The children's friend: Translated from the French of M. Berquin; complete in four volumes. Ornamented with frontispieces. [pt.2] — Ami des enfans. English

Table of contents

- FRONTISPIECE. Vol. II.

- [titlepage]

- CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

- MAURICE.

- [dialogue]

- THE PARRICIDE.

- JONATHAN.

- VANITY PUNISHED. A DRAMA, in one ACT.

- CHARACTERS.

- SCENE I. A GARDEN.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- SCENE VIII.

- SCENE IX.

- SCENE X.

- SCENE XI.

- SCENE XII.

- SCENE XIII.

- SCENE XIV.

- SCENE XV.

- SCENE XVI.

- THE PLEASURES OF WORK.

- THE YOUNG SPARROWS.

- THE TWO APPLE-TREES.

- IF MEN DO NOT SEE YOU, GOD SEES YOU.

- THE GOOD SON. A DRAMA, in Two ACTS .

- CHARACTERS.

- 1

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- SCENE VIII.

- SCENE IX.

- SCENE X.

- SCENE XI.

- SCENE XII.

- ACT II.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- SCENE VIII.

- PHYSIOGNOMY.

- NARCISSUS AND HIPPOLYTUS.

- THE MAN WHO ROSE TO SUDDEN FORTUNE.

- THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING. A DRAMA, in TWO ACTS.

- CHARACTERS.

- ACT I.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- ACT II.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- SCENE VIII.

- THE HEN.

- THE LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN.

- CHARACTERS.

- [scene]

- THE VETERAN DISMISSED WITH HONOUR. A DRAMA, in one ACT.

- CHARACTERS.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- GEORGE AND CECILIA.

- THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION.

- CAESAR AND POMPEY.

- THE LITTLE GIRL WITH WHISKERS.

- THE SCAR.

- THE SILK SLIP.

- THE FIRE, A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

- CHARACTERS.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- SCENE VIII.

- THE GREAT GARDEN.

- BLIND-MAN's BUFF. A DRAMA, in Two ACTS.

- CHARACTERS.

- ACT I.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- ACT II.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE the last.

- The following BOOKS for the Instruction and Entertainment of Youth, are just published, and may be had of any of the Booksellers.

THE CHILDREN'S FRIEND.

THE END OF VOL. II.

FRONTISPIECE. Vol. II.

Eat there, said Claribell to him▪ it is all that I have left to give you. You are the Father of this Child, and if you do not devour him, Famine and Misery shortly will.

See page 20.

Publish'd as the Act directs, July 25th 1787, by John Stockdale, Piccad••••

THE CHILDREN'S FRIEND.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. BERQUIN; COMPLETE IN FOUR VOLUMES.

ORNAMENTED WITH FRONTISPIECES.

A NEW CORRECTED EDITION; WITH ADDITIONS.

VOL. II.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. STOCKDALE, PICCADILLY; J. RIVINGTON AND SONS, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD; B. LAW, AVE-MARIA-LANE; J. JOHNSON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD; C. DILLY, POULTRY; J. MURRAY, FLEET-STREET; J. SEWELL, CORNHILL; AND W. CREECH, EDINBURGH.

M. DCC. LXXXVIII.

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

- MAURICE Page 1

- The Parricide Page 17

- Jonathan Page 18

- Vanity punished Page 21

- The Pleasures of Work Page 33

- The Young Sparrows Page 38

- The two Apple-Trees Page 41

- If Men do not see you, God sees you Page 43

- The Good Son Page 46

- Physiognomy Page 64

- Narcissus and Hippolytus Page 71

- The Man who rose to sudden Fortune Page 75

- The Greyhound and the Ring Page 79

- The Hen Page 97

- The Little Needle-Women Page 103

- The Veteran dismissed with Honour Page 110

- George and Cecilia Page 129

- The Spirit of Contradiction Page 135

- Caesar and Pompey Page 139

- The Little Girl with Whiskers Page 142

- The Scar Page 144

- The Silk Slip Page 146

- The Fire Page 152

- The Great Garden Page 167

- Blind-Man's Buff Page 177

MAURICE.

My dear Son,

DO not let the news that I am going to communicate afflict you too much. I wish I could conceal it from you, but I cannot. Your father is dangerously ill, and without a miracle in his favour we must lose him. O heavens! my heart is ready to burst when I think of his affliction. For these six days I have not closed my eyes, and am now so weak that I can scarcely hold my pen. You must come home immediately. The servant who delivers you this letter, will return with you. Your father desires earnestly to see you. "Maurice, my dear Maurice, if I could embrace him before I die!" he has repeated a hundred times in the day. Would to heaven that you were here now! However, do not lose a moment in packing up your things; and I have ordered the man to make all possible expedition. Every moment will be an age of anxiety to me, until I clasp you in my arms. Adieu, my dear child! may the Lord protect you from all dangers on your journey! I wait your return with the most lively impatience, and am

Your ever affectionate mother, CECILIA LAVINGTON.
Oxford.

Dear Cousin,

I have now no other friend but you to apply to, and from you alone I can hope for comfort in a misfortune too weighty for me to bear. Heaven has deprived me of what was dearest to me on earth, my beloved husband. You know how sincere and tender an affection I bore him. This day se•nnight he desired me to send for our son from school. When Maurice was brought up to his Bed, he stretched out his hand to him, and had scarcely given him his blessing, before he expired. With him is gone all the satisfaction and happiness of my life. You see me now plunged into a situation the most distressful and afflicting to a woman, and a mother. Yet if I suffered alone, I could bear it; but my poor son sighs by my side. He is not yet sensible of the misfortune of being an orphan. It wounds my heart to see him look up to me with tears in his eyes, while he presses my hand, and speaks of his father. None but a mother can have an idea of so afflicting a sight. I think at those times that I read in his looks these melancholy words: "It is you alone, my dear mother, that must maintain me now." Wherever I go, he is at my side, and wipes the tears from his little eyes with my gown. Sorrow stops my voice when I would comfort him, for the very sight of my child renews all my afflictions. How shall I maintain him? My poor husband has left me nothing, and my hands are too feeble to work. To whom then shall I look for assistance, unless to you? On you alone I rest all my hopes. Heaven, I doubt not, will dispose your heart to relieve a destitute and forlorn widow, and to prove that the ties of blood which unite us are sacred. I give up my son to your care. Whatever kindness you shew to him, I shall receive as performed for my sake, and for the memory of a man who loved you. All the strength and spirits that I have left I will exert, to gain myself a livelihood by working; but to bring up my son properly is beyond my power. I give him up therefore to you entirely. However seve•e it may be to part with my child, I must yield to necessity. In the mean time I comfort myself in the reflexion, that I rely on the favour of a merciful God, and the kindness of a worthy relation. Be you to him as a father, and enable him one day to soften my afflictions. I am unable to proceed. My tears, which wet my paper, shew you sufficiently what my heart feels. You have it in your power to determine my happiness, and the well-being of my son. God will for ever bless your liberality; he will reward you even in this world for your kindness to two unfortunate relations. I am, dear cousin,

Your disconsolate kinswoman, &c. CECILIA LAVINGTON.
Oxford.

Madam,

Yours of the 7th inst. in which you inform me of your husband's death, has given me the sincerest affliction. You may be assured, I partake of your grief, and feel still more for your loss than for my own. Yet I must confess, I cannot help being a good deal surprized that you think of applying to me alone for assistance. Is it absolutely necessary that your son should have the education of a scholar, and add another to the number of halflearned smatterers that are already in the world? Are there not many other professions in which he may render as great services to society, and labour to more advantage for his own interest? Consider with yourself, how without fortune or friends will he be able to advance himself? You know the world too well, to make it necessary for me to shew you that such an attempt would be impracticable. On the other hand, it would be unpleasing to yourself to see him chargeable to strangers. You speak of the ties of blood; but my own family, which is very numerous, puts me more forcibly in mind of them; and I beg you to believe that it is with great difficulty I can maintain them in a suitable manner. To load myself with an additional burthen, is absolutely out of my power; and I am convinced, that upon more mature reflexion, you will dispense with my doing so. All that I can do is to put your son apprentice to a mercer at Rochester, a Mr. Durant, with whom I have concerns in business. I promise you, he shall be well treated there. You may send him upon trial for some time: and if approved, he will take him without a fee. Consider maturely of my offer, and let me know your determination, and your son's. If he resolves to go to the University, it is absolutely out of my power to maintain him there. I request you to accept the enclosed order for four guineas, as a proof of my concern for your present distressed situaation, and to believe me,

Madam, &c. London.

Dear Sir,

I cannot forget the care that you and Mrs. Masters took of me while at your academy, though I have at present scarcely strength to write you these lines of acknowledgement. But my mama, who sits by me crying, is unable through grief to take pen in hand, and has said that task on me who am so unfit for it. However, from remembering your constant kindness to me, I find some satisfaction in writing to you, though I may succeed but indifferently. You are already informed, I suppose, of my papa's death. Ah! sir, what you foretold me is not come to pass. You bid me not to be uneasy; that I should perhaps, when I came home, find my papa out of danger. But, alas! he is dead. My mama is now a poor widow, and I an orphan. I dreaded no less, as I came near our house. I had fallen asleep in the chaise, and dreamed that my papa was in heaven; and that he took me by the hand, and spoke to me. At this I awoke, and in waking, seemed to hear the passing-bell toll. Yet we were not near the house, and had more than three miles to go yet. At last, when I arrived, my mama was at our door, waiting for me, all in tears. She kissed me, and took me up stairs to my papa who was in bed and almost speechless. When I kissed him, oh dear! how I cried and sobbed. At this he opened his eyes, and seeing me, laid his hand upon my head, and gave me his blessing; but in so faint a voice as scarcely to be heard. Ah! you cannot imagine how my mama and I cried. All his neighbours and acquaintance were in tears, too, at his funeral; but mama and I more than any body. I begin to eat and drink a little, but my mama has absolutely taken no nourishment, so that she is as pale as death; and I beg of her continually not to die, for then I do not know what would become of me in this world. Ah! dear sir, you may imagine how great a trouble it is to mama and me, that I am not able to continue my education. But it cannot be otherwise, and I must be content. My mama has written to her cousin in London, who is a rich merchant, to request him to maintain me at school; but he will not, and he says that I shall be no better than a half-learned smatterer. For my part, I think, I might have learning enough if my mother had the tenth part of his money. But no; I must go apprentice to Mr. Durant the mercer, at Rochester. I cannot tell you how much that grieves me. Mama strives to comfort me, and tells me that it is a reputable line of business, and that I may make a fortune by following it with application. But what does all this signify, when one dislikes it? You know, dear sir, that learning was all to me: I wished to be as good a scholar and divine as my papa. Before, I had always a book in my hand; now I shall be employed measuring silks with a yard. But I must hold my tongue, since it cannot be otherwise. Dear sir, I wish you happiness, and shall always think of you. I hope, too, that you will not forget me, and thank you again for your kind treatment of me. I suppose Mr. Durant will seldom take me to London, so that as I pass there in my way to Rochester, I shall go and see you and Mrs. Masters; and if ever I come into great business, you shall take whatever you please in my shop, without paying a farthing. Only try. You shall see. Meantime I am, and ever shall be,

Dear sir,
(as you used to call me,) your little friend, MAURICE LAVINGTON.
Oxford.

Maurice, Mrs. Lavington. Oxford.

Maurice.

Ah! mama, the stage is ready to set off.

Mrs. Lav. (in tears.)

My dear child, are you going then to leave me?

Maurice.

Pray, mama, do not cry so, or I shall be dull all the journey. Where are my gloves? Ah! they are on my hands. I do not know what I am doing.

Mrs. Lav.

What pain it is to part with you! I will accompany you at least a little way out of town.

Maurice.

Nay, dear mama, you are already so ill, and so weak!

Mrs. Lav.

It is but half a mile, my dear.

Maurice.

But you know, the doctor says that you must take care of yourself. If you were to come home worse, and be obliged, like my pap•, to take to your bed and die, I should be the cause of it. No, you must not stir out, or else I'll not go.

Mrs. Lav.

Well, my dear child, then I will stay.

Maurice.

Yes, mama, do not move out, and when I am gone, He down on the bed and try to rest.

Mrs. Lav.

Oh! I wish I could.

Maurice.

Good bye, good mama.

Mrs. Lav.

God bless you and watch over you, my dear child. Be good, honest and industrious, and make your mother happy.

Maurice.

You shall see, mama; you shall see that I will make you happy.

Mrs. Lav.

Write to me regularly, at least once a fortnight.

Maurice.

Yes, every week, mama; and will you write to me too?

Mrs. Lav.

Can you ask that? I shall now have no other pleasure upon earth. But shall we ever see each other again in this world?

Maurice.

Oh! yes; we shall see each other again. I will take care to behave so well that I will get leave to come and see you in six months. But mama, the stage is going off. I must leave you.

Mrs. Lav.

One kiss more, my dear child! Farewel! (They wave their hands until out of sight.)

Mr. Durant. Mr. Durant, Maurice. Rochester.

What do you bring me there, my little gentleman?

Maurice.

A letter, sir, my name is Lavington. I suppose you know what it concerns.

Mr. Durant.

Oh! you are little Lavington. I am glad to see you. I like your face very well. Have you a taste for business?

Maurice, (sighing.)

Why yes, sir.

Mr. Durant.

You have been some time at school; can you read?

Maurice.

