped 
 
 And covered up with mould. 
 
 Dear little children, who may read 
 This mournful story through, 
 
 Remember death may come with speed, 
 And bitter pains, for you. 
 
for Infant minds. 22? 
 
 THE YELLOW LEAF. 
 
 I saw a leaf come tilting down 
 From a bare, withered bough ; 
 
 The leaf was dead, the branch was brown, 
 No fruit was left it now : 
 
 But much the rattling tempest blew, 
 
 The naked boughs among ; 
 And here and there came whirling through 
 
 A leaf that loosely hung. 
 
 This leaf, they tell me, once was green, 
 
 Washed by the showers soft ; 
 High on the topmost bough 't was seen, 
 
 And flourished up aloft. 
 
 I saw an old man totter slow, 
 Wrinkled, and weak, and gray ; 
 
 He 'd hardly strength enough to go 
 Ever so short a way. 
 
 His ear was deaf, his eye was dim, 
 
 He leaned on crutches high ; 
 But while I staid to pity him, 
 
 I saw him gasp and die. 
 
 This poor old man was once as gay 
 
 As rosy health could be, 
 Yes, and the youngest head must lay, 
 
 Ere long, as low as he ! 
 
ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 POOR POMPEY'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Stretched out on a dunghill, all covered with snow, 
 While round him blew many a pitiless blast, 
 
 His breath short and painful, his pulse beating low, 
 Poor honest old Pompey lay breathing his last. 
 
 Bleak whistled the wind, and loud bellowed the storm, 
 Cold pelted upon him the half frozen rain ; 
 
 And amid the convulsions that shattered his form, 
 Thus honest old Pompey was heard to complain. 
 
 1 Full many a winter I 've weathered the blast, 
 And plunged for my master through briar or bog ; 
 
 And in my old age, when my vigor is past, 
 'T is cruel, I think, to forsake his poor dog. 
 
 'I Ve guarded his dwelling by day and by night, 
 Impatient the roost-robbing gipsy to spy ; 
 
 And the roost-robbing gipsy turned pale with affright, 
 When the flush of resentment shot fierce from my eye. 
 
 ' On the heath and the mountain I 've followed his flocks 
 And kept them secure, while he slept in the sun ; 
 
 Defended them safe from the blood-thirsty fox, 
 And asked but a bone when my labor was done. 
 
 i When he worked in the corn-field with brawny hot back, 
 I watched by his waistcoat beneath the tall tree, 
 
 And wo to the robber that dared to attack 
 The charge that my master committed to me. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 229 
 
 < When jogging from market, with bags full of gold, 
 
 No moon to enliven his perilous way, 
 Nor star twinkling bright through the atmosphere cold* 
 
 'T was I kept the slow creeping robber at bay. 
 
 c One night when with cold overcome and oppressed, 
 He sunk by the way-side, benumbed in the snow, 
 
 I stretched my warm belly along on his breast, 
 
 And moaned, to let kind hearted passengers know. 
 
 ' Yes — long have I served him with courage and zeal, 
 Till my shaking old bones are grown brittle and dry ; 
 
 And 't is an unkindness I bitterly feel, 
 
 To be turned out of doors on a dunghill to die ! 
 
 1 I crawled to the kitchen, with pitiful moan, 
 
 And showed my poor ribs, that were cutting my skin, 
 
 And looked at my master, and begged for a bone, 
 But he said I was dirty and must not come in ! 
 
 1 But 't is the last struggle ! my sorrows are o'er ; 
 
 'T is death's clammy hand that is glazing my eye ; 
 The keen gripe of hunger shall pinch me no more, 
 
 Nor hard-hearted master be deaf to my cry ! ' anit 
 
 THE ENGLISH GIRL. 
 
 Sporting on the village green 
 The pretty English girl is seen ! 
 
 Or beside her cottage neat, 
 Knitting on the garden seat, 
 vol. v. 20 
 
230 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Now within her humble door, 
 Sweeping clean the kitchen floor, 
 
 Where upon the walls so white, 
 Hang her coppers polished bright 
 
 Mary never idle sits, 
 
 She either sews, or spins, or knits, 
 Hard she labors all the week, 
 
 With sparkling eye and rosy cheek. 
 
 And on Sunday Mary goes, 
 
 Neatly dressed in decent clothes, 
 
 Says her prayers (a constant rule) 
 And hastens to the Sunday School. 
 
 O how good should we be found, 
 
 Who live on England's happy ground ! 
 
 Where rich and poor, and wretched may 
 All learn to walk in Wisdom's way. 
 
 THE POND. 
 
 There was a round pond, and a pretty pond too, 
 About it white daises and butter-cups grew, 
 And dark weeping willows, that stooped to the ground, 
 Dipped in their long branches and shaded it round. 
 
 A party of ducks to this pond would repair, 
 
 To feast on the green water- weeds that grew there : 
 
 Indeed the assembly would frequently meet 
 
 To talk o'er affairs in this pleasant retreat. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 231 
 
 Now the subjects on which they were wont to converse 
 I 'm sorry I cannot include in my verse ; 
 For tho' I Ve oft listened in hopes of discerning, 
 I own 't is a matter that baffles my learning. 
 
 One day a young chicken, who lived thereabout, 
 Stood watching to see the ducks pass in and out : 
 Now standing tail upwards, now diving below; 
 She thought of all things she should like to do so. 
 
 So this foolish chicken began to declare, 
 ' 1 've really a great mind to venture in there ; 
 My mother's oft told me I must not go nigh, 
 But really, for my part, I cannot tell why. 
 
 1 Ducks have wings and feathers, and so have I too, 
 And my feet..... what 's the reason that they will not do ? 
 Though my beak is pointed, and their beaks are round, 
 Is that any reason that I should be drowned. 
 
 6 So why should I not swim as well as a duck ? 
 Suppose that I venture and e'en try my luck ? 
 For,' said she (spite of all that her mother had taught her) 
 * I 'm really remarkably fond of the water.' 
 
 So in this poor ignorant animal flew, 
 
 And found that her dear mother's cautions were true ; 
 
 She splashed, and she dashed, and she turned herself 
 
 round, 
 And heartily wished herself safe on the ground. 
 
 But now 't was too late to begin to repent, 
 The harder she struggled the deeper she went ; 
 And when every effort she vainly had tried, 
 She slowly sunk down to the bottom and died ! 
 
232 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 The ducks, I perceived, began loudly to quack, 
 When they saw the poor fowl floating dead on its back, 
 And by their grave looks, it was very apparent, 
 They discoursed on the sin of not minding a parent. 
 
 THE SCOTCH LADDIE. 
 
 Cold blows the north wind o'er the mountain so bare, 
 Poor Sawny benighted is travelling there, 
 His plaid-cloak around him he carefully binds, 
 And holds on his bonnet, that 's blown by the winds. 
 
 Long time has he wandered his desolate way, 
 That wound him along by the banks of the Tay ; 
 Now o'er this cold mountain poor Sawny must roam, 
 Before he arrives at his dear little home. 
 
 Barefooted he follows the path he must go, 
 The print of his footsteps he leaves in the snow : 
 And while the white sleet patters cold in his face, 
 He thinks of his home, and he quickens his pace. 
 
 But see from afar he discovers a light, 
 
 That cheerfully gleams on the darkness of night, 
 
 And O what delights in his bosom arise ! 
 
 He knows 't is his dear little home that he spies. 
 
 And now, when arrived at his father's own door, 
 His fears, his fatigues, his dangers are o'er ; 
 His brothers and sisters press round with delight, 
 And welcome him in from the storms of the night. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 233 
 
 For in vain from the north the keen winter winds blow, 
 In vain are the mountain tops covered with snow : 
 The cold of his country can never control 
 The affection that glows in the highlander's soul. 
 
 THE WELSH LAD. 
 
 Over the mountain and over the rock, 
 Wanders young Taffy to follow his flock, 
 While far above him he sees the wild goats, 
 Gallop about in their shaggy warm coats. 
 
 Sometimes they travel in frolicksome crowds, 
 
 To the mountain's high top that is lost in the clouds, 
 
 Then they descend to the valley again, 
 
 Or scale the black rocks that hang over the main. 
 
 Now when young Taffy's day's labor is o'er, 
 He cheerfully sits at his own cottage door ; 
 While all his brothers and sisters around, 
 Sit in a circle upon the bare ground. 
 
 Then their good father, with spectacled nose, 
 Reads the Bible aloud, ere he takes his repose , 
 While the pale moon rises over the hill, 
 And the birds are asleep, and all Nature is still. 
 
 Now with his harp old Llewellin is seen, 
 And joins the gay party that sits on the green. 
 He leans in the door- way, and plays them a tune, 
 And the children all dance by the light of the moon. 
 20* 
 
234 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 How often the wretch in the city so gay, 
 
 Where pleasure and luxury follow his way ; 
 
 When health quite forsakes him, and cheerfulness fails, 
 
 Might envy a lad on the mountains of Wales ! 
 
 il 
 
 THE IRISH BOY. 
 
 Young Paddy is merry and happy, but poor, 
 His cabin is built in the midst of the moor ; 
 No pretty green meadows about it are found, 
 But bogs in the middle and mountains around. 
 
 This wild Irish lad, of all lads the most frisky, 
 Enjoys his spare meal of potatoes and whisky, 
 As he merrily sits, with no care on his mind, 
 At the door of his cabin, and sings to the wind. 
 
 Close down at his feet lies his shaggy old dog, 
 Who has plunged with his master through many a bog : 
 While Paddy sings 'Liberty long shall reign o'er us,' 
 Shag catches his ardor, and barks a loud chorus. 
 
 Young Paddy, indeed, is not polished or mild, 
 But his soul is as free as his country is wild ; 
 And though unacquainted with fashion or dress, 
 His heart ever melts at the sound of distress. 
 
 Then let us not laugh at his bulls and Ins blunders, 
 His broad native brogue, or his ignorant wonders, 
 Nor will we by ridicule ever destroy 
 The honest content of a wild Irish boy. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 235 
 
 And thus while I sing of the wild Irish lad ; 
 
 The Welsh boy ; the Scotch, with his waistcoat of plaid, 
 
 I earnestly pray that I never may roam, 
 
 From England, dear England, my own native home. 
 
 GREEDY RICHARD. 
 
 ■ I think I want some pies this morning,' 
 Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning ; 
 So down he threw his slate and books, 
 And sauntered to the pastry-cook's. 
 
 And there he cast his greedy eyes 
 Round on the jellies and the pi 
 So to select, with anxious » 
 The very nicest that was there. 
 
 At last the point was thus decided, 
 As ms opinion was dividi d 
 Twixt pie and jelly, he was loath 
 Either to leave, to take them both. 
 
 Now Richard never could be pleased 
 To eat till hunger was appeased, 
 But he 'd go on to cram and stuff, 
 Long after he had had enough. 
 
 * I sha'nt take any more,' said Dick, 
 1 Dear me, I feel extremely sick, 
 I cannot eat this other bit ; 
 I wish I had not tasted it.' 
 
236 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Then slowly rising from his seat, 
 He threw the cheesecake in the street, 
 And left the tempting pastry-cook's, 
 With very discontented looks. 
 
 Just then, a man with wooden leg 
 Met Dick, and held his hat to beg ; 
 And while he told his mournful case, 
 Looked at him with imploring face. 
 
 Dick wished to relieve his pain, 
 
 His pocket searched, but searched in vain, 
 
 And so at last he did declare, 
 
 He had not got a farthing there. 
 
 The beggar turned, with face of grief, 
 And look of patient unbelief, 
 While Richard, now completely tamed, 
 Felt inconceivably ashamed. 
 
 1 1 wish,' said he (but wishing 's vain,) 
 1 I 'd got my money back again, 
 And had not spent my last, to pay 
 For what I only threw away, 
 
 Another time I '11 take advice, 
 
 And not buy things because they 're nice, 
 
 But rather save my little store 
 
 To give poor folks, who want it more. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 237 
 
 DIRTY JACK. 
 
 There was one little Jack, 
 Not very long back, 
 
 And 't is said, to his lasting disgrace, 
 That he never was seen 
 With his hands at all clean, 
 
 Nor yet ever clean was his face. 
 
 His friends were much hurt 
 To see so much dirt, 
 
 And often and well did they scour : 
 But all was in vain, 
 He was dirty again 
 
 Before they had done it an hour. 
 
 When to wash he was sent, 
 He reluctantly went, 
 
 With water to splash himself o'er ; 
 But he left the black streaks, 
 All over his cheeks, 
 
 And made them look worse than before. 
 
 The pigs in the dirt 
 Could n't be more expert 
 
 Than he was, at grubbing about ; 
 And the people have thought, 
 This gentleman ought 
 
 To be made with four legs and a snout 
 
 The idle and bad 
 May, like to this lad, 
 Be dirty and black, to be sure, 
 
238 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 But good boys are seen 
 To be decent and clean, 
 
 Although they are ever so poor. 
 
 THE FARM. 
 
 Bright glows the east with blushing red, 
 While yet upon their wholesome bed 
 
 The sleeping laborers rest ; 
 And the pale moon and silver star 
 Grow paler still, and wandering far, 
 
 Sink slowly to the west 
 
 And see, behind the sloping hill, 
 
 The morning clouds grow brighter still, 
 
 And all the shades retire ; 
 Slowly the Sun, with golden ray, 
 Breaks forth above the horizon gray, 
 
 And gilds the distant spire. 
 
 And now, at Nature's cheerful voice, 
 The hills, and vales, and woods rejoice, 
 
 The lark ascends the skies ; 
 And soon the cock's shrill notes alarm, 
 The sleeping people at the farm, 
 
 And bid them all arise. 
 
 Then in the dairy's cool retreat, 
 The busy maids together meet : 
 
 The careful mistress sees 
 Some tend with skilful hand the churns, 
 Where the thick cream to butter turns, 
 
 And some the curdling cheese. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 239 
 
 And now comes Thomas from the house, 
 With well known cry to call the cows, 
 
 Still sleeping on the plain ; 
 They, quickly rising one and all, 
 Obedient to the daily call, 
 
 Wind slowly through the lane. 
 
 And see the rosy milk-maid now, 
 Seated beside the horned cow, 
 
 With milking stool and pail ; 
 The patient cow, with dappled hide, 
 Stands still unless to lash her side 
 
 With her convenient tail. 
 
 And then the poultry (Mary's charge) 
 Must all be fed, and let at large, 
 
 To roam about again ; 
 Wide open swings the great barn door, 
 And out the hungry creatures pour, 
 
 To pick the scattered grain. 
 
 Forth plodding to the heavy plough, 
 The sun-burnt laborer hastens now, 
 
 To guide with skilful arm ; 
 Thus all is industry around, 
 No idle hand is ever found, 
 
 Within the busy farm. 
 
 READING. 
 
 1 A^d so you do not like to spell, 
 Mary, my dear, — O very well ; 
 'T is dull and troublesome, you say 
 And you had rather be at play. 
 
240 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 'Then bring me all your books again, — 
 Nay, Mary, why do you complain ? 
 For as you do not choose to read, 
 You shall not have your books, indeed. 
 
 ; So, as you wish to be a dunce, 
 Pray go and fetch me them at once ; 
 For as you will not learn to spell, 
 'T is vain to think of reading well. 
 
 'Now do n't you think, you '11 blush to own, 
 When you become a woman grown, 
 Without one good excuse to plead, 
 That you have never learned to read ? ' 
 
 ' O dear mamma,' (said Mary then) 
 ' Do let me have my books again, 
 I never more will fret, indeed, 
 If you will let me learn to read.' 
 
 IDLENESS. 
 
 Some people complain they have nothing to do, 
 
 And time passes slowly away ; 
 They saunter about with no object in view, 
 
 And long for the end of the day. 
 
 In vain are their riches, or honors, or birth, 
 
 They nothing can truly enjoy ; 
 They 're the wretchedest creatures that live on the earth, 
 
 For want of some pleasing employ. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 241 
 
 When people have no need to work for their bread, 
 
 And indolent always have been, 
 It never so much as comes into their head, 
 
 That wasting their time is a sin. 
 
 But man was created for some useful employ, 
 
 From earth's first creation till now ; 
 And 't is good for his health, his comfort and joy, 
 
 To live by the sweat of his brow. 
 
 And those who of riches are fully possest, 
 
 Are not for that reason exempt, 
 If they give themselves up to an indolent rest, 
 
 They are objects of real contempt. 
 
 The pleasure that constant employments create, 
 
 By them cannot be understood ; 
 And though they may rank with the rich and the great, 
 
 They never can rank with the good. 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED GIRLS. 
 
 Two good little girls, Marianne and Maria, 
 
 As happily lived as good girls could desire ; 
 
 And though they were neither grave, sullen, nor mute, 
 
 They seldom or never were heard to dispute. 
 
 If one w T ants a thing that the other could get, 
 They do 'nt go to scratching or fighting for it! 
 But each one is willing to give up her right, 
 For they 'd rather have nothing than quarrel and fight. 
 vol. v. 21 
 
242 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 If one of them happens to have something nice, 
 Directly she offers her sister a slice ; 
 And not like to some greedy children I 've known, 
 Who would go in a corner to eat it alone. 
 
 When papa or mamma had a job to be done, 
 
 These good little girls would immediately rim, 
 
 And not stand disputing to which it belonged, 
 
 And grumble, and fret, and declare they were wronged. 
 
 Whatever occurred, in their work or their play, 
 They were willing to yield, and give up their own way ; 
 Then let us try all their example to mind, 
 And always, like them, be obliging and kind. 
 
 MISCHIEF. 
 
 Let those who ? re fond of idle tricks, 
 Of throwing stones, and breaking bricks, 
 
 And all that sort of fun ; 
 Now hear a tale of idle Jim, 
 That they may warning take by him, 
 
 Nor do as he has done. 
 
 In harmless sport and healthful play, 
 He never passed his time away, 
 
 He took no pleasure in it ; 
 For mischief was his only joy, 
 Nor book, nor work, nor even toy, 
 
 Could please him for a minute. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 243 
 
 A neighbor's house he 'd slily pass, 
 And throw a stone to break the glass, 
 
 And then enjoy the joke ; 
 Or if a window open stood, 
 He 'd throw in stones, or bits of wood, 
 
 To frighten all the folk. 
 
 If travellers passing chanced to stay, 
 Of idle Jim to ask the way, 
 
 He never told them right ; 
 And then quite hardened in his sin, 
 Rejoice to see them taken in, 
 
 And laugh with all his might. 
 
 He 'd tie a string across the street, 
 So to entangle people's feet, 
 
 And make them tumble down : 
 Indeed, he was disliked so much, 
 That no good boy would play with such 
 
 A nuisance to the town. 
 
 At last, the neighbors in despair, 
 Could all these tricks no longer bear, — 
 
 In short (to end the tale) 
 The lad was cured of all his ways, 
 One time, by spending a few days 
 
 Inside the county jail. 
 
 THE SPIDER. 
 
 * O look at that great ugly Spider, ' said Ann, 
 And screaming, she knocked it away with her fan ; 
 "T is a great ugly creature, as ever can be, 
 I wish that it would not come crawling on me.' 
 
244 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 1 Indeed,' said her mother, ' I '11 venture to say, 
 
 'T will take care next time not to come in your way ; 
 
 For after the fright, the fall, and the pain, 
 
 I 'm sure it has much the most cause to complain. 
 
 'Now why should you hate the poor insect, my dear ! 
 If it hurt you, there'd be some excuse for your fear ; 
 But if it had known where it was going to, 
 'T would have hurried away, and not crawled upon you. 
 
 { For them to fear us, is but natural and just, 
 
 Who in less than a moment could tread them to dust ; 
 
 But certainly we have no cause for alarm, 
 
 For if they should tiy, they could do us no harm. 
 
 c Now look — it has got to its home, do you see ? 
 What a fine curious web it has wove in the tree ! 
 Now this, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you, 
 Only see what industry and patience can do. 
 
 \ So when at your business you idle and play, 
 Recollect what you 've seen of this insect to-day, 
 For fear it should even be found to be true, 
 That a poor little spider is better than you.' 
 
 THE COW AND THE ASS. 
 
 Hard by a green meadow a stream used to flow, 
 So clear one might see the white pebbles below ; 
 To this cooling stream the warm cattle would stray, 
 To stand in the shade on a hot summer's day. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 245 
 
 A cow, quite oppressed with the heat of the sun, 
 Came here to refresh, as she often had done ; 
 And standing stock still, leaning over the stream, 
 Was musing, perhaps, or perhaps she might dream. 
 