Yes, sir, I could read when I was only five years old; and now I am twelve.

Mr. Durant.

Then your father must have begun pretty early with you. Can you write too, and cast accompts? How much is 6 times 8?

Maurice.

48; and 6 times 48 make 288; and 6 times 288 make—stop a moment—make 1728; and add 59 to th• it makes 1787 exactly, the present year of our Lord.

Mr. Durant.

How? Why you cast accompts like a banker. I shall be glad to have so clever a little boy behind my counter.

Maurice.

I hope, sir, I shall give you satisfaction.

Mr. Durant.

According as you behave yourself.

Maurice.

Sir, I ask no better.

Mr. Durant.

I make no doubt but we shall be good friends.

Maurice.

O sir! you shall never have reason to find fault with me. I love my mama too well to run the risk of grieving her.

Mr. Durant.

Come then, I will introduce you to my wife and children. I have two much about your age.

Maurice.

I hope, sir, to gain the regard of all your family.

Lady Abberville, Maurice.

Maurice, (carrying a piece of sattin rolled up.)

Your servant, madam. Mr. Durant gives his compliments to your ladyship, and sends the twelve yards of sattin, of the pattern that you shewed him. You know the price, madam?

Lady Abber.

He asked me thirteen shillings at the first word. That is something dear.

Maurice.

Have you a measure in the house, madam?

Lady Abber.

Mr. Durant is an honest man. I never measure after him. How much does it come to?

Maurice.

Seven pounds sixteen shillings, madam.

Lady Abber.

That is a good deal of money. Has he ordered you to receive it?

Maurice.

That is as your ladyship pleases.

Lady Abber.

Well, there are seven pounds sixteen shillings. I shall call on him for a receipt; but if I were disposed to cheapen, cannot you abate me something?

Maurice.

Yes, madam. Mr. Durant told me that I should abate a shilling a yard.

Lady Abber.

Well, my little boy, that is very honest. I am perfectly well pleased with your sincerity. Let me see; that makes twelve shillings.

Maurice.

Yes, madam; I have twelve shillings to return you.

Lady Abber.

Keep them yourself, my little friend. This is my birth-day, and I will make you a present of them.

Maurice.

Madam, I beg pardon, I cannot take them.

Lady Abber.

You shall: it is my property, and I give it to you.

Maurice.

Perhaps Mr. Durant would take it amiss.

Lady Abber.

That is my concern. I shall make that up.

Maurice.

Madam, I return you a thousand thanks. This money shall not stay long in my pocket. I will send it off directly to my mama, and mention your ladyship to her in my letter. I shall go and write it immediately.

Lady Abber.

No, no; I must not let you go so fast. I see that we have a good deal to say to each other. Tell me in the first place who is your mama, and where does she live?

Maurice.

Ah! my poor mama is widow to a clergyman of Oxford. My papa is dead these two months. He was too charitable to the poor to leave much money behind him. He kept me at school for three years near London; but I was sent home a little before he died, because he wished to see me once more. And as it was not in mama's power to continue my education, a kinsman of hers sent me to be apprentice to Mr. Durant the mercer. I am with him upon trial. But if my relation that is so rich had thought proper, I should have gone to the University and taken my degrees. Ah! I should have been happy to follow my studies, and to become one day a great scholar. I was always the foremost in my class, and my masters were very fond of me. The next time that your ladyship shall have occasion for any thing from us, I will shew you a letter from our head master, which I received a week ago. You will see by it how fond he was of me. Ay, and he says, he will be fond of me as long as he lives.

Lady Abber.

I do not doubt it, my good child. You have already made me very fond of you, though this is the first time that ever I have seen you. But tell me; would you be glad to go from behind the counter, and return to school?

Maurice.

Ah! if that was possible. But my mama cannot do it; she has not money enough, and schooling is expensive.

Lady Abber.

Yes; but if your mother has not, there are many people in the world that have more than enough. What would you say if I were to send you to a gentleman who should examine you, to see if you have made good use of the time that you have spent at school, and are likely to make a progress if you should return thither?

Maurice.

O madam, how happy should I be! Pray send me to the gentleman directly. You shall see what he will say of me. And then I may learn what I have not yet had time to know.

Lady Abber.

Do you know the principal academy of this town?

Maurice.

Oh yes, madam. I have often sighed as I passed by the door of it.

Lady Abber.

Well; stay a moment. (She sits down before her bureau, writes a letter and gives it to Maurice.) There, run to the academy and ask for the master. You must speak to himself. You will give my compliments to him and request him to send a line in answer to my note.

Maurice.

But madam, I am in a hurry to send these twelve shillings to my mama.

Lady Abber.

You can wait till to-morrow. Perhaps you may have still better news to send her.

Maurice.

I will first, madam, carry your letter and then hasten to Mr. Durant who waits for me.

Lady Abber.

Take care not to go astray.

Maurice.

Oh! I shall find my way. I wish your ladyship good morning. In less than half an hour the master of the academy shall have your letter. I will fly to him like a bird.

The Master of the Academy, Maurice. Rochester.

Maurice.

Sir, I have a note for you from Lady —. Oh! dear, I have forgot her name. But I will run back to her to know it.

The Master.

There is no occasion for that, child. I suppose the lady's name is to the note. (He opens, and looks at the bottom.) Lady Abberville! Oh! it is a hand that I know very well. (reads.)

Sir,

The child whom I send to you is a poor orphan. His father is lately dead, and his mother has been under the necessity of taking him from school, in order to put him apprentice. He seems, however, to have a strong desire for learning; therefore I beg as a favour that you will have the goodness to examine him, and if you form any hopes of him, I shall charge myself with his education. This being my birth day, puts me in mind of the duty to which we are born, that of doing good to our fellowcreatures; and this child seems to have been sent by heaven to be the object of it. I request you to give me your opinion of him, and am, sir, &c.

Take a seat, my little man. I shall be at your service in a minute. I am in haste to finish a letter.

Maurice.

Oh! sir, what fine books you have there! it is a long time since I have looked into any. Will you please to let me open one while you write?

The Master.

With all my heart, my dear.

Maurice.

Hah! this is Homer. But it is in Greek. It is too hard for me. I never read it but in English.

The Master.

What! have you read Homer? And what do you think of him?

Maurice.

He is 〈◊〉 of fine passages, and especially of beautiful 〈◊〉 Only I with that Achille, had not been so passionate and stubborn.

The Master.

What instances of passion or stubbornness do you find in him?

Maurice.

Was it well done of him to leave the Greeks in distress? Was it their fault if he quarrelled with Agamemnon? They had done him no wrong. Should not he have suffered himself to be persunded, when the deputies came to make submission to him in his tent? But no, he remains immoveable as a rock. I should not have let them entreat me so long. I should have followed them at the first word.

The Master.

Then you are very good-natured.

Maurice.

We should be so towards all men, and especially to our countrymen. Oh! you have a Sophocles too. The tragedy of Philoctetes, I believe, is by him. I have read it in English. It is a very moving play. But I'll tell you, sir, what I liked best in it.

The Master.

I should be glad to know.

Maurice.

It is a young Grecian—What is this his name is?

The Master.

Neoptolemus.

Maurice.

Yes, yes; Neoptolemus. It is when hecomes back and brings Philoctetes his bow and arrows. I think that I should have done the same. But I beg pardon, sir; perhaps my talk grows tiresome to you.

The Master.

Not at all 〈◊〉 listen to you with pleasure. Besides, my letter is finished.

Maurice.

Then, sir, I will beg you to tell me what fine book of prints that is, that •ies open on your •esk.

The Master.

It is a collection of engravings from the finest paintings in the gallery at Florence.

Maurice.

That is Jupiter; I know him.

The Master.

How do you like him?

Maurice.

I like the picture very well, but not Mr. Jupiter.

The Master.

Why not?

Maurice.

Because he was an odious character. I do not know how the Greeks and Romans could be such fools as to worship him. He was quite a libertine, and always quarrelling with Juno. Is that acting like a god?

The Master.

You are right. He was an improper and contemptible object of worship. However, nothing has been handed down to us concerning him but the imaginations of the vulgar; and you know that the people has always been blind and superstitious.

Maurice.

Why our peasants now-a-days have more sense. Only imagine, sir, the clergyman of a parish going into the pulpit, and preaching that God almighty has a wife, whom he deceives and scolds every day. His parishioners would not believe a word of it.

The Master.

How comes it that the vulgar are now more sensible than in former times?

Maurice.

From the light of the gospel. There every thing shews a just and good God. If I had lived in Greece, and had possessed such a book, they would never have worshipped any other than the God that we worship.

The Master.

Kiss me, my fine boy; what is your name?

Maurice.

Maurice Lavington.

The Master.

Indeed, my dear Maurice, it would be a pity that you passed your life behind a counter. You must apply yourself to learning again.

Maurice.

Ah! I should like that very well, if it was in my power.

The Master.

I will give you my answer to Lady Abberville.

Maurice.

Sir, I shall take it with pleasure. But she requests you, sir, I believe, to have the kindness to examine me.

The Master.

I have done that already. I can judge of your understanding and your heart. Perhaps I may have the pleasure of contributing to procure you a more happy lot. Amuse yourself in looking over these prints, while I write my answer.

Maurice.

Or rather, sir, oblige me with a pen and some paper: I will write too.

The Master.

To your benefactress?

Maurice.

No, sir; to another person.

The Master.

May not I know to whom?

Maurice.

When my letter is finished, sir, you shall see it.

The Master.

I long to have a view of it. (They both sit down. Maurice writes the following letter.)

Dear Sir,

I thank you a thousand times for your kindness in taking notice of me and in writing to Lady Abberville. I should be very happy to return to my former school, where every body loves me; but since you will be the occasion of my happiness, I shall be glad to enjoy it under your eye. If I am so lucky as to be admitted into your academy, I will love you with all my heart. I hope, I shall be diligent and well behaved, and learn every thing that you will be kind enough to teach me. I hardly dare hope that it will be so. That depends on the will of Providence, and yours. But if I remain with Mr. Durant, you will not refuse me the pleasure of coming to see you now and then, and of discoursing a little with you and reading your fine books; otherwise I shall soon forget all that I have learned at school, and I should be sorry for that, although it be not much. I hope, dear sir, you will have the goodness to oblige me, and I will let my mama know it, to comfort her sorrows; for she is very fond of me, and I too of her. Perhaps one day—

The Master.

Well, Maurice, is your letter finished?

Maurice.

No, sir, not quite. I have more to say than you have. But there, sir, read it, such as it is.

The Master.

How is this? Why it is addressed to me. Well, this is charming. No, my good little Maurice, you shall not remain at Mr. Durant's, but shall come to me, if you like it better. You will go now to Lady Abberville. Give her this note, with my humble respects, and let me know what she says of it.

Maurice.

O dear! shall I be so happy!—

The Master.

Go, and heaven befriend you!

Maurice.

Oh! I shall run, and be back again directly. (Bowing to the master.) Your servant, sir.

Lady Abberville, Maurice. Rochester.

Lady Abberville.

Well, Maurice, do you bring me an answer?

Maurice.

Yes, madam; here it is.

Lady Abber.

I am curious to know what it says; nothing very favourable, I am afraid.

Maurice.

Oh! nothing to my prejudice, madam, I am sure.

Lady Abber.

(reads to herself.)

Madam,

You could not give me a more sensible pleasure tha• what I felt in the conversation of this amiable child. His looks full of ingenuous innocence, the lively spirit that appears in his eyes and animates his discourse, have warmly attached me to him. To shine as a man of letters is more suitable to his genius, than to pursue the line to which his father's death and the poverty of his family had destined him. I congratulate you, madam, that you chose for the object of your generosity a child of so fair hopes. Heaven seems to have thrown him in your way for that purpose. I am strongly persuaded that his behaviour and sentiments will never give you cause to repent, and shall esteem myself very happy if by my cares I can promote your generous intentions.

I have the honour to be, &c.

Lady Abber.

The master seems to be only half satisfied with you.

Maurice.

Oh! madam, he is quite satisfied. He told me so, and I can see it in your eyes.

Lady Abber.

Ay? Can you see it there, my little cunning man? But to speak seriously, if there was a person that would take the charge of your maintenance and education, what would you do for that person?

Maurice.

What would I do?—I hardly know. I can do nothing of myself, but I would pray for that person from the bottom of my heart, both day and night.

Lady Abber.

Then you shall pray for me, my dear child, as for your second mother.

Maurice.

Will you be my mama?

Lady Abber.

Yes, I will. Your father is dead. I will fill his place, and do ev•• thing for you that he would. You shall go to your learning again, and nothing shall be wanting to your education.

Maurice.

On dear! my good mama, I can hardly speak for joy.

Lady Abber.

If you love me, you will never call me any thing but mama, remember.

Maurice.

Oh! yes, mama. I am as happy as a king.

Lady Abber.

You will lose your little senses. Come, be composed, and let us take a walk in the garden. I have something to say to you of your mother.

Mr. Durant, Maurice. Rochester.

Mr. Durant.

Where have you been so long?

Maurice.

Oh! Mr. Durant, if you knew—

Mr. Durant.

Knew! I know that you should not be so long on an errand. Do not let this be the case another time. What! could not you find Lady Abberville at home?

Maurice.

Yes, sir, I found her, and I found in her a second mother.

Mr. Durant.

What stuff is this? Are you mad?

Maurice.