 But soon a brown ass, of respectable look, 
 
 Came trotting up also, to taste of the brook, 
 
 And to nibble a few of the daisies and grass ; 
 
 1 How d'ye do?' said the cow, ; how d'ye do?' said the ass. 
 
 * Take a seat,' cried the cow, gently waving her hand, 
 ' By no means, dear madam,' said he, ' while you stand ;' 
 Then stooping to drink, with a complaisant bow, 
 ' Ma'am, your health,' said the ass — ' thank you, sir,' said 
 the cow. 
 
 When a few of these compliments more had been past, 
 They laid themselves down on the herbage at last, 
 And waiting politely, as gentlemen must, 
 The ass held his tongue, that the cow might speak first. 
 
 Then with a deep sigh, she directly began, 
 1 Do n't you think, Mr. Ass, we are injured by man? 
 'T is a subject that lays with a weight on my mind : 
 We certainly are much oppressed by mankind. 
 
 Now what is the reason (I see none at all) 
 That I always must go when Suke chooses to call ; 
 Whatever I 'm doing ('t is certainly hard) 
 At once I must go to be milked in the yard. 
 
 4 1 've no will of my own, but must do as they please, 
 And give them my milk to make butter and cheese : 
 I 've often a vast mind to knock down the pail, 
 Or give Suke a box on the ears with my tail.' 
 
 0|# 
 
246 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 1 But, ma'am,' said the ass, * not presuming to teach — 
 1 O dear, I beg pardon — pray finish your speech ; 
 I thought you had done, ma'am, indeed,' said the swain, 
 l Go on, and I '11 not interrupt you again.' 
 
 c Why sir, I was only agoing to observe, 
 
 I 'm resolved that these tyrants no longer I '11 serve ; 
 
 But leave them forever to do as they please, 
 
 And look somewhere else for their butter and cheese.' 
 
 Ass waited a moment, to see if she 'd done, 
 And then ' not presuming to teach,' he begun ; 
 1 With submission, dear madam, to your better wit, 
 I own I am not quite convinced by it yet. 
 
 1 That you 're of great service to them is quite true, 
 But surely they are of some service to you ; 
 'T is their nice green meadow in which you regale, 
 They feed you in winter when grass and weeds fail. 
 
 ' 'T is under their shelter you snugly repose, 
 When without it, dear ma'am, you perhaps might be froze; 
 For my own part, I know I receive much from man, 
 And for him,* in return, I do all that I can.' 
 
 The cow upon this cast her eye en the grass, 
 
 Not pleased at thus being reproved by an ass ; 
 
 1 Yet,' thought she, ' I 'm determined I '11 benefit by 't, 
 
 For I really believe the fellow is right.' jane. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 247 
 
 THE BLIND SAILOR. 
 
 A sailor with a wooden leg, 
 
 A little chanty implores : 
 He holds his tattered hat to beg, 
 
 Come, let us join our little stores. 
 Poor sailor ! we ourselves might be 
 As wretched and as poor as thee. 
 
 A thousand thanks, my lady kind, 
 A thousand blessings on your head , 
 
 A flash of lightning struck me blind, 
 Or else I would not beg my bread. 
 
 I pray, that you may never be 
 
 As wretched and as poor as me. 
 
 I watched amid tiie stormy blast, 
 
 While horrid thunders rent the clouds ; 
 
 A flash of lightning split the mast, 
 
 And danced among the bellowing shrouds. 
 
 That moment to the deck I fell, 
 
 A poor, unhappy spectacle ! 
 
 From that tremendous, awful night, 
 I Ve never seen the light of day ; 
 
 No — not a spark of glimmering light 
 Has shone across my darksome way. 
 
 That light I valued not before, 
 
 Shall bless these withered eyes no more. 
 
 My little dog— a faithful friend, 
 
 Who with me crossed the stormy main, 
 Doth still my weary path attend, 
 
 
248 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 And comforts me in all my pain ; 
 He guides me from the miry bog, 
 My poor, half- famished, faithful dog ! 
 
 With this companion at my side, 
 I travel on my lonely way ; 
 
 And God Almighty will provide 
 A crust to feed us day by day. 
 
 Weep not for me, my lady kind, 
 
 Almighty God protects the blind. 
 
 THE WORM. 
 
 No, little worm, you need not slip 
 
 Into your hole, with such a skip ; 
 
 Drawing the gravel as you glide 
 
 On to your smooth and slimy side. 
 
 I'm not a crow, poor worm, not I, 
 
 Peeping about your holes to spy, 
 
 And fly away with you in air, 
 
 To give my young ones each a share. 
 
 No, and I 'm not a rolling-stone, 
 
 Creaking along with hollow groan ; 
 
 Nor am I of the naughty crew, 
 
 Wlio do n't care what poor worms go through, 
 
 But trample on them as they lay, 
 
 Rather than step the other way; 
 
 Or keep them dangling on a hook, 
 
 Choaked in a dismal pond or brook, 
 
 Till some poor fish comes swimming past, 
 
 And finishes their pain at last. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 249 
 
 For my part, I could never bear 
 Your tender flesh to hack and tear, 
 Forgetting that poor worms endure 
 As much as I should to be sure, 
 If any giant should come and jump 
 On to my back, and kill me plump, 
 Or run my heart through with a sithe, 
 And think it fun to see me writhe ! 
 
 O no, I 'm only looking about, 
 To see you wriggle in and out, 
 And drawing together your slimy rings, 
 Instead of feet, like other things : 
 So, little worm, do n't slide and slip 
 Into your hole, with such a skip. 
 
 FIRE. 
 
 What is it that shoots from the mountains so high, 
 
 In many a beautiful spire ? 
 What is it that blazes and curls to the sky ? 
 
 This beautiful something is Fire. 
 
 Loud noises are heard in the caverns to groan, 
 
 Hot cinders fall thicker than snow ; 
 Huge stones to a wonderful distance are thrown, 
 
 For burning fire rages below. 
 
 When Winter blows bleak, and loud bellows the storm, 
 
 And frostily twinkle the stars ; 
 Then bright burns the fire in the chimney so warm 
 
 And the kettle sings shrill on the bars. 
 
250 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Then call the poor traveller, covered with snow, 
 
 And warm him with charity kind ; 
 Fire is not so warm as the feelings that glow 
 
 In the friendly, benevolent mind. 
 
 By fire, rugged metals are fitted for use, 
 
 Iron, copper, gold, silver, and tin ; 
 Without its assistance, we could not produce 
 
 So much as a minikin pin. 
 
 Fire rages with fury wherever it comes, 
 
 If only one spark should be dropped, 
 Whole houses, or cities, sometimes it consumes, 
 
 Where its violence cannot be stopped. 
 
 And when the great morning of judgment shall rise, 
 
 How wide will its blazes be curled ! 
 With heat, fervent heat, it shall melt down the skies, 
 
 And burn up this beautiful world. 
 
 AIR. 
 
 What is it that winds about over the world, 
 
 Spread thin like a covering fair ? 
 Into each crack and crevice 't is artfully curled ; 
 
 This sly little fluid is — Air. 
 
 In summer's still evening how peaceful it floats, 
 When not a leaf moves on the spray ; 
 
 And no sound is heard but the nightingale's notes, 
 And merry gnats dancing away. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS 251 
 
 The village bells glide on its bosom serene, 
 
 And steal in sweet cadence along ; 
 The shepherd's soft pipe warbles over the green, 
 
 And the cottage girls join in the song. 
 
 But when winter blows, then it bellows aloud, 
 
 And roars in the northerly blast ; 
 With fury drives on the snowy blue cloud, 
 
 And cracks the tall tapering mast. 
 
 The sea rages wildly, and mounts to the skies 
 
 In billows and fringes of foam ; 
 And the sailor in vain turns his pitiful eyes 
 
 Towards his dear, peaceable home. 
 
 When fire lays and smothers,or gnaws through the beam, 
 
 Air forces it fiercer to glow ; 
 And engines in vain there cold torrents may stream, 
 
 Unless the wind ceases to blow. 
 
 In the forest it tears up the sturdy old oak, 
 
 That many a tempest had kuown ; 
 The tall mountain's pine into splinters is broke, 
 
 And over the precipice blown. 
 
 And yet though it rages with fury so wild, 
 
 On the solid earth, water, or fire, 
 Without its assistance, the tenderest child, 
 
 Would struggle, and gasp, and expire. 
 
 Pure air, pressing into the curious clay, 
 
 Gave life to these bodies at first ; 
 And when in the bosom it ceases to play, 
 
 We crumble again to our dust. 
 
252 ORIGINAL POEMS. 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 What is it that 's covered so richly with green, 
 
 And gives to the forest its birth ? 
 A thousand plants bloom on its bosom serene ; 
 
 Whose bosom ? — the bosom of Earth. 
 
 Hidden deep in its bowels the emerald shines, 
 
 The ruby, and amethyst blue ; 
 And silver and gold glitter bright in the mines 
 
 Of Mexico rich, and Peru. 
 
 Large quarries of granite and marble are spread 
 
 In its wonderful bosom like bones ; 
 Chalks, gravel, and coals, salt, sulphur, and lead, 
 
 And thousands of beautiful stones. 
 
 Beasts, savage and tame, of all colors and forms, 
 Either stalk in its deserts, or creep ; 
 
 White bears sit and growl to the northerly storms, 
 And shaggy goats bound from the steep. 
 
 The oak, and the snowdrop, the cedar, and rose, 
 
 Alike on its bosom are seen ; 
 The tall fir of Norway, surrounded with snows, 
 
 And the mountain-ash scarlet and green. 
 
 Fine grass and rich mosses creep over its hills, 
 A thousand flowers breathe in the gale ; 
 
 Tall water-seeds dip in its murmuring rills, 
 And harvests wave bright in the vale. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 25S 
 
 And when this poor body is cold and decayed, 
 And this warm throbbing heart is at rest ; 
 
 My head upon thee, mother Earth, shall be laid, 
 To find a long home in thy breast. 
 
 WATER. 
 
 What is it that glitters so clear and serene, 
 
 Or dances in billows so white ? 
 Ships skimming along on its surface, are seen ; 
 
 'T is water that glitters so bright. 
 
 Sea-weeds wind about in its cavities wet, 
 
 The pearl oyster quietly sleeps ; 
 A thousand lair shells, yellow, amber, and jet, 
 
 And coral, glow red in its deeps. 
 
 Whales lash the white foam in their frolicksome wrath, 
 
 While hoarsely the winter wind roars ; 
 And shoals of green mackerel stretch from the north, 
 
 And wander along by our shores. 
 
 When tempests sweep over its bosom serene, 
 
 Like mountains its billows arise ; 
 The ships now appear to be buried between, 
 
 And now carried up to the skies. 
 
 It gushes out clear from the sides of the hill, 
 And sparkles right down from the steep ; 
 
 Then waters the valley, and roars through the mill, 
 And wanders in many a sweep. 
 vol. v. 22 
 
254 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 The traveller that crosses the desert so wide, 
 
 Hot, weary, and stifled with dust, 
 Longs often to stoop at some rivulet's side, 
 
 To quench in its waters his thirst. 
 
 The stately white swan glides along on its breast, 
 
 Nor ruffles its surface serene ; 
 And the duckling unfledged waddles out of its nest 
 
 To dabble in ditch-water green. 
 
 The clouds blown about in the chilly blue sky, 
 
 Vast cisterns of water contain ; 
 Like snowy white feathers in winter they fly, 
 
 In summer stream gently in rain. 
 
 When sunbeams so bright on the falling drops shine, 
 
 The rainbow enlivens the shower, 
 And glows in the heavens a beautiful sign, 
 
 That water shall drown us no more. 
 
 TIT FOR TAT. 
 
 Tit for tat is a very bad word, 
 
 As frequently people apply it ; 
 It means, as I Ve usually heard, 
 
 They intend to revenge themselves by it. 
 There is but one place where it 's proper and pat, 
 And there, I permit them, to say ' tit for tat.' 
 
 Poor Dobbin, that toils with his load, 
 
 Or gallops with master or man. 
 Do n't lash him so fast on the road, 
 
 You see he does all that he can : 
 How long has he served you ! do recollect that, 
 And treat him with kindness ; 't is but ' tit for tat.' 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 255 
 
 Poor Brindle, that lashes her tail, 
 
 And trudges home morning and night, 
 Till Dolly appears with her pail, 
 
 To milk out the fluid so white ; 
 Do n't kick her poor haunches, or beat her, and that, 
 To be kind to poor Brindle is but * tit for tat.' 
 
 Gray Donkey, the sturdy old ass, 
 
 That jogs with his panniers so wide, 
 And wants but a mouthful of grass, 
 
 Or perhaps a green thistle beside : 
 Do n't load him so heavy, he can 't carry that ; 
 Poor Donkey, I 'm sure they forget ■ tit for tat.' 
 
 There 's honest old Tray in the yard, 
 
 What courage and zeal has he shown ; 
 'T would surely be cruelly hard, 
 
 Not to cast the poor fellow a bone. 
 How fiercely he barks at the robbers, and that, 
 I 'm sure, that to starve him, is not ' tit for tat.' 
 
 Poor Puss that runs mewing about, 
 
 Her white belly sweeping the ground ; 
 The mother abused and kicked out, 
 
 And her innocent little ones drowned ; 
 Whenever she catches the mischievous rat, 
 Be kind to poor Pussy, 't is but ' tit for tat.' 
 
 Whatever shows kindness to us, 
 
 With kindness we ought to repay ; 
 Brindle, Donkey, Tray, Dobbin, and Puss, 
 
 And every thing else in its way ; 
 In cases like these, it is proper and pat, 
 To make use of this maxim, and say, ■ tit for tat.' 
 
$56 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 JANE ANi^ ELIZA. 
 
 There were two little girls, neither handsome nor plain, 
 One's name was Eliza, the other was Jane ; 
 They were both of one height, as I have heard people *ay, 
 And both of one age, I believe, to a day. 
 
 'T was thought by most people, who slightly had seen them, 
 There was not a pin to be chosen between them j 
 But no one for long in this notion persisted, 
 So great a distinction there really existed. 
 
 Eliza knew well, that she could not be pleasing 
 While fretting and fuming, while sulky or teasing ; 
 And therefore in company artfully tried, 
 Not to break her bad habits, but only to hide. 
 
 So when she was out, with much labor and pain, 
 
 She contrived to look abnost as pleasing as Jane ; 
 
 But I'm sure you'd have laughed, to have known all the while, 
 
 How her mouth would oft ache while she forced it to smile. 
 
 But in spite of her care, it would sometimes befall 
 That some cross event happened to ruin it all, 
 And because it might chance that her share was the worst, 
 Her temper broke loose, and her dimples dispersed. 
 
 But Jane who had nothing she wanted to hide, 
 
 And therefore these troublesome arts never tried ; 
 
 Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing, 
 
 But her face always showed what her bosom was feeling. 
 
 The smiles that upon her sweet countenance were, 
 At home or abroad, they were constantly there ; 
 And Eliza worked hard, but could never obtain 
 The affection that freely was given to Jane. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 257 
 
 ELIZA AND JANE. 
 
 Cheer up, my young friends, I have better news now, 
 Eliza has driven the scowl from her brow, 
 And finding she paid to get nothing so dearly, 
 Determined at last, to be good-natured really. 
 
 'T was a great deal of trouble at first I confess, 
 Her temper would rise, and 't was hard to repress; 
 But being a girl of some sense and discerning, 
 She would not be stopped by the trouble of turning. 
 
 Ten times in a day she 'd her work to begin, 
 When passion or fretfnlness begged to come in ; 
 But determined to see their vile laces no more, 
 She sent them ofF packing, and bolted the door. 
 
 Sometimes she would kneel in her chamber, and pray 
 That God in his meroy would take them away ; 
 And God, who i> pleased with a penitent's cry, 
 Bowed down in compassion, and helped her to try. 
 
 The smiles that beam on her countenance fair, 
 At home and abroad, they are constantly there ; 
 And Eliza no longer is forced to complain, 
 That she 's not beloved like her play-fellow Jane. 
 
 THE BABY. 
 
 Safe sleeping on its mother's breast 
 The smiling babe appears, 
 
 Now sweetly sinking into rest ; 
 Now washed in sudden tears : 
 
 Hush, hush, my little baby dear, 
 
 There 's nobody to hurt you here. 
 22* 
 
258 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Without a mother's tender care, 
 
 The little thing must die, 
 Its chubby hands too feeble are 
 
 One service to supply ; 
 And not a tittle does it know 
 What kind of world 't is come into. 
 
 The lamb sports gaily on the grass 
 When scarcely born a day ; 
 
 The foal, beside its mother ass, 
 Trots frolicksome away, 
 
 And no creature, tame or wild, 
 
 Is half so helpless as a child. 
 
 To nurse the Dolly, gaily drest, 
 
 And stroke its flaxen hair, 
 Or ring the coral at its waist, 
 
 With silver bells so fair, 
 Is all the little creature can, 
 That is so soon to be a man. 
 
 Full many a summer's sun must glow 
 
 And lighten up the skies, 
 Before its tender limbs can grow 
 
 To any thing of size ; 
 And all the while the mother's eye 
 Must every little want supply. 
 
 Then surely, when each little limb 
 Shall grow to healthy size, 
 
 And youth and manhood strengthen him 
 For toil wand enterprise, 
 
 His mother's kindness is a debt, 
 
 He never, never will forget. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 259 
 
 THE POOR OLD MAX. 
 
 Ah ! who is it totters along, 
 
 And leans on the top of his stick ? 
 His wrinkles are many and long, 
 
 And his beard has grown silver and thick. 
 No vigor enlivens his frame, 
 
 No cheerfulness beams in his eye, 
 His limbs are enfeebled and lame, 
 
 And I think he is going to die. 
 
 They tell me, he once was as young, 
 
 As gay and as cheerful as I, 
 That he danced the green wood walks among, 
 
 And carolled his songs to the sky ; 
 That he clambered high over the rocks, 
 
 To search where the sea-bird had been, 
 And followed his frolicksoine flocks 
 
 Up and down the mountain so green. 
 
 But now what a change there appears ! 
 
 How altered his figure and face ! 
 Bent low with a number of years, 
 
 How feeble and slow is his pace ! 
 He thought a few winters ago, 
 
 Old age was a great while to come, 
 And it seems but as yesterday now, 
 
 That he frolicked in vigor and bloom. 
 
 He thought it was time enough yet, 
 For death and the grave to prepare, 
 
 And seemed all his life, to forget 
 How fast time would carry him there. 
 
 He sported in spirits and ease, 
 
260 ORIGLNAL POEMS 
 
 And religion thought troublesome stuff, 
 Till all in a hurry he sees, 
 
 That he has not half time enough. 
 
 Now weak with disorder and years, 
 
 And tottering into the dust, 
 He wishes, with penitent tears, 
 
 He had minded religion at first ; 
 He weeps, and he trembles, and prays, 
 
 And wishes his life to return, 
 But alas ! he has wasted the blaze, 
 
 And now it no longer will burn. 
 
 THE NOTORIOUS GLUTTON. 
 
 A duck, who had got such a habit of stuffing, 
 That all the day long she was panting and puffing ; 
 And by every creature, who did her great crop see, 
 Was thought to be galloping fast for a dropsy. 
 
 One day after eating a plentiful dinner, 
 
 With full twice as much as there should have been in her, 
 
 While up to her eyes in the gutter a roking. 
 
 Was greatly alarmed by the symptoms of choaking. 
 
 Now there was an old fellow, much famed for discerning, 
 (A drake who had taken a liking for learning) 
 And high in repute with his feathery friends, 
 Was called Dr. Drake, — for this doctor she sends. 
 
 In a hole of the dunghill was Dr. Drake's shop, 
 Where he kept a few simples for curing the crop ; 
 Some gravel and pebbles, to help the digestion, 
 And certain famed plants of the Doctor's selection. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 261 
 
 So, taking a handful of comical things, 
 And brushing his topple and pluming his wings, 
 And putting his feathers in apple-pie order, 
 Set out, to prescribe for the lady's disorder. 
 
 4 Dear sir,' said the duck, with a delicate quack, 
 Just turning a little way round on her back, 
 And leaning her head on a stone in the yard, 
 « My case, Dr. Drake, is exceedingly hard. 
 