No, sir: but I am going to my learning again. I shall be put to an academy in a few days, and my mama, Lady Abberville, will come to-morrow and speak to you about it.

Mr. Durant.

What, do not you chuse to stay with me, then?

Maurice.

Why, sir, I like learning and study better than business.

Mr. Durant.

So then, you are only come hither to go away again? You have deceived me.

Maurice.

No, sir, I should be very sorry. I had not a thought of going, and could have staid here contentedly. But suppose yourself in my place for a moment. If my papa had not died, I should not have quitted school to live here. A worthy lady acts to me like a parent and offers to put me to school again: is it a fault in me to accept her ladyship's offer?

Mr. Durant.

Well, you are only upon trial here, it is true, and your choice is free. You are very right. However, I wish I had never seen you, for I began to be fond of you, and now I shall grieve to part with you (Goes out.)

Maurice.

Mr. Durant is something blunt, but a very worthy man. I shall be sorry to leave him and his wife and his children. But I must write to mama. Oh! how happy will she be on reading my letter! I wish that she had it now in her hands, and that I were by her side the next moment. (He begins to write.)

Dear Mama,

Joy! joy! you are now free from all trouble, and I too. Do not, however, let tears of joy hinder you from reading my letter. This is the story of my happiness. Mr. Durant sent me this morning to carry some sattin to Lady Abberville. Oh! an excellent lady! Ah! if you were here now! but do you know, mama, that you are to be here before a week? she will give you an apartment in her house, and you will live with her, and I shall go to school, and shall come to see you whenever you chuse. Oh! that will be a happiness; such a happiness! you remember, for all that, how you cried when I was leaving you. You said that you kissed me, perhaps, for the last time. I hope now, you will never have that to fear again. My mama is to send you money for the journey, for she is as much my mama as you are, and I am very sure that you will not be angry at that. All the money, however, that you receive in this parcel is not from her; there are twelve shillings from me. She gave them to me, and I send them to you. Make haste to get every thing in readiness for your journey hither; the sooner you come the happier we shall be. I have spoken so well of you to the lady that she wishes to see you almost as much as I do. Set out, set out: I shall watch the coming of every stage, to tell you the whole story before you see her, though I suppose she tells it to you herself in the letter that she writes to you to-day. I have not time to add more, for I should be afraid that my letter would be too late if I wrote all that I have to say.

I am, dear mama, &c.

Madam,

How shall I find words to express to you my joy and gratitude! Gracious heaven! my misfortunes are then at an end. I am happy and my child also, and to you we owe that we are so. How shall I be able to bear so sudden an elevation from a gulph of misery to the summit of joy! I have only tears to express what I feel, and I am sorry that I cannot give you even this testimony of my gratitude personally at this moment. You have wished to be a mother, therefore you may, perhaps, form an idea of my happiness; as for me, I want words to express it, and I shall want them, perhaps, still more when I for the first time see my son placed between us both, and our arms intermingled in embracing him. But you will understand my silence, which the ardor and sincerity of my attachment to you shall perfectly explain every moment of my life.

I have the honour to be, &c.
Oxford.

THE PARRICIDE.

WHAT dreadful weather! I perish with cold and have no shelter against the bitter winds, no bed to warm my benumbed limbs. I am old and my strength is exhausted by labour. Unnatural son! The thought of you tears my heart. Unnatural son! I gave you life; I nourished you and took care of your weak and sickly infancy. When I saw you suffer through illness, my tears fell upon your cheeks. You loved me at that time and would say, while you caressed me, "Papa, what makes you cry? I am not sick now; do not be troubled; see I am quite well." You raised yourself up in your bed; your little hands would play in my hair, and you would say again, "Do not grieve any more; I am cured." And as you spoke the words, you would fall down again through weakness. You would strive to speak, but could not. At last, however, your body grew strong; you became hale and robust, and you should have been the prop of my old age. I laboured all my life for you, and now you shut me out of your house in the midst of wind and snow. "We cannot live together any longer, father," said you to me in your fury. And why not, my son? What have I done to you? I have exhorted you to virtue; that is all my crime. When I saw you spend in debauchery the earnings of sixty years labour, the fortune of which I willingly stripped myself to enrich you, I pointed out your danger to you. God is my witness that I was more anxious on your account than on my own. Was I not silent long enough, for fear of troubling you? But my silence and my sorrow, which I strove to hide, made no impression on you. I was then obliged to speak. I thought it my duty then to resume the prerogative of a father; yet my authority was tempered with mildness. My discourse was as tender as it was earnest. I spoke to you of your mother who died through grief on account of your disorderly life! I spoke to you of myself, whom the same cause would probably send to my grave. I shewed you my aged cheeks almost worn with the tears that you have made me shed. I shewed you my grey hairs which stood on end through anguish and sorrow. I opened my arms to you, to invite you to my bosom. I should have fallen on my knees to you, if your father, even in that humble posture, could have softened you. And you, my son—I can scarcely believe it yet—you advanced towards me with a threatening air: your arm was stretched out, and your gate shut against me. You my son? You are no longer so. Why do my bowels still feel the yearnings of a father towards you? I am tempted to wish that I could curse you: but no I dare not breathe forth even my complaints aloud. I fear left heaven should hear them, and left this house, which you have shut against me, should fall upon your door. I will lay myself down on the stone before your door. To-morrow you cannot come out without seeing me, and I hardly think that your heart will not soften when you see what I shall have suffered during this dreadful night. But if the severity of the season, if my exhausted old age, and still more, the sorrows that wound my heart, should occasion my death, then shudder at thy crime; weep for me, and for yourself still more. Ah! I should think my death a fortunate circumstance, if it could produce your reformation.

Such were the complaints of this old man. But the north wind all the live-long night carried away his sighs unheard. The tempest filled the air with dreadful whistlings; the shattered trees of the forest were bent down; and all nature seemed to shudder with horror at the crime of his son. The next morning the old man was found dead upon the stone. He had his-hands clasped together, and his face turned towards heaven. The name of his son was the last word that he had pronounced. He had prayed to the very last moment for the parricide.

JONATHAN.

JONATHAN, a gardener of Lincoln, was looked upon as the most skilful in the county. His fruits surpassed those of his neighbours in bigness, and were always found to have an exquisite flavour. All the first gentlemen round about were ambitious of having his peaches at their deserts, so that he had no occasion to send his melons to the market; they were bespoke on the beds, and very often could not be had for gold. The reputation that he obtained, and the profits that he drew from his labours, increased his assiduity in the cultivation of his garden. Rich and industrious as he was, he easily found a proper match, and espoused Claribell, a young woman in the neighbourhood, as prudent as she was handsome. The first year of their marriage was very happy. Claribell assisted her husband in his labours, and the fruits of their garden were more prosperous than ever.

Unhappily for Jonathan, near his house there lived another gardener, called Guzzle, who at day break fixed himself in an alehouse, which he seldom left before night. Jonathan was delighted with Guzzle's hearty humour, and was not long before he fell into the same taste. At first, he went now and then to meet him at the alehouse, and only talked to him of gardening; but very soon, in his own garden, he talked to him of nothing but strong beer. Claribell grieved at the change in her husband's behaviour. As she had not as yet sufficiedt experience herself to undertake the care of the wall-trees, she was frequently obliged to bring him home to his work, and usually found him amongst his pots and glasses. Alas! it would often have been better for him to stay from the garden. His head was now generally muddled with beer when he went to work upon his trees, and his pruningknife cut away at random amongst the branches: those that bore were cut, as well as those that did not; and the fine peach trees, on which last year there had not been• single bough unfruitful, did now only stretch their lazy arms, like so many yawning idlers. The more Jonathan found his garden decay, the more fond he grew of this sottish way of life. His fruit and his vegetables had lost their great name, and not being able by his earnings to satisfy his fondness for drink, he parted by degrees with his furniture, his linen, and his clothes. At length one day, when his wife was gone to market with some roots that she had reared herself, he went and sold all his garden utensils, in order to drink the money with Guzzle. It would be difficult to describe Claribell's grief at her return. To be reduced from a moderate competency to the most destitute poverty was not the height of her misfortune. She felt still more strongly for the fate of her husband, and of a young infant, six months old, which she had then at the breast. Who should suppose that this child was to save the whole family from destruction?

The evening of the same day, Jonathan came home swearing, threw himself into a chair, and leaning on his elbow over the table, surlily asked his wife for something to eat. Claribell handed him a large case-knife, and a basket that was covered with her apron. Jonathan snatched the apron off; but what was his surprize, to see his own child fast asleep in the basket. "Eat there, said Claribell to him; it is all that I have left to give you. You are the Father of this child, and if you do not devour him, famine and misery shortly will." Jonathan, thunderstruck at these words, remained speechless, with his eyes stupidly fixed upon his son. At length his sorrow broke out in tears and exclamations. He rises, and embracing his wife, asks her pardon and promises to reform; and he kept his word.

His father in law, who for some time had refused to see him, being informed of his good intentions, advanced him a sum to enable him to put his garden in order again. Jonathan made good use of this supply, and very soon his garden flourished as happily as ever. He became once more and continued even to his old age, active, industrious, a good husband and a good father. He took pleasure sometimes (though he blushed at the same time) in telling this story to his son, who, from his example, conceived such an aversion to drinking and idleness, that he was all his life as sober as he was laborious.

VANITY PUNISHED.
A DRAMA, in one ACT.

CHARACTERS.

- MR. WALLER.

- MRS. WALLER.

- VALENTINE, Their Son.

- MR. RAY, Friends to Mr. Waller.

- MR. NASH, Friends to Mr. Waller.

- MICHAEL, a Country boy.

- MARTIN, the Gardener.

SCENE I. A GARDEN.

Mr. Waller, Mrs. Waller.

Mr. W.

YONDER is our Valentine walking in the garden with a book in his hand. I am very much afraid that it is rather through vanity than from a real desire of improving himself, that he always appears to be busy reading.

Mrs. W.

What makes you think so, my dear?

Mr. W.

Do not you remark that he casts a side-look now and then, to see if any body takes notice of him?

Mrs. W.

And yet his masters give a very flattering account of his diligence, and all agree that he is very far advanced for his age.

Mr. W.

That is true. But if my suspicions are right, and if the little that he can know has made him vain, I would rather a hundred times that he knew nothing and were modest.

Mrs. W.

That he knew nothing?

Mr. W.

Yes, my dear. A man without any great extent of knowledge, but upright, modest and industrious, is a much more estimable member of society than a learned man whose studies have turned his head and puffed up his heart.

Mrs. W.

I cannot think that my son is of that description.

Mr. W.

Heaven forbid! But while we are here in the country I shall have more opportunities of observing him; and I am resolved to take advantage of the first that shall offer, to clear up my doubts. I see him coming towards us. Leave me alone with him a moment.

SCENE II.

Mr. Waller, Valentine.

Val. to Michael, whom he pushes back.)

No; leave me. Papa, it is that little fool of a country boy that comes always to interrupt me in my reading.

Mr. W.

Why do you call that good-natured child a little fool?

Val.

Why, he knows nothing.

Mr. W.

Of what you have learnt, I grant you; but then he knows many things which you do not, and you may both inform each other a good deal, if you will communicate what you know, one to the other.

Val.

He may learn a good deal of me, but what can I learn from him?

Mr. W.

If ever you should have a farm, do you think that it would be of no service to you to have an early notion of the labours of the country, to learn to distinguish trees and plants, to know the times of sowing and harvest, and to study the wonders of vegetation? Michael possesses these different parts of knowledge, and desires no better than to share them with you. They will perhaps be one day of the greatest use to you. Those, on the contrary, that you could communicate, would be of no service to him. So that you see, in this intercourse, all the advantage is on your side.

Val.

Well, but papa, would it become me to learn any thing from a little country boy?

Mr. W.

Why not, if he is capable of instructing you? I know no real distinction amongst men, than that of useful talents and good manners; and you must own that in both these points, he has equally the advantage over you.

Val.

What, in good manners too?

Mr. W.

In every station, they consist in treating all persons as our duty prescribes to us. He does so, in shewing a particular attachment and complaisance to you. Do you do the same? do you make a return of mildness and good will? And yet he seems to merit them. He is active and intelligent. I believe him to be possest of good-nature, spirit, and good sense. You ought to think yourself very happy in having so amiable a companion with whom you may at once amuse and improve yourself. His father is my foster-brother, and has always had a remarkable affection for me. I am pretty sure that Michael has the same for you. See how the poor little fellow hankers about the terrace-walk, to meet you. Take care and use him with civility. There is more honour and integrity in his father's cottage than in many palaces. His family too has been our tenants for some generations, and I should be glad to see the connexion continued between our children. (He goes out.)

SCENE III.

Valentine, (alone.)

Yes, a fine connexion indeed! I think papa is joking. This little country boy teach me any thing! No; I will surprize him now so much with my learning that he will not think of talking to me of his own, I'll warrant him.

SCENE IV.

Valentine, Michael.

Mich.

You won't have my little nosegay, then, Master Valentine?

Val.

Nosegay? Pshaw! neither ranunculus nor tulip.

Mich.

Why, it is true, they are only field flowers, but they are pretty, and I thought you might like to know them by their names.

Val.

A great matter, indeed, to know the names of your herbs. You may carry them where you found them.

Mich.

Well now, if I had known that, I would not have taken the trouble to gather them. I was resolved not to go home yesterday evening without bringing you something, and as I came back from work, though it was rather late, and I had a great mind for my supper, I stopped in our close, to gather them by the light of the moon.