 * I feel so distended with wind, and opprest, 
 
 So squeamish and faint — such a load at my chest ; 
 
 And day after day, I assure you it is hard, 
 
 To suffer with patience these pains in my gizzard.' 
 
 1 Give me leave,' said the doctor, with medical look, 
 
 As her flabby cold paw in his fingers he took ; 
 
 1 By the feel of your pulse — your complaint, 1 've been 
 
 thinking, 
 Is caused by your habit of eating and drinking.' 
 
 1 O no, sir, believe me,' the lady replied, 
 (Alarmed for her stomach as well as her pride,) 
 ' I am sure it arises from nothing I eat, 
 For I rather suspect 1 got wet in my feet. 
 
 f 1 've only been roking a bit in the gutter, 
 
 Where the cook had been pouring some cold melted 
 
 butter ; 
 And a slice of green cabbage, and scraps of cold meat, 
 Just a trifle or two, that I thought I could eat.' 
 
 The doctor was just to his business proceeding, 
 By gentle emetics, a blister, and bleeding, 
 When all on a sudden she rolled on her side, 
 Gave a horrible quackle, a struggle, and died ! 
 
262 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 Her remains were interred in a neighboring swamp 
 By her friends with a great deal of funeral pomp ; 
 But I 've heard this inscription her tombstone was put on, 
 1 Here lies Mrs. Duck, the notorious glutton : ' 
 And all the young ducklings are brought by their friends, 
 To learn the disgrace in winch gluttony ends. 
 
 THE LITTLE CRIPPLES COMPLAINT. 
 
 1 'm a helpless crippled child, 
 
 Gentle Christians, pity me ; 
 Once in rosy health I smiled, 
 
 Blithe and gay as you can be, 
 And, upon the village green, 
 First in every sport was seen. 
 
 Now, alas ! I 'm weak and low, 
 
 Cannot either work or play ; 
 Tottering on my crutches slow, 
 
 Drag along my weary way : 
 Now no longer dance and sing, 
 Gaily in the merry ring. 
 
 Many sleepless nights I live, 
 
 Turning on my weary bed ; 
 Softest pillows cannot give 
 
 Slumber to my aching head ; 
 Constant anguish makes it fly 
 From my wakeful, heavy eye. 
 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 263 
 
 And when morning beams return, 
 
 Still no comfort beams for me ; 
 Still my limbs with fever burn, 
 
 Painful shoots my crippled knee, 
 And another tedious day 
 Passes slow and sad away. 
 
 From my chamber windows high, 
 
 Lifted to my easy chair, 
 I the village green can spy — 
 
 Once I used to follow there, 
 March, or beat my new-bought drum : 
 Happy times ! no more to come. 
 
 There 1 see my fellows gay, 
 
 Sporting on the daisied turf, 
 And amidst their cheerful play, 
 
 Stopped by many a merry laugh ; 
 But the sight I cannot bear, 
 Leaning in my easy chair. 
 
 Let not then the scoffing eye, 
 
 Laugh, my twisted leg to see ; 
 Gentle Christian, passing by, 
 
 Stop awhile and pity me, 
 And for you I '11 breathe a prayer, 
 Leaning on my easy chair. 
 
 POOR DONKEY'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Down in this ditch poor Donkey lies, 
 Who jogged with many a load ; 
 
 And till the day death closed his eyes, 
 Browsed up and down this road. 
 
 
 
264 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 No shelter had he for his head, 
 Whatever winds might blow ; 
 
 A neighboring common was his bed, 
 Though dressed in sheets of snow. 
 
 In this green ditch he often strayed 
 
 To nip the dainty grass ; 
 And friendly invitations brayed, 
 
 To some more hungry ass. 
 
 Each market-day he jogged along 
 Beneath the gardener's load, 
 
 And brayed out many a Donkey's song 
 To friends upon the road. 
 
 A tuft of grass, a thistle green, 
 
 Or cabbage-leaf so sweet, 
 Were all the dainties he was seen 
 
 For twenty years to eat. 
 
 And as for sport — the sober soul 
 
 Was such a steady Jack, 
 He only now and then would roll 
 
 Heels upwards on his back. 
 
 But ail his sport, and dainties too, 
 
 And labors, now are o'er, 
 Last night so bleak a tempest blew, 
 
 He could withstand no more. 
 
 He felt his feeble limbs benumbed, 
 His blood was freezing slow, 
 
 And presently he tumbled plump, 
 Stone dead upon the snow. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 265 
 
 Poor Donkey ! travellers passing by, 
 
 Thy cold remains shall see ; 
 And 't would be well, if all who die 
 
 Had worked as hard as thee. anw. 
 
 THE ORPHAN. 
 
 Mr father and mother are dead, 
 
 No friend nor relation I have ; 
 And now the cold earth is their bed, 
 
 And daisies grow over the grave. 
 
 I cast my eyes into the tomb, 
 
 The sight made me bitterly cry ; 
 I said, and is this the dark room 
 
 Where my father and mother must lie ! 
 
 I cast my eyes round me again, 
 
 In hopes some protector to see ; 
 Alas ! but the search was in vain, 
 
 For none had compassion on me. 
 
 1 cast my eyes up to the sky, 
 
 I groaned, though I said not a word ; 
 
 Yet God was not deaf to my cry, 
 The frieud of the fatherless heard. 
 
 O yes — and he graciously smiled, 
 
 And bid me on him to depend ; 
 He whispered — fear not, little child, 
 
 For I am thy father and friend. jane. 
 
 vol. v. 23 
 
ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 GOING TO BED AT NIGHT. 
 
 Receive my body, pretty bed ; 
 Soft pillow, O receive my head, 
 
 And thanks, my parents kind : 
 Those comforts who for me provide, 
 Their precepts still shall be my guide, 
 
 Their love I '11 keep in mind. 
 
 My hours mispent this day I rue, 
 My good things done how very few ! 
 
 Forgive my fault, O Lord ! 
 This night, if in thy grace I rest, 
 To-morrow may I rise refreshed, 
 
 To keep thy holy word. 
 
 RISING IN THE MORNING. 
 
 Thrice welcome to my opening eyes 
 The morning beam, which bids me rise 
 
 To all the joys of youth ; 
 For thy protection whilst I slept, 
 O Lord, my humble thanks accept, 
 
 And bless my lips with truth. 
 
 Like cheerful birds, as I begin 
 This day, O keep my soul from sin — 
 And all things shall be well. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 261 
 
 Thou gav'st me health, and clothes, and food, 
 Preserve me innocent and good, 
 Till evening curfew* bell. 
 
 FRANCES KEEPS HER PROMISE. 
 
 My Fanny, I have news to tell, 
 
 Your diligence quite pleases me, 
 You 've worked so neatly, read so w r ell, 
 
 With cousin Jane you may drink tea. 
 
 But pray, my dear, remember this, 
 Although to stay you should incline, 
 
 Though warmly pressed by each kind Miss, 
 I wish you to return by nine. 
 
 With many thanks, the little child 
 
 Assured mamma she would obey ; 
 When washed and dressed, she kissed and smiled 
 
 And with the maid she went away. 
 
 When reached her cousin's, she was shown 
 To where her little friends were met, 
 
 And when her coming was made known, 
 Around her flocked the cheerful set. 
 
 * Curfew Bell— was ordered by king William to be rung at eight 
 o'clock at night, at the sound of which all fire and light was to be 
 extinguished. Curfew comes from the French courre, to cover, and 
 /«, fire. 
 
268 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 They dance, they play, and sweetly sing, 
 In every sport each child partakes, 
 
 And now the servants sweetmeats bring, 
 With wine and jellies, fruit and cakes. 
 
 In comes papa, and says — « My dears, 
 The magic lantern if you 'd see, 
 
 And that which on the wall appears, 
 Leave off your play, and follow me.' 
 
 Whilst Frances too enjoyed the sight, 
 Where moving figures all combine 
 
 To raise her wonder and delight, 
 She hears the parlor clock strike nine. 
 
 The boy walks in, ' Miss, Ann is come' — 
 ' O dear, how soon !' the children cry ; 
 
 They press, but Fanny will go home, 
 And bids her little friends good-by. 
 
 6 My dear mamma, am I not good ? ' 
 * You are, indeed,' mamma replies, 
 
 1 But when you said, I knew you would 
 Return, and thus you 've won a prize. 
 
 ' This way, my love, and see the man 
 Whom I desired at nine to call : ' 
 
 Down stairs young Frances swiftly ran, 
 And found him waiting in the halL 
 
 1 Here, Miss, are pretty birds to buy, 
 
 A parrot or macaw so gay ; 
 A speckled dove with scarlet eye, 
 
 But quickly choose, I cannot stay. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 269 
 
 * Would you a Java sparrow love ? ' 
 
 ' No, no, I thank you,' said the child ; 
 
 * I '11 have a beauteous cooing dove, 
 
 So harmless, innocent, and mild ! ' 
 
 ' Your choice, my Fanny, I commend, 
 
 No bird can with the dove compare ; 
 But lest it pine without a friend, 
 
 You may, my dear, choose out a pair.' 
 
 MY OLD SHOES. 
 
 You 're now too old for me to wear, poor shoes, 
 And yet I will not sell you to the Jew-. 
 Yon wand'ring little boy must barefoot go 
 Through mud and rain, and nipping frost and snow ; 
 And as he walks along the road or street, 
 The flint is sharp, and cuts his tender feet. 
 My shoes, though old, might save him many a pain ; 
 And should I sell them, what might be my gain ? 
 A sixpence, that would buy some foolish toy ; 
 No, take these shoes, poor shiv'ring barefoot boy. 
 
 TO GEORGE PULLING BUDS. 
 
 Don't pull that bud, it yet may grow 
 
 As fine a flower as this ; 
 Had this been pulled a month ago, 
 
 We should its beauties miss. 
 You are yourself a bud, my blooming boy, 
 Weigh well the consequence ere you destroy, 
 Lest for a present paltry sport, you kill a future joy. 
 23* 
 
270 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 A charming present comes from town, 
 
 A baby-house quite neat ; 
 With kitchen, parlors, dining-room 
 
 And chambers all complete. 
 
 A gift to Emma and to Rose, 
 
 From grand-papa it came ; 
 Till little Rosa smiled delight, 
 
 And Emma did the same. 
 