Val.

You talk of the moon! Do you know how big it is?

Mich.

Heh! Fegs! as big as a cheese.

Val.

Ignorant little clown! (Struts with an air of importance, while Michael stands staring at him.) Look here. (Showing him his book.) This is Telemaque. Have you ever read it?

Mich.

That is not in the Catechism: our schoolmaster never talked to me about that.

Val.

No, it is none of your country books.

Mich.

Nay, how should I have read it then? But, let us see it.

Val.

Do not think of touching it with your dirty hands! (Holding one of them up.) Where did you buy these tanned leather gloves?

Mich.

Anan! it is my hand, Master Valentine.

Val.

The skin is so hard, that one might cut it into shoe soles.

Mich.

It is not with idleness that they are grown so hard. You know how to talk very well, I dare say, and yet I would not change conditions with you. To work honestly, and offend nobody, is all that I know, and it would be no harm if you knew as much. Good bye, sir.

SCENE V.

Valentine, (alone.)

I think the little clown had a mind to make game of me. But I see company coming on the terrace-walk. I must put on a studious air before them. (He sits down, seeming to read in his book with great attention.)

SCENE VI.

Mr. and Mrs. Waller, Mr. Ray, Mr. Nash. Valentine, (seated on a bench on one side.)

Mr. Wal.

What a fine evening! Would you chuse, gentlemen, to take a walk up this slope, to see the sun setting?

Mr. Ray.

I was going to mention it. The weather is delicious, and the sky perfectly without a cloud in the west.

Mr. Nash.

I shall be sorry to go far from the nightingale. Do you hear his charming melody, madam?

Mrs. Wal.

I was taken up with thinking. My heart was filled with pleasure.

Mr. Ray.

How can one live in town during this charming weather?

Mr. Wal.

Valentine, will you walk up the slope with us, to see the sun setting?

Val.

No, I thank you, papa. I am reading something here that gives me more pleasure.

Mr. Wal.

If you speak truth, I pity you, and if you do not—Come, gentlemen, there is not a moment to lose. Let us continue our walk. (They walk forward up the hill.)

SCENE VII.

Valentine, (seeing them at a good distance.)

There, they are almost out of sight: I need not be under any constraint now. (Puts the book into his pocket.) What an opinion will these gentlemen have of my diligence! I should like to be a bird and fly after them, to hear the praises that they are giving me. (Saunters about, yawning and listless, for near a quarter of an hour.) I am tired, after all, of being here alone. I can do better! The sun is set now, and I hear the company returning. I will slip into the wood, and hide myself in it so, that they shall scarcely find me. Mama will send all the servants to look for me with lights. They will talk of nothing but me all the evening, and will compare me with those great philosophers that have been known to go astray in their learned meditations, and to lose themselves in woods. My adventure will make a fine noise! Now for it. (He goes into the wood.)

SCENE VIII.

Mr. and Mrs. Waller, Mr. Ray, Mr. Nash.

Mr. Ray.

I never saw weather more pleasing, nor a more charming scene.

Mr. Wal.

Gentlemen, my pleasure has been doubled by my enjoying it in your company.

Mr. Nash.

The nightingale too still continues his song. His voice seems even to grow more tender as night comes on. I am sorry that Mrs. Waller does not seem to listen to it with as much pleasure as before.

Mrs. W.

It is because I am anxious about my son. I do not see him in the garden. (She calls him.) Valentine! He does not answer! (Perceiving the gardener, she calls him) Martin, have you seen my son?

Martin.

Yes, madam, about ten minutes ago I saw him turn towards the grove.

Mrs. W.

Towards the grove? Bless me; if he should lose himself! Pray run after him, and bring him in.

Martin.

Yes, madam. (Goes out.)

Mrs. W.

Mr. Waller, won't you go along with him?

Mr. W.

No, my dear, I am not uneasy, for my part. Martin will be able to find him.

Mrs W.

But if he should take a different way? I am frightened out of my wits!

Mr. Nash.

Make yourself easy, madam. Mr. Ray and I will take the two sides of the wood, while the gardener shall take the middle. We cannot fail of finding him so.

Mrs. W.

Ah! gentlemen, I did not dare to ask it of you; but you know the feelings of a mother.

Mr. W.

Gentlemen, do not give yourselves so much trouble, I'd rather you would not.

Mr. Ray.

You will not take it amiss that we comply with Mrs. Waller's request, rather than your's.

Mr. W.

I must confess, it is against my inclination.

Mr. Nash.

We will receive your reproaches at our return.

(They walk towards the grove.)

SCENE IX.

Mr. and Mrs. Waller.

Mrs. W.

Why, my dear, whence comes this indifference about your son?

Mr. W.

Do you think, my dear, that I love him less than you do? No, but I know better how to love him.

Mrs. W.

And what if he could not be found?

Mr. W.

I should be very glad of it.

Mrs. W.

What, that he should pass the night in a gloomy wood? What would become of the poor child? and what would become of me?

Mr. W.

You would both be cured. He of his vanity, and you of your injudicious fondness which keeps it up in him.

Mrs. W.

What do you mean, my dear?

Mr. W.

I am just now convinced of what I only suspected in the morning. The boy's head is filled with excessive vanity, and all his reading is but ostentation. He has only lost himself on purpose to make us look for him, and to appear absent and forgetful through intense study. It gives me more pain that his mind should wander from a right way of thinking than if his steps really went astray. He will be unhappy all his life if he is not cured of it in time, and there is nothing but a wholesome humiliation that can save him.

Mrs. W.

But do you consider—

Mr. W.

Yes, everything. He is eleven years old. If he can profit any thing by his natural sense or his learning, the light of the moon and the direction of the wind may guide him sufficiently to clear the wood.

Mrs. W.

But if he has not that thought?

Mr. W.

He will then better see the necessity of profiting by the lessons that I have given him upon this subject. Besides, we intend him for the army, and in that profession he will have many nights to pass without shelter. He will know now what it is, and not go to a camp quite raw, to be laughed at by his companions. Then the air is not very cold at this season of the year, and for one night he will not die with hunger. Since by his folly he has brought himself into a scrape, let him get out of it again, or suffer the disagreeable consequences of it.

Mrs. W.

No; I cannot agree to it; and if you don't send people after him, I will go myself.

Mr. W.

Well, my dear, I will make you easy, though I am sorry that you will not let me follow my plan, as I intended. I shall tell little Michael to join him, as it were by chance. Colin too shall be at a small distance, in order to run to them in case of an accident. For any thing more, do not ask it; I have taken my resolution, and do not chuse, by a blind weakness, to deprive my son of a lesson that may be of service to him. Here are our friends coming back with Martin.

Mrs. W.

O heavens! I see, and they have not found him.

Mr. W.

I am glad of it.

SCENE X.

Mr. and Mrs. Waller, Mr. Ray, and Mr. Nash.

Mr. Nash.

Our search has been in vain; but if Mr. Waller will let us have some lights and servants—

Mr. W.

No, gentlemen; you have complied with my wife's request, you will now listen to mine. I am a father, and know my duty as one. Let us go into the parlour, and I will give you an account of my design.

SCENE XI.

(The middle of the wood.)

Valentine.

What have I done, fool that I was? It is dark night, and I don't know which way to turn. (Calls.) Papa! papa! Nobody answers. I am undone; what will become of me? (cries.) O mama! where are you? Answer your son this once. Heavens! what is that running through the wood? If it should be a robber! Help! help!

SCENE XII.

Valentine, Michael.

Michael.

Who is there? Who is it that cries so? What, is it you, sir? How do you happen to be here at this time of night?

Valentine.

O! dear Michael, my dear friend, I have lost my way.

Mich. (looking at him first with an air of surprize, and then bursting out in a laugh.)

You don't say so? I your dear Michael? your dear friend? You mistake; I am only a dirty little country boy. Don't you remember? Nay, let go my hand. The skin is only fit to cut up for shoe soles.

Val.

My dear friend excuse my impertinence, and for pity's sake guide me back to our house. My mama will pay you well.

Mich. (looking at him from top to bottom.)

Have you finished reading your Tellymack?

Val. (looking down quite confused.)

Ah! pray now—

Mich. (putting his finger to the side of his nose, and looking up.)

Tell me, my little wise man, how big may the moon be just now?

Val.

Nay, spare me, I beg of you, and guide me out of this wood.

Mich.

You see then, master, that one may be a dirty little country boy, and yet be good for something. What would you give now to know your way, instead of knowing how big the moon is?

Val.

I own my fault, and I promise never to shew any pride for the future.

Mich.

Well, that is clever. But this same repenting by necessity may only hang by a thread. It is not amiss that a young gentleman should see what it is to look upon a poor man's son like a dog, and play with him according to his fancy. But to shew you that an honest clown does not bear malice, I will pass the night with you, as I have passed many a one with our sheep on the downs. Tomorrow morning early I will take you home to your papa. Here, then, I'll share my bed-chamber with you.

Val.

O, my good Michael!

Mich. (stretching himself under a tree.)

Come, sir, settle yourself at your ease.

Val.

But where is this bed-chamber of your's?

Mich.

Why here. (Striking on the ground.) Here is my bed; take your place. It is wide enough for us both.

Val.

What, must we lie here under the open air?

Mich.

I assure you, sir, the king himself has not a better bed. See what a fine cieling you have over your head; how many bright diamonds adorn it! and then our handsome silver lamp. (Pointing to the moon.) Well, what do you think of it?

Val.

Oh! my dear Michael, I am ready to die with hunger.

Mich.

I dare say I can help you there too. See, here are some potatoes. Dress them, as you know how.

Val.

Why they are raw.

Mich.

It is only to boil or roast them. Make a fire.

Val.

We want a light to kindle one; and then where shall we find coal or wood?

Mich. (smiling.)

Why cannot you find all that in your books?

Val.

Oh! no, my dear Michael.

Mich.

Well then I'll shew you that I know more than you and all your Tellymacks. (Takes a tinder box, with flint and steel out of his pocket.) Crack! there is fire already; now you shall see. (He gathers a handful of dry leaves, and putting them round the under, sons with his hand until they take fire.) We shall soon have a blazing hearth. (He puts bits of dry wood upon the lighted leaves.) Do you see? (lays the potatees close to the fire, and sprinkles them with dust.) This must serve, instead of ashes, to hinder them from burning. (Having laid them properly and covered them once more with dust, he turns the fire over them, then adds fresh wood and blows it up with his breath.) Have you a finer fire in your papa's kitchen? come, now they will soon be done.

Val.

O my good friend, what return can I make to your kindness?

Mich.

Return? Pooh! when one does good, it pays itself. But stop a moment. While the potatoes are roasting, I will fetch some hay for you. I saw a good deal lying in one part of the wood. You will sleep upon that like a prince. But take care of the roast while I am away. (Goes out singing.)

SCENE XIII.

Valentine.

Fool that I was! how could I be so unjust as to despise this child. What am I, compared to him? how little I am in my own eyes, when I examine his behaviour and mine! but it shall never happen again. Henceforward I will not despise those of a lower condition than myself. I will not be so proud, nor so vain. (He walks about, and gathers up dry sticks for the fire.)

SCENE XIV.

Valentine, Michael, (hauling in a large bundle of hay.)

Mich.

Here is your bed of down, your coverlid and all. I will make you a hed now quite soft.

Val.

I thank you, my friend. I would help you, but I do not know how to set about it.

Mich.

I don't want you. I can do it all alone. Go warm yourself. (He unties the bundle, spreads part of it on the ground, and reserves the rest for a covering.) That is finished. Now let us think of supper. (Takes a potatoe from the fire, and tastes it.) They are done. Eat them, while they are warm, they are better so.

Val.

What, won't you eat some with me?

Mich.

No, thank you. There is just enough for you.

Val.

How? Do you think?—

Mich.

You are too kind. I won't touch them. I am not hungry. Besides I shall have as much pleasure in seeing you eat them. Are they good?

Val.

Excellent, my dear Michael.

Mich.

I dare say, you never tasted sweeter at your papa's table.

Val.

That is very true.

Mich.

Are you done? Come then, your bed is ready for you. (Valentine lies down. Michael spreads the rest of the hay over him, then takes off his jacket.) The nights are cold; here, cover yourself with this too. If you find yourself chilly, come to the fire; I'll take care that it does not go out. Good night.

Val.

Dear Michael, I shall never be easy until I make you amends for my treating you ill.

Mich.

Think no more of it; I do not. The lark will awake us to-morrow morning at break of day. (Valentine falls asleep, and Michael sits up close by him to keep the fire in. At break of day Michael awakes him.) Come master, you have slept enough. The lark has opened her song already, and the sun will soon appear behind the hill. Let us set out, and go to your papa's.

Val. (rubbing his eyes.)

What already? so soon? Good morning my dear Michael!

Mich.

Good morning, Master Valentine! How did you sleep?

Val. (rising.)

As sound as a rock. Here is your jacket. I thank you a thousand, thousand times. I shall never forget you as long as I live.

Mich.

Do not talk of thanks. I am as happy as you. Come, walk along with me. I'll guide you. (They go off.)

SCENE XV.

(A room in Mr. Waller's House.) Mr. and Mrs. Waller.

Mrs. W.

In what terrors have I passed this whole night! I fear, my dear, that some accident has happened to him. We must send out people to look for him.

Mr. W.