 They eagerly examined all, 
 
 The furniture was gay ; 
 And in the rooms they placed their dolls, 
 
 When dressed in fine array. 
 
 At night their little candles lit, 
 
 And as they must be fed, 
 To supper down the dolls were placed, 
 
 And then were put to bed. 
 
 Thus Rose and Emma passed each hour, 
 
 Devoted to their play ; 
 And long were cheerful, happy, kind, 
 
 No cross disputes had they. 
 
 Till Rose in baby-house would change 
 The chairs which were below, 
 
 ! This carpet they will better suit ; 
 I think I '11 have it so.' 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 271 
 
 6 No, no, indeed,' her sister said, 
 
 1 1 'm older, Rose, than you ; 
 And I 'm the pet ; the house is mine, 
 
 Miss, what I say is true.' 
 
 The quarrel grew to such a height, 
 
 Mamma she heard the noise, 
 And coming in, beheld the floor 
 
 All strewed with broken toys. 
 
 * O fie, my Emma ! naughty Rose ! 
 
 Say, why thus sulk and pout ? 
 Remember this is New-year's day, 
 And both are going out.' 
 
 Now Betty calls the little girls, 
 
 Ho ! come up stairs and dress ; 
 They still revile with threats and taunts, 
 
 And angry rage express. 
 
 But just prepared to leave their room, 
 
 Persisting yet in strife, 
 Rose sickening fell on Betty's lap, 
 
 As void of sense or life. 
 
 Mamma appeared at Betty's call ; 
 
 John for the doctor goes ; 
 The measles, he begins to think, 
 
 Dread symptoms all disclose. 
 
 1 But though I stay, my Emma, you 
 May go and spend the day.' 
 
 * O no, mamma,' replied the child, 
 1 Do suffer me to stay. 
 
212 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 i Beside my sister's bed I '11 sit, 
 And watch her with such care, 
 
 No pleasure can I e'er enjoy, 
 Till she my pleasure share. 
 
 'How silly now seems our dispute, 
 
 Not one of us she knows ; 
 How pale she looks, how hard she breathes, 
 
 Poor pretty little Rose ! ' 
 
 THE CRUEL THORN. 
 
 A bit of wool sticks here upon this thorn, 
 Ah cruel thorn, to tear it from the sheep ! 
 
 And yet, perhaps, with pain its fleece was worn, 
 Its coat so thick, a hot and cumbrous heap. 
 
 The wool a little bird takes in his bill, 
 
 And with it up to yonder tree he flies ; 
 A nest he 's building there with matchless skill, 
 
 Compact and close, that cold and rain defies. 
 
 To line that nest, the wool so soft and warm, 
 Preserves the eggs which hold its tender young ; 
 
 And when they're hatch'd, the wool will keep from harm 
 The callow brood, until they 're fledged and strong. 
 
 Thus birds find use for what the sheep can spare : 
 In this, my child, a wholesome moral spy, 
 
 And when the poor shall crave, thy plenty share ; 
 Let thy abundance thus their wants supply. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 273 
 
 NIMBLE DICK. 
 
 My boy be cool, do things by rule, 
 
 And then you '11 do them right, 
 A story true I '11 tell to you, 
 
 'T is of a luckless wight. 
 
 He 'd never wait, was ever late, 
 
 Because he was so quick ; 
 This shatter-brain did thus obtain 
 
 The name of Nimble Dick. 
 
 All in his best, young Dick was dressed, 
 
 Cries he, 1 1 'm very dry ! ' 
 Though glass and jug, and china mug, 
 
 On sideboard stood hard by ; 
 
 With skip and jump unto the pump, 
 
 With open mouth he goes, 
 The water out ran from the spout, 
 
 And wetted all his clothes. 
 
 A fine tureen, as e'er was seen, 
 
 On dinner table stood ; 
 Says John, ' 't is hot : ' — says Dick, g 't is not, 
 
 I know the soup is good.' 
 
 His brother bawled, ' yourself you '11 scald ; 
 
 O Dick, you- 're so uncouth ! ' 
 Dick filled his spoon, and then as soon 
 
 Conveyed it to his mouth. 
 
 And soon about he spirts it out, 
 
 And cries, ' O wicked soup ! ' 
 His mother chid, his father bid 
 
 Him from the table troop. 
 
 
274 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 All in despatch, he made a match 
 
 To run a race with Bill ; 
 ' My boy,' said he, ' I '11 win, you '11 see ; 
 
 I '11 beat you, that I will.' 
 
 With merry heart, now off they start, 
 
 Like ponies full in speed ; 
 Soon Bill he passed, for very fast 
 
 This Dicky ran indeed. 
 
 But hurry alJ, Dick got a fall, 
 
 And whilst he sprawling lay, 
 Bill reached the post, and Dicky lost, 
 
 And Billy won the day. 
 
 * Bring here my pad,' now cries the lad 
 
 Unto the servant John ; 
 6 1 '11 mount astride, this day I '11 ride, 
 
 So put the saddle on.' 
 
 No time to waste, 't was brought in haste, 
 Dick longed to have it backed ; 
 
 With spur and boot on leg and foot, 
 His whip he loudly cracked. 
 
 The mane he grasped, the crupper clasped, 
 And leaped up from the ground ; 
 
 All smart and spruce, the girt was loose, 
 He turned the saddle round. 
 
 Then down he came, the scoff and shame 
 
 Of all the standers by : 
 Poor Dick, alack ! upon his back, 
 
 Beneath the horse did lie. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 275 
 
 Still slow and sure, success secure, 
 
 And be not over quick ; 
 For method's sake, a warning take 
 
 From hasty Nimble Dick. 
 
 THE LINNET'S NEST. 
 
 My linnet's nest, Miss, will you buy ! 
 
 They 're nearly fledged — Ah ! no, not I ; 
 
 I '11 not encourage wicked boys 
 
 To rob a parent of its joys ; 
 
 Those darling joys, to feed its young, 
 
 To see them grow up brisk and strong. 
 
 With care the tender brood to nourish, 
 
 To see them plume, and perch, and flourish ; 
 
 To hear them chirp, to hear them sing, 
 
 And see them try the little wing, 
 
 To view them chanting on the tree 
 
 The charming song of liberty. 
 
 I do not like to see them mope 
 
 Within a cage, devoid of hope, 
 
 And all the joys that freedom gives : 
 
 The pris'ner's sonnet only grieves. 
 
 I love their song, yet give to me 
 
 The cheerful note that sings ' I 'm free ! ' 
 
 
276 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 THE ITALIAN GREYHOUND. 
 
 Lightly as the rose leaves fall, 
 By the zephyr scattered round ; 
 
 Let thy feet, when thee I call, 
 Patting softly touch the ground. 
 
 Happy I to think thou 'it mine I 
 Gentle greyhound, come apace ; 
 
 Beauty's form in every line, 
 Every attitude is grace. 
 
 Speaking eyes thou hast — why shrink ? 
 
 'Neath my hand why tremble so ? 
 Beauteous greyhound, dost thou think 
 
 Harm from me ? — believe me, no. 
 
 Cruel dogs and savage men 
 
 Hunt a wretched hare for miles, 
 
 Guiltless greyhound, here lie then, 
 Caress thy mistress for her smiles. 
 
 THE USE OF SIGHT. 
 
 c What, Charles returned ! ' papa exclaimed ; 
 
 ' How short your walk has been ! 
 But Thomas — Julia — where are they ? 
 
 Come, tell me what you 've seen.' 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 277 
 
 I So tedious, stupid, dull a walk ! ' 
 
 Said Charles, ' I '11 go uo more ; 
 First stopping here, tlieu lagging there, 
 O'er this and that to pore. 
 
 I I crossed the fields near Woodland House, 
 And just went up the hill ; 
 
 Then by the river side came down, 
 Near Mr. Fairplay's mill.' 
 
 Now Tom and Julia both ran in, 
 
 1 O dear papa,' said they, 
 * The sweetest walk we both have had, 
 
 O what a pleasant day ! 
 
 1 Near Woodland House we crossed the fields 
 
 And by the mill we came.' 
 ' Indeed,' exclaimed papa, * how 's this ? 
 
 Your brother took the same. . 
 
 1 But very dull he found the walk. 
 
 What have you there ? let's see ; 
 Come, Charles, enjoy this charming treat, 
 
 As new to you as me.' 
 
 1 First look, papa, at this small branch, 
 
 Which on a tall oak grew, 
 And by its slimy berries white 
 
 The mistletoe we knew. 
 
 c A bird all green ran up the tree, 
 
 A woodpecker we call, 
 Who, with his strong bill, wounds the bark, 
 
 To feed on insects small. 
 vol. v. 24 
 
278 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 c And many lapwings cried peewit I 
 
 And one among the rest, 
 Pretended lameness to decoy 
 
 Us from her lowly nest. 
 
 i Young starlings, martens, swallows, all 
 
 Such lovely flocks, so gay ! 
 A heron too, who caught a fish, 
 
 And with it flew away : 
 
 ' This bird we found, a kingfisher, 
 
 Though dead, his plumes how bright ! — 
 
 To have him stuffed, my dear papa, 
 'T will be a charnnng sight. 
 
 1 When reached the heath, how wide the space, 
 
 The air how fresh and sweet ; 
 We plucked these flowers and diff 'rent heath 
 
 The fairest we could meet. 
 
 1 The distant prospect we admired, 
 
 The mountains far and blue ; 
 A mansion here, a cottage there, 
 
 See, here 's the sketch we drew. 
 
 A splendid sight we next beheld, 
 
 The glorious setting sun, 
 In clouds of crimson, purple, gold, 
 
 His daily race was done.' 
 
 1 True taste and knowledge,' said papa, 
 
 1 By observation 's gained ; 
 You 've both used well the gift of sight, 
 
 And thus reward obtained. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 279 
 
 * My Julia in this desk will find 
 
 A drawing-box quite new : 
 This spy-glass, Tom, you oft desired, 
 
 I think it now your due. 
 
 1 And pretty toys and pretty gifts 
 
 For Charles too shall be bought, 
 When he can see the works of God, 
 
 And prize them as he ought.' 
 
 THE MORNING'S TASK. 
 