Make yourself easy my love; I will go myself. But who knocks? (The door opens.) Look, here he is.

SCENE XVI.

Mr. and Mrs. Waller, Valentine, Michael.

Mrs. W. (running to her son.)

Ah! do I see thee again, my dear child?

Mich.

Yes, madam, there he is, ifegs! a little better mayhap than before you lost him.

Mr. W.

Is that the case?

Val.

Yes, papa. I have been well punished for my pride. What will you give him that has reformed me?

Mr. W.

A good reward, and with the greatest chearfulness.

Val. (presenting Michael to him.)

Well, this is he to whom you owe it. I owe him my friendship too, and he shall always share it.

Mr. W.

If that is so, I'll make him a little present every year of a couple of guineas, for curing you of so intolerable a fault.

Mrs. W.

And I will make him one of the same sum, for having preserved my son to me.

Mich.

If you pay me for the satisfaction that you feel, I should pay you too for what I felt. So we are clear.

Mr. W.

No, my little man, we shall not run from our words. But let us go to breakfast all four. Valentine shall relate his adventures of the night.

Val.

Yes, papa; and I shall not spare myself, though I should be turned into ridicule for them. I blush for my folly, but hope that I shall never have to blush for the same behaviour again.

Mr. W.

My dear son, how happy you will make your mother and me by proving that your reformation is sincere, and will never suffer a relapse.

(Valentine takes Michael by the hand; Mr. Waller gives his to his lady, and they all go into the next apartment.)

THE PLEASURES OF WORK.

Lady Stanfield.

WHAT is the matter, Viola? You seem grieved.

Viola.

So I am, mama.

Lady Stan.

At what, my dear? I thought to see you come back quite in spirits after your walk.

Viola.

My walk was pleasant at first; but in coming home, as I passed before our carpenter's house, I saw his three children sitting at the door, and crying most piteously. They were starving with hunger.

Lady Stan.

How can that be? Their father has a good trade, and it is not a week since I paid him three guineas for work done about our house.

Viola.

So my governess told a woman, one of the neighbours, that came up to comfort the children and gave them some bread.

Lady Stan.

And what did she say?

Viola.

This poor man, said she, is much to be pitied. He works night and day, and is never the richer; his wife manages so ill. She knows nothing of housewifery. She can neither sew, nor spin, nor knit; and cannot even get up the family's linen. If her husband wants a clean shirt, he must have it washed and mended out of the house.

Lady Stan.

Sad management indeed! and I do not wonder that you were grieved at finding a woman who does not perform any single duty of her sex. I wish she may be the only one of that sort that you will ever meet.

Viola.

Ah! mama, this is not all. As she can do nothing for her family, nothing in the world, idleness has led her to drinking. When her husband, after working hard, thinks to have a good meal ready for him at his return home, he finds his wife stretched upon the bed, intoxicated; and very often his children have not a bit of bread to eat the whole day. Don't you think those poor children much to be pitied?

Lady Stan.

I pity them as well as you, my dear; but on this disagreeable occasion, you had an opportunity of making a remark that may be serviceable to you all your life.

Viola.

What is that, mama?

Lady Stan.

That a woman who neglects the employments of her sex and condition, is the most contemptible and unhappy creature in the world. You may now perceive the reason why your papa and I constantly advise you to be doing something.

Viola.

Oh! yes, mama; I see now how much you love me when you instruct me in my work. But pray tell me, have young ladies of fortune and quality any occasion to learn so many things? When they are married, have not they waiting women to do for them whatever they want?

Lady Stan.

My dear Viola, work is as absolutely necessary for them as for the children of the poor. Not to mention the reverses of fortune that may one day deprive a woman of every means of subsistence, except the labour of her own hands: and yet these reverses are common enough. But in the highest rank of life, amidst a crowd of servants ready at her call, should not she herself know something of what work is, in order to employ each one properly in his several way, not to require of them more than they can perform, to be able to recompense their diligence by making their service easy, and thus to gain their attachment and respect. Obliged by her rank and her wealth to employ a great number of tradesmen, how will she be able, without knowing what work is herself, to set the proper value upon that of others, by neither cutting short the fair demand of a useful tradesman, nor yielding to the impositions of the vender of luxuries and fashionable toys; and thus on the one hand indulge a generosity suitable to her birth, and on the other guard against a useless expence• Besides, what a pleasure for a sensible woman to see herself and her children clothed in the work of her own hands, and to employ the savings of such oeconomy in relieving the sick and indigent, and bringing up their children, so that they may in proper time maintain their parents?

Viola.

Ah! pray don't let us lose a moment. Teach me all that, mama.

Lady Stan.

I will, my dear; that I may, by so doing, both perform my own duty, and assist you to follow the dictates of nature and religion; but particularly that I may save you from that dangerous dissipation which a habit of idleness may render agreeable and even necessary. I will do it in order to make domestic retirement not unpleasing to you; in order to make you yourself amiable in the eyes of your husband, and respectable in those of your children; in order to procure you hereafter a relief and amusement that may divert your attention from the evils of life, which might otherwise affect you too forcibly; and in fine, to insure to you the tranquillity of a good conscience, and to render you happy every moment of your life. You have seen, by the example of the carpenter's wife, to what odious vices idleness may lead us. But what think you of that vapourish unhappy listlessness, the most insupportable torment to a woman? I can give you, perhaps, a slight idea of it, and proportioned to your understanding, in the story of a little girl of your own age.

Viola.

O dear, mama! make haste; let us have the little girl's story.

Lady Stan.

Then here it is. "Mrs. Friendly was always happy in being employed, and never passed a quarter of an hour otherwise the whole day. Angelica, her daughter, could hardly believe her when she talked to her of the satisfaction arising from industry, and the disagreeable effects of doing nothing. It is true, she worked whenever her mother bid her, for she was accustomed to obey; but one may easily imagine how unhappy she was at her work, as she never began it but with reluctance. My dear child, Mrs. Friendly would often say to her, when she saw her at work with her head hanging down, and her hands in a careless posture, I wish you may soon feel the tiresome languor that arises from having nothing to do, and the satisfaction that one enjoys in being moderately employed. This wish, inspired by her affection, was not long unaccomplished. Angelica, then about eleven years old, was to go one day with her mother to a country-house many miles off. Mrs. Friendly, at her departure, took her work-bag with her, and strongly recommended it to Angelica not to forget hers. Angelica was willing to obey; but how easily does one lose sight of a duty that is performed with reluctance! The workbag was forgot. Their journey at first was quite agreeable. The weather was fine, and all nature seemed to smile. But about noon, the clouds thickened round the horizon, and the thunder rolled from one end of the sky to the other. Their fright obliged them to stop at a small town, where there was only one inn, and immediately afterwards the rain came down in a flood. As the approaching storm had forced a number of travellers to seek shelter in the inn, Mrs. Friendly and her daughter could not find a single room in it disengaged. She therefore ordered the horses to be unharnessed, and alighted at the house of a good old woman close by, who very civilly resigned them her bed-chamber and her bed, the only one that she had. How happy was Mrs. Friendly that she had brought her work. The good old woman sat beside her, spinning at her wheel, and between work and conversation the long summer's afternoon passed away without seeming tedious to them. Poor Angelica was not very happy in the mean time. The cottage was small, and after she had visited every corner of it, she had then absolutely nothing left to do. The rain, which still fell in great abundance, did not allow her to set her foot out of doors; the terrible noise of the thunder left her no desire for sleep, and the conversation of the old woman, who could talk of nothing but her work, was not very likely to amuse her. She begged her mama to let her have her work; but Mrs. Friendly told her very justly, that she would not deprive herself of amusement for her; that having taken care to bring with her something to employ herself, it was but fair that she should enjoy the fruits of her attention, and that she on the contrary should suffer for her negligence and forgetfulness. Angelica could say nothing to reasons so forcible. After many wearisome yawnings, sighs of impatience, and fruitless murmurs against the weather, Angelica at length got to the end of the evening. She eat a small supper without appetite, and went to bed much out of humour with her jaunt. How joyful did she rise at the first summons of the sun who rose without a cloud! With what eagerness did she hasten her mother's departure! At last the carriage was ready; and Mrs. Friendly, having generously rewarded the good old woman for her civility, set forward again as well satisfied with her manner of passing the day before, as Angelica was discontented with it. The roads had lately been much broken up, and the rain water which still covered them, hindered the ruts from being observed. The chaise jolted out of one hole into another, the axle creaked, and the glasses rattled; at last a wheel broke down, and the carriage was overthrown. Happily Mrs. Friendly and her daughter received no hurt. They recovered from their fright by degrees, and perceiving at a distance a little hamlet upon the side of a hill, Mrs. Friendly took her daughter by the hand, and attended by her servant, walked towards the hamlet, intending to send assistance to her coachman. There was in this place neither smith nor wheelwright; so that they were obliged to wait almost two days for wheels from town, as Mrs. Friendly would travel in no other carriage but her own. Poor Angelica, how she cried! how she lamented the tediousness of the time! The fright of her fall had made such an impression on her, as to deprive her of the use of her limbs; so that she could not enjoy even the amusement of walking. What could Mrs. Friendly do to make her time less heavy? The strict justice that she made a point of pursuing with her daughter, forbad her to resign her own work to her; besides, Angelica had so neglected her improvement in needle-work, that she •ould have entirely spoiled it. She then began to feel the value of employing one's self, and blushing with shame, said thus to her mother: Ah! mama, I have well deserved what has happened to me, and now for the first time see the reason why you always advised me so strongly to work. I have sufficiently felt the wearisomeness of doing nothing. She then threw herself into her mother's arms, and hiding her face in her bosom, I beg pardon, mama, for grieving you by my indolence. I saw that you were troubled to see me fret. But, for your sake and my own, I shall change my behaviour from this moment. Mrs. Friendly kissed her daughter, praised her resolution, and to strengthen the effect of Angelica's self-taught lesson, shewed her how a taste for work hinders our time from hanging heavy, and softens the vexations of life, by diverting our thoughts from them in an agreeable and salatary manner. She blessed the accidents of a journey that had wrought so happy a change in her daughter.

Angelica, on the other hand, kept her promise and even went beyond it; so that Mrs. Friendly never had reason to find fault with her afterwards, unless for too great application.

THE YOUNG SPARROWS.

LITTLE Robert one day perceived a sparrow's nest under the eaves of the house, and running immediately for his sisters to inform them of his discovery, they all contrived together how to get the little covey into their possession. It was agreed to wait until the young ones should be fledged; that then Robert should raise a ladder against the wall, and that his sister should hold it fast below, while he climbed up for the nest. When they thought the little birds sufficiently feathered, they made ready to put their design in execution. It succeeded perfectly, and they found three young ones in the nest. The old birds sent forth piteous cries on seeing their little ones, whom they had nourished with so much care, taken from them; but Robert and his sisters were so overjoyed, that they did not pay the least attention to their complaints.

They were at first something puzzled what to do with their prisoners. Augusta, the youngest, being of a mild and compassionate disposition, was for having them put into a cage: she promised to take the charge of them upon herself, and to feed them regularly every day: she described in a lively manner to her brother and sister, the pleasure that they should have in seeing and hearing those young birds when grown big. This was opposed by Robert: he maintained that it was better to pluck them just as they were, and that it would be much more funny to look at them jumping about in the room without feathers, than to see them dismally shut up in a cage. Charlotte, the eldest, declared herself of the same opinion as Augusta, but Robert persisted in his own.

At last the two little girls, seeing that their brother would not give up the point, and that besides he had the nest in his possession, agreed to whatever he desired. But he had not waited for their consent to begin his execution. The first was already plucked. There is one stript, says he, setting it on the ground. In a moment all the little family were deprived of their tender feathers. The poor things cried, peep! peep! and complained very piteously; they shuddered with the cold, and shook their bare little wings. But Robert, instead of pitying their sufferings, did not end his persecutions there: he pushed them with his toe to make them go on, and whenever they tumbled over the burst out a laughing; and at last his sisters joined in the laugh with him.

While they were indulging this cruel amusement, they saw at a distance their tutor coming towards them. Mum! Each pocketed a bird, and was slinking off. "Well, cried their tutor to them, where are you going? Come hither!" This order obliged them to stop. They advanced slowly, with their eyes fixed on the ground.

The Tutor.

Why do you run away at my coming?

Rob.

We were only playing.

The Tutor.

You know, I do not debar you of amusement, and indeed I am never so happy as when I see you all merry.

Rob.

We were afraid that you were coming to scold us.

The Tutor.

Do I ever scold you for taking an innocent diversion? I see you have done something amiss. Why have you each your hand in your pocket? I must know the reason. Shew me each your hand, and what you have in it. (They show each their hand, with a bird plucked.)

The Tutor, (with an emotion of pity and indignation.)

And who could give you the idea of treating these poor little creatures thus?

Rob.

Why, it is so droll to see sparrows jump without feathers.

The Tutor.

You think it very droll to see innocent creatures suffer, and to hear their cries when in pain?

Rob.

No, sir; I did not think it put them to pain.

The Tutor.

Did'nt you? Come hither: I will convince you it did. (He plucks a few hairs out of Robert's head.)

Rob.

Oh! Oh!

The Tutor.

Does that hurt you?

Rob.

Do you think it does not, to pluck one's hairs?

The Tutor.

Pshaw! there are only a dozen.

Rob.

But that is too much.

The Tutor.

What would it be then, were one to pluck out all your hair so? Have you a notion of the pain that you would feel? And yet you have put these birds to the very same torture, though they never did you any harm. And you, young ladies, you that should be more tender-hearted, did you suffer this?

The two little misses were standing by silent, but hearing these last words, and feeling the keenness of the rebuke, they sat down with their eyes swimming in tears. The tutor remarking their sorrow, was touched with it and said no more to them.

Robert did not cry, and endeavoured to justify himself thus: I could not think that I did them any harm. They sung all the while, and they clapped their wings as if they were pleased.

The Tutor.

Do you call their cries singing? But why should they sing?

Rob.

I suppose to call their father and mother.

The Tutor.

No doubt. And when their cries should have brought them, what did the young ones mean to tell them by clapping their wings?

Rob.

I cannot say exactly; perhaps to ask their help.

The Tutor.

Just so. Therefore, if those birds could have expressed themselves in our speech, you would have heard them cry, "Ah! father and mother, save us! We have unhappily fallen into the hands of cruel children who have plucked all our feathers. We are cold, and in pain. Come, warm us and cure us, or we shall die."

The little girls could hold out no longer; they sobbed and hid their faces in their handkerchiefs. It was you, Robert, that led us to this cruelty. We hated the thought of it ourselves. Robert was then himself sensible of his fault. He had already been punished by his tutor plucking his hair; he was now much more so by the reproaches of his own heart. The tutor thought there was no occasion to add to this double punishment. It was not, indeed, from an instinct of cruelty, but purely from want of thought, that Robert had done this ill-natured action, and the pity which he selt from that moment for all creatures weaker than himself, opened his heart to the sentiments of kindness and humanity that have animated him all the rest of his life.

THE TWO APPLE-TREES.

ARich husbandman had two sons, the one exactly a year older than the other. The very day the second was born, he had set in the entrance of his orchard two young apple-trees equal in size, which he had since cultivated with the same care, and which had thriven so equally that nobody could give the preference to either of them before the other. When his children were capable of handling garden tools, he took them, one fine spring day, to see those two trees which he had planted for them, and called by their names; and after they had sufficiently admired their fine growth, and the number of blossoms that covered them, he said, "You see, children, I give you these trees in good condition. They will thrive as much by your care as they will lose by your negligence, and their fruit will reward you in proportion to your labour."

The youngest, named Edmund, was indefatigable in his attention. He was all day busy in clearing his tree of insects that would have hurt it, and he propped up its stem, to hinder it from taking an ugly bent. He loosened the earth all round it, that the warmth of the sun and the moisture of the dews might cherish its roots. His mother had not tended him more carefully in his infancy than he did his young apple-tree.

His brother Moses did none of all this. He spent his time on a mount that was hard by, throwing stones from it at passengers in the road. He went amongst all the little country boys in the neighbourhood, to box with them, so that he was always seen with broken shins and black eyes, from the blows and kicks that he received in his quarrels. He neglected his tree so far, in short, that he never once thought of it, till one day in autumn he by chance saw Edmund's tree so full of apples, streaked with purple and gold, that were it not for the props which supported its branches, the weight of its fruit must have bent it to the ground. Struck with the fight of so fine a growth, he ran to his own, hoping to find as large a crop on it; but what was his surprize, when he saw nothing but branches covered with moss, and a few yellow leaves! Quite angry and jealous, he went to his father, and said, "Father, what sort of a tree is this that you have given me? It is as dry as a broomstick, and I shall not have ten apples on it. But my brother!—Oh? you have used him better. Bid him at least share his apples with me."— "Share with you? said his father: so the industrious would lose his laber to feed the idle. Take what you get; it is the reward of your negligence, and do not think to accuse me of injustice, when you see your brother's rich crop. Your tree was as fruitful and in as good order as his. It bore as many blossoms, and grew in the same soil; only it had not the same usage. Edmund has kept his tree clear of even the smallest infects; you have suffered them to eat up yours in its blossom. As I do not chuse to let any thing which God has given me, and for which I hold myself accountable to him, go to ruin, I take this tree from you again, and call it no more by your name. It must pass through his hands to recover itself, and is his property from this moment, as well as the fruit that he shall make it bear. You may go and look for another in my nursery, and rear it, if you will, to make amends for your fault: but if you neglect it, that too shall belong to your brother, for assisting me in my labour."

Moses felt the justice of his father's sentence, and the wisdom of his design. He went that moment and chose in the nursery the most thriving young apple-tree that he could find. Edmund assisten him with his advice in rearing it, and Moses did not lose a moment. He was never out of humour now with his comrades, and still less with himself, for he applied chearfully to work, and in autumn he saw his tree fully answer his hopes. Thus he had the double advantage of enriching himself with a plentiful growth of fruit, and at the same time of getting rid of the vicious habits that he had contracted.

His father was so well pleased with this change, that the following year he shared the produce of a small orchard between him and his brother.

IF MEN DO NOT SEE YOU, GOD SEES YOU.

MR. Ferguson was walking in the country one fine warm day in harvest time, with his youngest son Frank. Papa, (said Frank, looking wistfully towards a garden by the side of which they were walking,) I am very dry.—And I too, my dear, answered Mr. Ferguson; but we must have patience until we go home.

Frank.

There is a pear-tree loaded with very fine fruit: they are Windsor pears. Ah! with what pleasure I could eat one!

Mr. Ferg.

I do not doubt it; but that tree is in a private garden.

Frank.

The hedge is not very thick, and here is a hole where I can easily get through.

Mr. Ferg.

And what would the owner of the garden say, if he should be there?

Frank.

Oh! he is not there, I dare say, and nobody can see us.

Mr. Ferg.

You mistake, child! There is one who sees us, and who would punish us, and justly too, because it would be wicked to do what you propose.

Frank.

Who is that, papa?

Mr. Ferg.

He who is every where present, who never loses sight of us a moment, and who sees to the very bottom of our thoughts; that is, God.

Frank.

Ah! it is very true. I shall not think of it any more.

Just then a man stood up behind the hedge, whom they could not see before, because he had been sitting down on a grassy slope. It was an old man, the owner of the garden, who spoke thus to Frank: "Return thanks to God, my child, that your father hindered you from stealing into my garden, and coming to take what does not belong to you. Know, that at the foot of each tree there is a trap laid to catch thieves, where you would certainly have been caught, and perhaps have lamed yourself for ever. But since, at the first word of the prudent lesson given you by your father, you have shewed a fear of God, and did no longer insist on the theft that you intended, I will give you with pleasure some of the fruit that you wished to taste." At these words he went up to the finest pear-tree, shook it, and brought back his hat full of pears to Frank.

Mr. Ferguson would have taken money out of this purse to pay this civil old man, but could not prevail on him to accept any. "I have had a satisfaction, sir, in obliging your son, which I should lose were I to be paid for it. God alone repays such actions."

Mr. Ferguson shook hands with him over the hedge, and Frank thanked him too in a very manly manner; but he shewed a still more lively gratitude in the hearty appetite that he appeared to have for the pears which did indeed quite run over with juice. That is a very good man, said Frank to his papa, after he had finished the last, and they had got a good distance from the old man.

Mr. Ferg.

Yes, my dear; and he is so, no doubt, because his heart is convinced of this great truth, that God never fails to reward good actions, and chastise evil.

Frank.

Would God have punished me then, if I had taken the pears?

Mr. Ferg.

The good old man told you what would have happened to you. God, my dear child, orders every thing that passes upon earth, and directs events so as to reward good people for their virtuous actions, and to punish the wicked for their crimes. I will tell you an adventure which relates to this subject, and made so strong an impression on me, when a child, that I shall never forget it as long as I live.

Frank.

Ah! papa, how happy I am to-day; a pleasant walk, fine pears, and a story besides!

Mr. Ferg.

When I was as little as you, and lived at my father's, we had two neighbours, the one on the right, the other on the left-hand of our house: their names were Dobson and Vicars. Mr. Dobson had a son called Simon, and Mr. Vicars one also of the name of Gamaliel. Behind our house and those of our neighbours were small gardens, separated at that time only by quickset hedges. Simon, when alone in his father's garden, amused himself with throwing stones into all the gardens round about, never once thinking that he might hurt somebody. Mr. Dobson had observed this, and reprimanded him severely for it, threatening to chastise him if ever he did so again. But unhappily this child knew not, or else did not believe, that one should not do amiss, even when alone, because God is always near us and sees whatever we do. One day, when his father was gone out, thinking that nobody could see him and therefore that he should not be punished, he filled his pocket with stones and began pelting them all round him. Just at the same time Mr. Vicars was in his garden with his son Gamaliel. This boy had the misfortune to think, as well as Simon, that it was enough not to do amiss before others, and that when alone one might do what one pleased. His father had a gun charged, to shoot the sparrows that came picking his cherries; and he was sitting in a summer-house to watch them. At this moment, a servant came to tell him that a strange gentleman wanted him in the parlour: he therefore left the gun in the summer-house, and expressly forbid Gamaliel to touch it. But Gamaliel, when all alone, said to himself, "I dont see what harm there would be in playing with this gun a little;" and saying thus, he took it up and began to exercise with it like a soldier. He handled his arms and rested his firelock, and had a mind to try if he could make ready and present. The muzzle of his gun happened to be pointed towards Mr. Dobson's garden, and just as he was going to shut the left eye, in order to take aim, a pebble stone thrown by Simon struck him in that very eye. The fright and the pain together, made Gamaliel drop the gun, which went off; and, oh! what cries and shrieks were immediately heard in both gardens! Gamaliel had received a blow of a stone in the eye, and Simon received the whole charge of the gun in his leg. Thus the one lost his eye, and the other remained a cripple all the rest of his life.

Frank.

Ah! poor Simon! poor Gamaliel! how I pity them!

Mr. Ferg.

They were, it is true, very much to be pitied; but their parents still more so, for having children so disobedient and vicious. After all it was a real happiness for these two bad boys to have met with this accident.

Frank.

How so, papa?

Mr. Ferg.

I will tell you. If God had not early punished these children, they would always have continued in mischief, whenever they found themselves alone; whereas they experienced by this warning, that whatever bad actions men do not see, God sees and punishes. This was therefore a lesson to them to amend themselves, and they became thenceforth prudent and sedate, and shunned doing mischief when alone, as much as if all the world saw them. And this indeed was the design of Providence in thus punishing them; for our merciful Creator never chastises us but to make us become better.

Frank.

Well, that eye and leg will make me take care. I will shen what is wrong and do what is right, even though I see nobody near me.

As he had finished these words, they arrived at their own house-door.

THE GOOD SON.
A DRAMA, in Two ACTS [*].

CHARACTERS.

- JEREMY GOODACRE, a Country Labourer.

- NANNY GOODACRE, his Wife.

- CIOFLY, their Daughter.

- ISAAC her Lover.

- CHARLES GOODACRE a Lieutenant of Foot, Son to Jeremy.

- BONIFACE, a Schcolmaster.

- Recru•ting Serjeant—Soldiers—Country People.

SCENE I.

A grass plat before Jeremy Goodacre's cottage. In the middle of it, a large tree, with a seat round it.

Isaac, (alone)

I Did not see her all yesterday. I have not spent a day this twelve month without seeing her. What can have happened? Every thing is quiet in the house. Ah! Cicely, can you sleep at ease, while you know how uneasy I am? —Mayhap she has changed her mind, and loves somebody else. (Goes towards the cottage door) Heh! Cicely, Cicely!

SCENE II.

Isaac, Cicely.

Cic. (mimicking him.)

Heh! Isaac, Isaac!—Well, here I am.

Isaac.

You seem to be in high spirits, Cicely.

Cic.

Are you angry that I am glad to see you?

Isaac.

You did not want to see me yesterday though, or you would have been where you promised.

Cic.

Well, are you going to scold me? Do you think I was not as uneasy as you were?

Isaac.

Dear heart! Cicely, are you serious? Well, now I am as happy as I was dull a minute ago. But what hindered you to come?

Cic.

You know it was the first day of the month; and when my brother, at his landing, wrote to father from Portsmouth, he told him that he should hear from him again, without fail, as yesterday.

Isaac.

Well?

Cic.

So father would not wait for the postman, but sent me, about four o'clock, to the post-office, for the letter. They told me there, to wait; that it could not be long before the coach came in: so I staid, upon thorns. And father, uneasy at my stop, came soon afterwards; and before a quarter of an hour's end, comes mother too. You know I could not quit them. So there we staid until dark night, and no coach. I suppose some accident had happened. We came back sorrowful enough, and I could not leave father and mother grieving by themselves; now tell me, could I?

Isaac.

No, you are very right. I shan't scold you. But what is your hurry now? Where do you want to go?

Cic.

To see if the letter is come yet. Father and mother are terribly uneasy. They are so fond of my brother, and he of them.

Isaac.

Now, Cicely—are you fond of me?

Cic.

My brother, that was only a private soldier, and is now a lieutenant.

Isaac.

Yea, Cicely, but—

Cic.

And has two or threescore men at his command.

Isaac.

Ah! your brother is well off.

Cic.

How grand will he be in his scarlet coat and his gold shoulder-knot! Oh! it is a fine thing, Isaac, to be a captain? Dost not think so?

Isaac.

Ay, I shall know it, I am afraid. He'll be ashamed now, mayhap, to see me one of his family, as I have no gold shoulder-knot, nor men at my command.

Cic.