 Sit to your books, the father said, 
 
 Nor play nor trifle, laugh nor talk ; 
 And when at noon you 've spelt and read 
 
 I '11 take you all a pleasant walk. 
 He left the room, the boys sat still, 
 
 Each gravely bent upon his task ; 
 But soon die youngest, little Will, 
 
 Of this and that would teasing ask. 
 
 I Ve lost my ball,' the prattler cried, 
 
 1 Have either of you seen my ball ? ' 
 1 Pray mind your book,' young Charles replied, 
 
 ' Your noisy talk disturbs us all. 
 Remember now what we were told, 
 
 The time, I warn you, Will, draws near.' 
 1 And what care I,' said Will so bold, 
 
 1 You, Charles, I neither mind nor fear.' 
 
280 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 He spun his top, he smacked his whip, 
 
 At marbles also he would play, 
 And round the room he chose to skip, 
 
 And thus his hours he threw away. 
 But at the window what comes in ? 
 
 A lovely painted butterfly ! 
 ' A prize ! a prize ! that I will win,' 
 
 Young William loud is heard to cry. 
 
 Quick on the table up he leaps, 
 
 Then on the chairs and sofa springs ; 
 Now there, now here, he softly creeps ; 
 
 And now his books and hat he flings. 
 The brilliant insect fluttered round, 
 
 And out again it gaily flew ; 
 Then through the window, with a bound, 
 
 Will jumped, and said, ' I '11 soon have you.' 
 
 From flower to flower the boy it led, 
 
 He still pursued the pretty thing. 
 Away it sprang from bed to bed, 
 
 Now sipping dew, now on the wing. 
 And to the fields it took its flight : 
 
 He thought the prize was worth the chase, 
 O'er hedge and ditch, with all his might, 
 
 He followed up the pleasing race. 
 
 To catch it, he was much perplexed, 
 
 The insect now is seen no more ; 
 Whilst standing thus confounded, vexed, 
 
 He hears the village clock strike four. 
 Towards home he hastened at the sound : 
 
 All shame, surprise, and fear, and doubt, 
 Nor sisters, brothers could be found, 
 
 He asks, and hears they 're all gone out. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 281 
 
 With sorrow struck, when this was told, 
 
 He cried — in sadness down he sat : 
 Now o'er the stones a carriage rolled, 
 
 And at the door came, rat tat tat. 
 And from the coach the girls and boys 
 
 Stepped out, all smiling, pleased, and gay, 
 With books and dolls, and pretty toys, 
 
 Bats, ninepins, hoops, and kites had they. 
 
 1 Why, Will, my boy ! ' the father said, 
 
 1 Come hither, child, but wherefore cry ; 
 Do n't droop your face, why hang your head ? 
 
 Let 's see the pretty butterfly. 
 I kept my promise, home I came, 
 
 According to my first intent ; 
 You broke your word, and yours the shame, 
 
 We then without you shopping went.' 
 
 THE OAK. 
 
 The oak for grandeur, strength, and noble size, 
 
 Excels all trees that in the forest grow ; 
 From acron small that trunk, those branches rise, 
 
 To which such signal benefits we owe. 
 Behold what shelter in its ample shade, 
 
 From noon tide sun, or from the drenching rain ; 
 And of its timber stanch, vast ships are made, 
 
 To sweep rich cargoes o'er the watery main. 
 24 * 
 
282 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 CARELESS MATILDA. 
 
 Again, Matilda, is your work astray, 
 Your thimble gone ! your scissors, where are they ? 
 Your needles, pins, your thread, and tapes all lost ; 
 Your housewife here, and there your work-bag tost. 
 Fie, fie, my child ! indeed this will not do, 
 Your hair uncombed, your frock in tatters too ; 
 I 'm now resolved no more delays to grant, 
 This day I '11 send you to your stern old aunt. 
 In vain Matilda wept, repented, prayed, 
 In vain a promise of amendment made. 
 
 Arrived at Austere Hall, Matilda sighed, 
 
 By Lady Rigid, when severely eyed : 
 
 ' You read and write, and work well, as I 'm told, 
 
 Are gentle, kind, good-natured, far from bold ; 
 
 But very careless, negligent, and wild, 
 
 When you leave me, you '11 be a different child.' 
 
 The little girl next morn a favor asks, 
 
 4 1 wish to take a walk.' — ' Go learn your tasks,' 
 
 The lady harsh replies, ' nor cry nor whine, 
 
 Your room you leave not till you 're called to dine.' 
 
 As thus Matilda sat, o'erwhelmed with shame, 
 
 A dame appeared, Disorder was her name : 
 
 Her hair and dress neglected, soiled her face, 
 
 She squinted, leered, and hobbled in her pace. 
 
 1 Here, child,' she said, ' my mistress sends you this, 
 
 A bag of silks — a flower not worked amiss ; 
 
 A polyanthus bright and wondrous gay, 
 
 You '11 copy it by noon, she bade me say.' 
 
 Disorder grinned, then shuffling walked away. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 283 
 
 Entangled were the silks of every hue, 
 
 Confused and mixed were shades of pink, green, blue; 
 
 She took a thread, compared it with the flower, 
 
 1 To finish this is not within my power. 
 
 Well-sorted silks had lady Rigid sent, 
 
 I might have worked, if such was her intent.' 
 
 She sighed, and melted into sobs and tears, 
 
 She hears a noise — and at the door appears 
 
 A pretty maiden, clean, well-dressed, and neat, 
 
 Her voice was soft, her looks sedate, yet sweet : 
 
 1 My name is Order : do not cry, ray love ; 
 
 Attend to me, and thus you may improve.' 
 
 She took the silks, and drew out shade by shad*', 
 
 In separate - ;h hue wit! laid ; 
 
 Then smiling kindly left th 
 
 Matilda no I employ, 
 
 And sees the flower complete— I her joy ; 
 
 the room— 'I' done ray task, 9 she cries ; 
 
 The lady looked with dish li<*\ r ing « ; 
 
 I 
 
 ' Why. mis is weH ! 
 
 Worked clean, i xaet, and done within the hour, 
 
 And now a ride, walk, or pi 
 
 Thus passed ^' much dreaded da 
 
 At all her tasks Disorder would attend. 
 At all her task- still < >rder stood her friend. 
 With tears and sighs her studies <he began, 
 These into smiles were changed by Order's plan: 
 No longer lady Rigid seemed severe, 
 Her looks the negligent alone need fear. 
 
 * 
 
284 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 And now the day, the wished-for day is come, 
 When young Matilda 's suffered to go home ; 
 'You quit me, child, but oft to mind recall, 
 The time you spent with me at Austere Hall. 
 And now, my dear, I '11 give you one of these, 
 Your servant she will be — take which you please.' 
 ' From me,' Disorder asked, ' old friend, why start ? ' 
 Matilda clasped sweet Order to her heart, 
 1 My dearest girl,' she said, 'we '11 never part.' 
 
 THE MUSHROOM GIRL. 
 
 'T is surely time for me to rise, 
 Though yet the dawn be gray ; 
 
 Sweet sleep, O quit my closing eyes, 
 For I must now away, 
 The young birds twitter on the spray. 
 
 It is not for the dewy mead 
 I leave my soft repose, 
 
 Where daisies nod and lambkins feed ; 
 But there the mushroom grows, 
 And that the sportive fairy knows. 
 
 I '11 rove the wide heath far and near, 
 Of mushrooms fine in quest ; 
 
 But you remain, kind mother, here, 
 Lie still and take your rest, 
 Though we 're with poverty oppressed. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 285 
 
 No toad-stool in my basket found ; 
 My mushrooms when I sell, 
 
 I '11 buy us bread, our labors crowned, 
 Then let our neighbors tell, 
 That you and I live wondrous well. 
 
 BEASTS, BIRDS, AND FISHES. 
 
 The Dog will come when he is called 
 
 The Cat will walk away, 
 The Monkey's cheek is very bald, 
 
 The Goat is fond of play. 
 The Parrot is a prate-a-pace, 
 
 Yet knows not what she says ; 
 The noble Horse will win the race, 
 
 Or draw you in a chaise. 
 
 The Pig is not a feeder nice, 
 
 The Squirrel loves a nut, 
 The Wolf will eat you in a trice, 
 
 The Buzzard's eyes are shut. 
 The Lark sings high up in the air, 
 
 The Linnet on the tree ; 
 The Swan he has a bosom fair, 
 
 And who so proud as he. 
 
 O yes, the Peacock is more proud, 
 
 Because his tail has * 
 The Lion roars so very loud, 
 
 He fills you with surprise. 
 The Raven's coat is shining black ; 
 
 Or rather raven gray. 
 The Camel's bunch is on his back. 
 
 The Owl abhors the day. 
 
286 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 The Sparrow steals the cherry ripe, 
 
 The Elephant is wise, 
 The Blackbird charms you with his pipe, 
 
 The false Hyena cries. 
 The Hen guards well her little chicks, 
 
 The useful Cow is meek, 
 The Beaver builds with mud and sticks, 
 
 The Lapwing loves to squeak. 
 
 The little Wren is very small, 
 
 The Humming Bird is less ; 
 The Lady Bird is least of all, 
 
 And beautiful in dress. 
 The Pelican she loves her young, 
 
 The Stork his father loves ; 
 The Woodcock's bill is very long, 
 
 And innocent are Doves. 
 
 The spotted Tiger 's fond of blood. 
 
 The Pigeon feeds on peas, 
 The Duck will gobble in the mud, 
 
 The Mice will eat your cheese. 
 A Lobster 's black, when boiled he 's red, 
 
 The harmless Lamb must bleed. 
 The Codfish has a clumsy head, 
 
 The Goose on grass will feed. 
 
 The lady in her gown of silk, 
 
 The little Worm may thank, 
 The sick man drinks the Ass's milk, 
 
 The Weasel 's long and lank. 
 The Buck gives us a venison dish, 
 
 When hunted for the spoil : 
 The Shark eats up the little fish, 
 
 The Whale he gives us oil. 
 
FOP INFANT MINDS. 287 
 
 The Glow-worm shines the darkest night, 
 
 With candle in its tail ; 
 The Turtle is the cit's delight, 
 
 It wears a coat of mail. 
 In Germany they hunt the Boar, 
 
 The Bee brings honey home, 
 The Ant lays up a winter store, 
 
 The Bear loves honey-comb. 
 