No, Isaac, do not make yourself uneasy. My father has lived in the same way of life with you these sixty years, and my brother has too much sense to despise it. He would have been the same as you, if he had not chanced to enlist when he was young. No, he will never look for a husband for his sister out of her own condition.

Isaac.

Ah! Cicely, how happy you make me!

SCENE III.

Jeremy, Cicely, Isaac.

Jer.

Are you come back already? Where is the letter? Let's see.

Cic.

Father, I have not been at the post-office yet.

Jer.

And you stand there, prating!

Cic.

I was just a going. Well, I'll run as fast as I can. Will you go Isaac?

Jer.

Ay, go together; so you will be back the sooner. But don't loiter on the road. And Cicely, as you pass, you'll tell Mr. Boniface the schoolmaster, to come here and read the letter for me.

SCENE IV.

Jeremy.

How uneasy I am about the delay of this letter! I could not rest the whole night. Ah! my dear boy, how the thoughts of you make us glad and sorry by turns!

SCENE V.

Jeremy, Nanny.

Nan.

Well, this letter does not come. I don't know how it is; a dread hangs over me.

Jer.

Do not be impatient, my dear! we shall hear from him presently, and see him too again very soon. I know we shall. Ah! I am sure I pray for that every day.

Nanny.

He is a soldier, my good man, and a soldier is not certain of his life a moment. That is what makes me unhappy. Very often, when his letters are rend to us, and you imagine that I cry for joy, it is for grief and sorrow. Each, I think, is perhaps his last: and this money that he sent us at his landing I cannot look at it without a heavy sigh. As I said to myself, it is his pay from the king, the price of his blood; and can we, his father and mother, be happy while we are spending it? Ah! I wish he were here now.

Jer.

We shall have him here by and by, never fear. He will come to quarter in some town, mayhap, near ourselves, and then we shall go and see him once a week.

Nanny, (overjoyed.)

Aye, twice, three times a week, my man. Ah! if that was the case, how happy should I be! But who can tell whether we shall know him again?

Jer.

Heh! I dare say I shall know my own son.

Nanny.

What, when he is drest like an officer, all over gold lace, with his breast-plate and his swash?

SCENE VI.

Jeremy, Nanny, Boniface.

Bon.

Good morrow, neighbour Jeremy. Good morrow, dame Goodacre.

Jer.

How dost do, Master Boniface? (shaking him by the hand.)

Bon.

Well, you have received news from your son? Where is the letter? Let me read it to you.

Jer.

We have not received it yet, and I am so impatient—

Bon.

I suppose so, if it were only to have the honour of receiving a letter from a lieutenant. But how the plague did he get up so high? I cannot think, for my part. Besides, you never shewed me his letter that mentions it: you got the exciseman to read it for you.

Nanny.

Then you did not hear that part, Mr. Boniface? Do, tell him how it •as, Jeremiah.

Bon.

Aye, come, do tell us about it, neighbour Jeremy.

Jer.

Well, master Boniface, the matter was as thus: In that last battle—at what d'ye call it—near—I never can think of the name; all his regiment was sadly mauled; m•st of the officers killed or wounded. My son too had received a ball, but never minded it. He rallied about three hundred men as well as he could. (with vehemence.) led them up to the enemy, fell on with fixed bayonets, checked them so much that our people had time to retreat, and at last came off in good order at the head of fifty men. His general saw the whole, made him lieutenant upon the spot, and promised to befriend him as long as he lived.— Yes, master Boniface, it is all true. My son did just as I tell you.

Bon.

Oh! it is a brave youth. I saw that long ago, while he was at school with me. When my boys were at play it was Charley that led the gang; and if ever there was a quarrel, he always sobered the stoutest of them. It was in him then, neighbour Jeremy. That is all natural to him.

Jer. (laughing.)

Aye, by the mass is it!

SCENE VII.

Jeremy, Nanny, Cicely, Boniface.

Cic. (running.)

Father! father! here is the letter, here it is; and another Bank-note in it, I dare say, for it feels thick.

Jer.

My good Charley! I am afraid he hurts himself to serve me.

Cic.

And father, some more wine too. The winemerchant, he with the great red nose, was at the postoffice at the same time with me, and had just got an order to send you another hamper full. Isaac is gone to fetch it.

Bon.

A hamper full?

Jer.

There will be some of that for you, Master Boniface. But mean time, we have a little of the last left. You 〈◊〉 drink with me while you read the letter. Go, dame and b• as th•t bottle and three glasses, with a 〈◊〉 of bread and ch•e. We will make a breakfast of it here under the tree. Bring out a table, Cicely. Make haste.

Nanny and Cicely (as they go off.)

But pray, now, do not read the letter without us.

Bon.

Never fear. You know, I cannot read before I break my fast.

SCENE VIII.

Jeremy, Boniface, Cicely, (who goes backwards and forwards.)

Jer.

Open the letter, however, Master Boniface, though we won't read it the more for that. And yet I am curious to know what he says about the peace, and if he will soon come and see us.

Bon.

Of the peace, quotha? Aye, they talk of it a good deal, but I cannot think it. They recruit and impress still as fast as ever. Why, this morning a serjeant with his party came into the town.

Jer.

What, to recruit?

Bon.

Ay, marry. The same that swears he enlisted Isaac, your daughter's sweetheart, at the fair in t'other town. Take care, neighbour Jeremy, he'll carry off Cicely's husband that is to be, if you do not take care. He is a slippery fellow, that • rjeant.

Cic. (coming near to lisie•.)

O gracious, are you in earnest, Mast•r Bonisace?

Jer.

Do not be a•aid, child, you know it was all a trick.

Bon.

Nay, if you are sure of that. But come, let us unseal—What a •e hand your son writes! how fair and legible: but he is indebted to me for it. (He hems, and begins to read.) "Honoured father—"

Jer. (stretching his head out towards Boniface to hear 〈◊〉 letter.)

Ah! my good Charley.

〈◊〉.

"As our regiment is ordered home, to remain in this country"—

Jer.

Heaven be praised! Then he will not cross the seas again. How happy my wife will be!

Bon.

"I hope shortly to have the happiness of seeing my family"—

Jer.

Oh! I knew we should soon have him here.

Bon.

"Meantime I cannot give you greater satisfaction, than by informing you how honourably I have been treated a few days since"—

Jer. (joyfully.)

Ay? Let us hear, let us hear.

Bon.

"By the general who politely invited me to dinner with him."—

Jer.

My Charley to dine with him? Oh! how the rest would stare! all those great officers! Well? well?

Bon.

"He held a particular conversation with me for a long time, and was pleased to pay me several compliments on my behaviour during the war, which were certainly more than I deserved. In short, he asked me where I was born, and who was my father."—

Jer.

What! the general ask about me? Well, what did he say? let's hear; quick, Master Boniface.

Bon.

"I told him that you were a poor honest labouring man, but that I would not change you for any father in the world, notwithstanding your condition."—

Jer. (lifting up his hands.)

Heavenly goodness! I think I hear him.

Bon.

"The general was pleased with this expression of my duty towards you, and filling his glass, drank your health in the presence of the whole table, requesting me to inform you that he had done himself that pleasure, and to assure you alway, of his friendship and good wishes."

Jer. (overjoyed.)

Now, is it possible, Master Boniface? The general? Some duke, no doubt.

Bon.

Ay, you hear he drank your health.

Jer. (runs towards the cottage, and calls out.)

Wife! wife! never mind what you are doing there, but come hither: come quick.

Nanny, from within the cottage.

What is the matter, Jeremiah?

Jer.

Nay, come, you shall hear; come, I tell you, quick.

SCENE IX.

Jeremy, Boniface, Nanny.

Jer. (kissing Nanny.)

Oh! my dear good wife, what a son thou hast given me!

Nanny, (sets the wine and bread and cheese on the table. Boniface lays hold on it unconcernedly.)

What is the matter good now? I am all over in a flutter of joy. Is he coming home?

Jer.

Oh! better than that. He dined with the general, d'ye know, and the general asked about our town, and about me, and my son told him that I was a poor labourer, but that he would not change me for all the fathers in the world. And with that the general drank my health publickly, and promised me his friendship. (Nanny claps her hands for joy.) So now, my dear, we must drink the general's health. Come, dame, take you that glass, you t'other, Master Boniface, and I'll have this. (Takes off his hat.) Fill all bumpers. Come, here's a health to the noble general.

Bon.

'Fore George, he does not drink better than this.

Jer.

Hark ye, neighbour Boniface, you must write for me to my son, as how I have pledged the general's health in a bumper, and that he must thank him from me, and assure him that I love him dearly. Now don't forget. Nay, by the rights of the business, it would not be amiss, I think, to send a civil line or two to himself.

Bon.

Pooh! neighbour Jeremy, what dost talk on?

Nanny.

But Charley is coming home, is he? we shall soon see him. Eh?

Jer.

Softly child, you will hear that directly.

Nanny.

Ah! if he could come before our Cicely is married, it would be a double happiness.

Jer.

Patience! Patience! master Boniface will go on.

Nanny.

Ay, ay; pray go on; mayhap he'll tell us something more.

Bon. (sitting down again. Nanny goes to his side, and listens attentively.)

"Invited me to dine with him"— Where did I leave off?—"Drank your health—Requesting me"—Ay, here it is—"Requesting me to inform you"—

SCENE X.

Jeremy, Nanny, Cicely, Boniface.

Cic. (crying and sobbing.)

Help, help, father; here are the soldiers.

Jer.

How? What is the matter?

Cic.

The recruiting serjeant is going to take away Isaac.

Bon.

What, and the hamper of wine too, that he is bringing?

Nanny.

O my stars, this is a misfortune!

Cic.

Do father, go and see if you can release him. You are his father in a manner as well as mine. The serjeant will respect you, I am sure. Every body respects you.

Jer.

S•ly child I as if every body lived in our town. But make yourselves easy; it is not so bad perhaps as you imagine. I will go and talk to them.

Cic.

Do father, and I will go with you: perhaps we may prevail on them.

SCENE XI.

Nanny, Boniface.

Nanny.

Lackaday! I wish I could follow you. But now Master Boniface, you that can speak like an oration, why don't you go and hold forth to them?

Bon.

No, no, dame; my business is to comfort the afflicted. I cannot quit you.

Nanny, (with anxiety.)

Bless me! don't I hear a noise already in the town? I hope no harm will happen to my poor man. Do, neighbour Boniface, go and see what is the matter.

Bon.

Why you would not have me go! what me?

Nanny.

Yes. You are a man of learning. You can talk to them something like.

Bon.

Ay, so much the worse. These blades would desire no better sport than to s•ll foul of men of learning, like me. •blood, keep to your books, they would say to me. And then again I am a little hasty, who can tell what might happen? I should never have meddled with learning, that is plain.

Nanny.

Come, you are one of our best friends, Mr. Boniface, and won't you help us?

Bon.

Nay, but have a little moderation after all, Gammer. Think of my profession. I can give you counsels and consolations in English and in Latin, as much as you will; but for helping folks, it does not lie in my way.

Nanny.

Well, I could not have expected this of you. I see, I must hobble after them myself.

SCENE XII.

Boniface, (alone.)

Yes, yes! go and push myself in amongst a parcel of young swaggerers. I have only twenty brats in my school and those young monkies play tricks on me from morning to night. What would I be amongst a score of great hulking fellows? I should have no rods there to frighten them. I think it is much better to finish this b•ttle, and then I can read the rest of the letter. I long to know— (Fills his glass, and reads to himself.) "The first of next month?"—Why that was 〈◊〉. (Continues to read eagerly) "The second? To be here on the second of the month?"—Heh! they'll be quite happy. (Drin•s off his wine.) There is not a moment to be lost. (Filis again and drinks.) I'll run after them, and bring them back. (Fills and drinks a third time.) The time is precious. (Holding the bottle up, and secing it empty, rises in a hurry, as if to run after them, and calls.) Jeremy! Nanny! They are too far off: they do not hear me. Well, this news will make it up for me with Nanny. It would be a pity to quarrel with such good folks, especially just now, when they have got a fresh hamper of such nectar as this.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Jeremy, Isaac, Nonny, the Serjeant, Country People, (Cic•ly and Soldiers standing by.)

The Serj. to the Soldiers.

Come, no more of this whining; take him before a justice.

Country People.

You won't take the man by force, will you?

Isaac.

Ay, let him, if he dare.

The Serj.

You may all talk as you will: this is my man• (Slapping on his pocket.) Here is my beating order, and that is enough.

Isaac.

Beating order? you have no order to trapan fo•s.

Jer. (making a sign to the country people to be silent.)

Har•ye, Mr. Serjeant, good words go a great way.

〈◊〉 Serj.

Good words? I desire no other. Let's see of what sort yours are.

Jer.

I'll tell you what, serjeant, I love my king and country with all my heart; and if the war was not almost ever, and every thing settled, if we were in any danger, and there was a real occasion—

The Sery.

Is this all that you have to say?

Jer.

Nay. serjeant, only hear me.

The Ser. (•ing on his •ane.)

Well, let us hear.

Jer.

Th• young man is my s•n in law that is to be; but what of 〈◊〉 if things were as I told you, I should be the first to say, carry him off. For what can there be more our duty, than to fight for one's country? Take myself too, I would say. My head is grey, it is true, and my face covered with wrinkles, but I am neither too old nor too weak to fight as well as another. My son's noble bravery has made me strong again, (with vehemence.) I will fight as long as I can carry a firelock, and when old age and weakness overpower me, I will hearten up the young fellows round me to behave themselves bravely. If I see any of them draw back, I'll throw myself in his way and stop his slight, or, if he will run, he shall pass over the carcase of a poor old man. Yes, upon my soul, serjeant, I would say exactly so.—if things were at that pass.