 The Eagle has a crooked beak, 
 
 The Plaice has orange spots ; 
 The Starling, if he 's taught, will speak ; 
 
 The Ostrich walks and trots. 
 The child that does not these things know, 
 
 May yet be thought a dunce ; 
 But I will up in knowledge grow, 
 
 As youth can come but once. Adelaide. 
 
 THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE. 
 
 In a little dark crack half a yard from the ground, 
 
 An honest old spider resided : 
 So pleasant and snug, and convenient 't was found, 
 That his friends came to see it from many miles round ; 
 
 It seemed for his pleasure provided. 
 
 Of the cares, and fatigues, and distresses of life, 
 
 This spider was thoroughly tired : 
 So leaving those scenes of contention and strife, 
 (His children all settled) he came with his wife, 
 
 To live in this cranny retired. 
 
288 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 He thought that the little his wife would consume, 
 
 'T would be easy for him to provide her, 
 Forgetting he lived in a gentleman's room, 
 Where came eveiy morning, a maid and a broom, 
 Those pitiless foes to a spider. 
 
 For when (as sometimes it would chance to befall) 
 
 Just when his neat web w T as completed, 
 Brush — came the great broom down the side of the wall, 
 And, perhaps carried with it, web, spider, and all, 
 He thought himself cruelly treated. 
 
 One day, when their cupboard was empty and dry, 
 
 His wife (Mrs. Hairy-leg Spinner) 
 Said to him, ' Dear, go to the cobweb and try, 
 If you can't find the leg or the wing of a fly, 
 
 As a bit of a relish for dinner.' 
 
 Directly he went, his long search to resume, 
 
 (For nothing he ever denied her) 
 Alas ! little guessing his terrible doom, 
 Just then came the gentleman into his room, 
 
 And saw the unfortunate spider. 
 
 So, while the poor fellow, in search of his pelf, 
 
 In the cobwebs continued to linger, 
 The gentleman reached a long cane from the shelf, 
 (For certain good reasons best known to himself, 
 
 Preferring his stick to Ins finger) — 
 
 Then presently poking him down to the floor, 
 
 (Not stopping at all to consider) 
 With one horrid crush the whole business was o'er, 
 The poor little spider was heard of no more, 
 
 To the lasting distress of his widow ! 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 289 
 
 THE POPPY. 
 
 High on a bright and sunny bed, 
 
 A scarlet poppy grew ; 
 And up it held its staring head, 
 
 And held it out to view. 
 
 Yet no attention did it win 
 By all these efforts made, 
 
 And less offensive had it been 
 In some retired shade. 
 
 For though within its scarlet breast 
 No sweet perfume was found, 
 
 It seemed to think itself the best 
 Of all the flowers around. 
 
 From this may I a hint obtain. 
 And take great care indeed, 
 
 Lest I should grow as pert and vain. 
 As is this gaudy weed. 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 Down in the green and shady bed 
 
 A modest violet grew, 
 Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, 
 As if to hide from view. 
 vol. v. 25 
 
290 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 And yet it was a lovely flower, 
 Its colors bright and fair ; 
 
 It might have graced a rosy bower, 
 Instead of hiding there. 
 
 Yet there it was content to bloom, 
 
 In modest tints arrayed ; 
 And there it spreads its sweet perfume, 
 
 Within the silent shade. 
 
 Then let me to the valley go. 
 This pretty flower to see ; 
 
 That I may also learn to grow, 
 In sweet humility. 
 
 THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. 
 
 How pleasant it is, at the end of the day 
 
 No follies to have to repent ; 
 But reflect on the past, and be able to say, 
 
 That my time has been properly spent 
 
 When I 've done all my buisness with patience and care 
 And been good, and obliging, and kind ; 
 
 I lay on my pillow, and sleep away there, 
 With a happy and peaceable mind. 
 
 But instead of all this, if it must be confessed, 
 
 That I careless and idle have been ; 
 I lay down as usual to go to my rest, 
 
 But feel discontented within. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 291 
 
 Then as I do n't like all the trouble I 've had, 
 
 In future I '11 try to prevent it ; 
 For I never am naughty without being sad, 
 
 Or good — without being contented. 
 
 POVERTY. 
 
 I saw an old cottage of clay, 
 
 And only of mud was the floor ; 
 'T was all falling into decay, 
 
 And the snow drifted in at the door, 
 y 
 Yet there a po^r family dwelt, 
 
 In a cottage so dismal and rude ; 
 And though gnawing hunger they felt, 
 
 They 'd scarcely a morsel of food. 
 
 The children were crying for bread, 
 And to their poor mother they run : 
 
 1 O give us some breakfast,' they said, 
 Alas ! their poor mother had none. 
 
 She viewed them with looks of despair; 
 
 She said (and I am sure it was true) 
 1 'Tis not for myself that I care, 
 
 But, my poor little children, for you.' 
 
 O then, let the wealthy and gay 
 But see such a hovel as this, 
 
 That, in a poor cottage of clay, 
 
 They mav learn what real misery is. 
 
292 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 And the little that I have to spare, 
 I never will squander away, 
 
 While thousands of people there are, 
 As poor and as wretched as they. 
 
 CONTENTED JOHN. 
 
 One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, 
 Although he was poor, did not want to be richer ; 
 For all such vain wishes to him were prevented, 
 By a fortunate habit of being contented. 
 
 Though cold was the weather, or dear was the food, 
 John never was found in a murmuring mood ; 
 For this he was constantly heard to declare, 
 What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear. 
 
 For why should I grumble and murmur, he said ? 
 If I cannot get meat, I can surely get bread ; 
 And though fretting may make my calamities deeper, 
 It never can cause bread and cheese to be cheaper. 
 
 If John was afflicted with sickness or pain, 
 He wished himself better, but did not complain ; 
 Nor lie down to fret, in despondence and sorrow, 
 But said — that he hoped to be better to-morrow. 
 
 If any one wronged him, or treated him ill, 
 Why John was good-natured and sociable still ; 
 For he said — that revenging the injury done, 
 Would be making two rogues, where there need be but 
 one. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS. 293 
 
 And thus honest John, though his station was humble, 
 Passed through this sad world without even a grumble ; 
 
 And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, 
 Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher. 
 
 THE GAUDY FLOWER. 
 
 Why does my Anna toss her head, 
 And look so scornfully around, 
 
 As if she 'd scarcely deign to tread, 
 Upon the daisy-dappled ground. 
 
 Does fancied beauty fire thine i 
 The brilliant tint, the satiu skin ? 
 
 Docs the loved glass, in passing by, 
 Reflect a form genteel and thin ? 
 
 Alas ! that form, that brilliant fire, 
 
 Will never win 
 They may make flattering fools admire, 
 
 IN rsons ol inol move. 
 
 »ws the tulip, staring, bold, 
 In the broad sunshine it abides ; 
 Like ru rls, and burnished gold, 
 
 It shows its bulbous, glossy sides. 
 
 Bat who the gaudy flo^ 
 EJis breast, or sense 
 
 Admired it blows, negli • 
 Lik<> a fair girl with scornful 
 
294 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 The heart's internal feelings move 
 By virtues seated in the inind ; 
 
 Beauty excites more fear than love, 
 As fair, but empty damsels find. 
 
 SLUTTISHNESS. 
 
 Ah ! Mary, my Mary where is your Dolly ? 
 
 Look here, I protest, on the floor ; 
 To leave her about in the dirt thus is folly. 
 
 You ought to be trusted no more. 
 
 I thought you were pleased, and received her quite gladly, 
 When on your birth- day she came home ; 
 
 Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly, 
 And strew her things over the room. 
 
 Her bonnet of straw you once thought a great matter, 
 
 And tied it so pretty and neat ; 
 Now see how 't is crumpled, no trencher is flatter, 
 
 It grieves your mamma thus to see 't. 
 
 Suppose (you 're my Dolly, you know, little daughter, 
 Whom I love to dress neat, and see good) 
 
 Suppose, in my care of you, I were to falter, 
 And let you get dirty and rude ! 
 
 ' But Dolly 's mere wood, I am flesh and blood living, 
 And deserve better treatment and care ; ' 
 
 That is true, my sweet girl, 't i3 the reason I 'm giving 
 This lesson so sharp and severe. 
 
 'T is not for Dolly I 'm anxious and fearful, 
 Though she cost too much to be spoiled ; 
 
 I 'm afraid lest yourself should grow sluttish, not careful, 
 And that were a dad thing, mv child. 
 
FOR INFANT MINDS 295 
 
 DECEMBER NIGHT. 
 
 Dark and dismal is the night, 
 Beating rain and wind so high : 
 
 Close the window shutters tight. 
 And the cheerful fire come nigh. 
 
 Hear the blasts in dreadful chorus, 
 Roaring through the naked tr 
 
 Just like thunder bursting o'er us ; 
 \ow they murmur, now they i 
 
 Think how many o'er tho wild 
 Wander in this dreadful weather; 
 
 e poor mother with her child. 
 Scam* can keep her raga together. 
 
 Or a wretched family, 
 
 'Neath some mud-wall, ruined shed, 
 Shrugging close together, fie 
 
 On the earth — their only bed. 
 
 While we biI within so warm, 
 Sheltered, comfortable, safe ; 
 
 Think how many 'hide theston 
 Who no home, or shelter have. 
 
 Sad their lol is, wretched creatm 
 
 How much l>< U wt : 
 
 itenl then, on our features 
 Sure!] never ought I 
 
296 ORIGINAL POEMS 
 
 THE VILLAGE GREEN. 
 
 On the cheerful Village Green, 
 Scattered round with houses neat, 
 
 All the boys and girls are seen, 
 Playing there with busy feet. 
 
 Now they frolic, hand in hand, 
 Making many a merry chain ; 
 
 Then they form a warlike band, 
 Marching o'er the level plain. 
 
 Then ascends the worsted ball ; 
 
 High it rises in the air ; 
 Or against the cottage wall, 
 
 Up and down it bounces there. 
 
 Or the hoop, with even pace, 
 Runs before the merry crowd : 
 
 Joy is seen in every face ; 
 Joy is heard in clamors loud. 
 
 For, among the rich and gay, 
 
 Fine, and grand, and decked in laces, 
 None appear more glad than they, 
 
 With happier hearts or happier faces. 
 
 Then, contented with my state, 
 
 Let me envy not the great ; 
 Since true pleasure may be seen 
 
 On a cheerful Village Green. 
 

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