The Serj.

And I would say, My good old gentleman,— you don't know what you are talking about.

Jer. (a•vaneing a step.)

Harkye, serjeant, mayhap you don't know what you are doing. If you give yourself airs with us, we'll find your betters somewhere; and if I write to my son, that is a lieutenant—

The Serj.

You a son a lieutenant? But if you had a dozen, I can only say, that I must have Master Isaac here, or the smart money.

Isaac.

Ay, ay, this is a fine way to come and get folk's money. You a king's man?

The Serj.

I do no more than the king does, in regard to your money, except that I take the trouble to come for it myself. Two guineas, or he must march.

Nanny.

Nay, serjeant, for pity's sake—

The Serj.

Pity! we soldiers have much to do with pity. How would it be if the enemy were amongst you? No quarter then, but your money or your lives!

Nanny, (shuddering.)

Oh dear me!

The Serj.

No, no, we have not much time for pity. Broken arms and legs are nothing amongst us.—But come, we are losing time. Harkye, you must find the money, or the man is mine. Come along; march. (Goes off with the soldiers and Isaac.)

Jer.

Follow him, neighbours to the justice's, if he goes there. I'll be after you presently. (Cicely and the country people go out.)

SCENE II.

Jeremy, Nanny, Boniface, (out of breath)

Jer.

Ah! Master Boniface, you left us in the lurch.

Bon.

What a plague! I have been running after you this quarter of an hour.

Jer.

What is the matter, then? you seem all alive.

Bon.

Matter? the matter is here, gaffer. (Striking the letter.) Why your son is to be with us to-day, man.

Jer.

To-day, Mr. Boniface?

Bon.

Only hear. (He reads.) "Our regiment is ordered into quarters, and the first of next month the company to which I belong will march through your town." Look ye there, neighbour Jeremy; the first, that is, as one should say, yesterday.

Nanny.

Is it possible? Yesterday? and not here yet?

Bon.

Stop, stop. Hear what follows. (Reads.) "Or if not that day, on the second at farthest, I shall ask permission of the commanding officer to go and see you as we pass by.

Jer.

Then, my dear boy comes at last! Wife, I will go and meet him. I'll go as far as the common. I'll stretch out my arms towards him, and call to him, My son, my dear son!

Nanny.

Nay, don't leave me pr'ythee. How can I keep pace with you, being so feeble? Then he will think that I do not love him as well as you do.

Bon.

Ay, ay, stay where you are, neighbour. Only let me have a guinea, quick.

Jer.

A guinea? For what?

Bon.

To keep the serjeant in discourse about the two guineas that he asks, and then when your son comes—

Jer.

Ah! right. Here my good friend. Run, see what you can do. For my part, I can think of nothing but my son at this moment. (Beniface goes out running.)

SCENE III.

Jeremy, Nanny.

Nanny.

Pray, Jeremy, don't you go and leave me. I could not stay behind. You had better get up on this little h•. You will see further from the top of it.

Jer.

You are right, my dear. Marry, I am all on fire with joy and 〈◊〉.

Nanny, (〈◊〉 Jeremy goes up the hill)

Heaven be praised, then 〈…〉 is come home again. I shall see him once m• after so many long years. Dear! how my heart 〈◊〉! My joy was great when he came into the world, but now much greater. (She calls to Jeremy.) Well, my dear man, do you see ro•ing of him?

Jer. 〈…〉 hand over his eyes.

Not yet, honey; the sun 〈…〉.

Nanny.

I hope all this joy may not be out of season. Step down, and lend me a hand to get up. I shall see farther than you.

Jer.

What a dust! Is it a flock of sheep? No; I see the g•ing of their arms. They are coming down by you hill. It is they, my dear. It is they.

Nanny.

Do you see our boy?

Jer.

He 〈…〉 be for off. •h! who is this that comes galloping towards 〈◊〉 through the town? (He throws his 〈…〉.) H•zal wife, here he comes on horseback. Our own Charley.

Nanny.

Good lack! I am out of my wits with joy• Oh! I must go to meet him. Gracious! here he comes.

SCENE IV.

Jeremy, Nanny, Lieutenant Goodacre.

Lieut. Goodacre. entering as Jeremy comes down from the hill.

My dear father! (embraces his father and mother.)

Jer.

Ah! my good son. God bless thee, my dear boy! The sight of you makes me shed tears of joy. You have a thankful father.

Nanny.

Oh! that you have, my dear child, and a thankful mother too.

Lieut. Goodacre.

Why do you talk of thanks, my honoured parents? It is I that have obligations to you.

Jer.

No, Charles. I will say it before all the world, you have repaid me much more than I have ever given you. You are all my comfort, and the happiness of my old age. It is you that keep me alive, and prolong my days.

Nanny.

We can never make you amends for the happiness that you afford us.

Lieut. Goodacre.

And is it not the greatest happiness that I can enjoy myself? It would be none, if your affection did not make you share it with me. Yes, my dear and honoured parents; I have never ceased to think of you in every circumstance of life. When any good fortune has happened to me, I have thought very little of the advantage that fell to myself from it. The greatest pleasure that I felt at such times, was in thinking of the satisfaction that it would occasion to you. But in no part of my life have I enjoyed so great, so sensible a happiness as at this moment, when I see both your eyes filled with tears. (taking each of them by the hand, and looking at them by turns.) O my worthy parents, I can never satisfy myself with seeing you.—But compose yourselves. I cannot stay very long with you now. I shall return shortly, and spend a few days with you. Well, how do you go on? How do you pass your old age? How do you live? Where is my sister, that I have not seen 〈◊〉 she was in her cradle. Let me see her.

Jer.

She is a good girl, and gives us vash satisfaction. We are going to marry her, if you approve it. But I'll bring her hither directly. (going, he returns.) And yet I am grieved to tell you—

Nanny.

But for you she might be very unhappy. Our intended son-in-law, my dear child—

Jer.

Has been trapanned by a serjeant, that luckily is still here. Before he releases him, he expects two guineas; and they have been promised to him, to keep him on the spot, as we were in hopes that you would come in the mean time. How happy it is that you arrived here to-day?

Lieut. Goodacre.

Well, go father, and try to bring him hither without telling him that I am here, nor my sister neither.

Jer.

Nay, how shall I refrain! I would much rather cry out to every body that I meet, He is here, he is here. (goes out.)

SCENE V.

Nanny, Lieutenant Goodacre.

Lieut. Goodacre, (looking round him.)

How charming is this retreat! Now indeed I know the place of my birth. Yonder is the cottage that I have so often sighed after. There the great tree, under the shade of which we used to sit with our neighbours on fine summer evenings: and here the hill that I chose for the scene of my sports. O happy years of my childhood! Of every spot that I see round me, there is none, my dear mother, that does not remind 〈…〉 me mark or other of your affection. But you 〈◊〉 though•.

Nanny.

My joy is so great, I can hardly give it vent. If I •ere alone, I could cry for an hour. Besides, too, I think—

Lieut. Goodacre.

What, my dear mother?

Nanny.

That you are not our equal now. You are too much above us.

Lieut. Goodacre.

I too much above you? Oh! banish that though. Are not the 〈◊〉 of nature the most sacred? Am not I convinced that I cannot be dearer to any persons upon earth th•n to you and my father? And should not I in return fell a more sincere affection to my parents, than to any other person in the universe? Ah! believe me, I shall continue to love and respect you the same as ever.

SCENE VI.

Nanny, Lieutenant Goodacre, Cicely.

Cic. (enters hastily to her mother, without observing Lieutenant Goodacre.)

What is the matter, mother? Why did my father send me here in such a hurry? (perceiving Lieutenant Goodacre, she draws back.) Oh goodness! an officer!

Lieut. Goodacre, (aside to Nanny.)

Mother, is that my sister? (Nanny makes signs to him in the affirmative. He goes to kiss her.) What a charming countenance!

Cic. (struggling.)

Oh! fye sir, be quiet.

Nanny.

What Cicely, to your brother?

Lieut. Goodacre.

How surprized she seems? Yes, Cicely, your brother, and I hope a brother that you love.

Cic.

Dear mother! what this fine officer? Is he my brother Charley?

Lieut. Goodacre, (kissing her.)

What amiable innocence!

Cic. (running to her mother, quite overjoyed.)

Oh! mother, we have nothing to fear now. Isaac will soon be released.

SCENE VII.

Jeremy, Nanny, Lieutenant Goodacre, Boniface, Cicely, Isaac, the Serjeant, Country People.

Jer. (pointing to his son.)

There, serjeant; there is the gentleman that will pay you the two guineas.

The Serj. (surprized.)

How is this? an officer? (takes off his hat.)

Lieut. Goodacre.

You say, sir, that you have enlisted this man: where is your beating order?

The Serj. (presenting it to him with some confusion.)

Here, sir.

Lieut. Goodacre.

I see the number of your corps. What officer commands your party?

The Serj.

Captain Marshall, sir.

Lieut. Goodacre. having looked over the paper.

Why this is but a copy. Well, I know your captain, and think I should know you too. Your dealing with this man does not seem to have been fair. I am afraid that you have abused the honourable profession of a soldier, and looked upon it as allowing you a privilege to extort poor people's money. I shall write to your captain, and meantime shall be answerable for this man's appearance. (Serjeant goes off.)

SCENE VIII.

Jeremy, Nanny, Lieutenant Goodacre, Boniface, Cicely, Isaac, Country People.

Lieut. Goodacre.

Come hither, sister: Is this your intended spouse? He is a clever young fellow. I like Cicel's 〈◊〉 very much.

Isaac.

You are very good, captain, to approve it, as I am no more than •bandman.

Lieut. Goodacre.

And what was my father? Are not you born of honest parents?

Nanny.

Yes, indeed, my dear son, as honest as any in the purish.

Lieut. Goodacre.

Well, I shall not be happy unless I am at your wedding. I shall take all the expence of it upon myself.

Country People, (with a 〈◊〉 of approbation.)

That is very generous indeed.

Lieut. Goodacre.

But do not I see Mr. Boniface?

Bon.

Yes, captain, much at your service.

Lieut. Goodacre.

Ah! one of my cl•est acquaintances. (shaking hands with him.) I am sorry to have made him angry 〈◊〉 often so m•rly.

Bon.

That 〈…〉. The present does me much honour. Do 〈…〉, it was I who read all your letters 〈…〉 good 〈◊〉? I have spread your reputation 〈…〉 country. Indeed I came in 〈…〉 me 〈◊〉 of it.

Lieut. Goodacre.

Yes, Mr. Beniface, I acknowledge it with pleasure. Your instructions have not been entirely useless to me in my advan• 〈◊〉.

Bon. 〈…〉, with a pedantic tess of his head.

Who would think (aside) that I have •ogged a captain?

Lieut. Goodacre.

Father, do these good people belong to the village?

Jer.

Yes, child, they are our neighbours, and have been very kind to us in our old age.

Lieut. Goodacre.

I am heartily obliged to you, my good friends.

Country People, (approaching familiarly.)

How plain he is, and how affable! He does not think himself above us. Kindly welcome home, captain. We have always been glad to hear news from you, when you were abroad. (Lieutenant Goodacre takes each of them by the hand.)

Jer.

Every thing that I see of you, my dear son, pleases me highly, and convinces me that whatever I heard to your advantage was true. You certainly have behaved yourself as a worthy soldier.

Lieut. Goodacre.

I hope so, father; and I am indebted for it to your good advice and that of my mother. There is no part of the world, I thank heaven, where my memory is hateful: I flatter myself that in many parts it is respected. (looking at his watch.) But my time is almost expired. I must leave you, my dear parents.

Nanny.

What, already? so soon?

Jer.

Stop a little longer. We have scarcely had time to look at you.

Lieut. Goodacre.

I must absolutely join our division again. Be assured that my heart alone would be sufficient to keep me here, if my duty did not call me away. But shall I ask you one thing before I leave you?

Jer. and Nanny.

Any thing, child, any thing.

Lieut. Goodacre.

Well then, my dear parents, come and live with me. You shall command my pay, such as it is, in the same manner as you ever command my duty and affection.

Jer. and Nanny.

My dear son—

Lieut. Goodacre.

You hesitate? Ah! your consent must be quite voluntary. It would be no happiness to me, if it ceased to be one to you.

Jer.

Hear me, my dear child. We are old and cannot live long. Let us die here where we have spent all our days. Let us die in our cottage; that spot is dear to us, since in it you was born. Only come and make us happy with the sight of you now and then, it is all that we desire.

Lieut. Goodacre.

Oh! certainly, certainly, father.

Nanny.

And we, my dear son, will go to see you in return. They will be days of happiness to us when we see you, and we shall never cease to bless heaven for having given us such a son.

Notes

*
The following is rather an
•
imitation, or paraphrase, than a translation of the drama which bears the same titi

•

in the French of Mr. BER
•
. The necessity of deviating from the original will be
•
ous to every reader. The French drama is also imitated from the German of Mr. ENGEL.
↵

PHYSIOGNOMY.

MR. Oakley having one day surprized his daughter Arabella very busy before her glass, they had the following conversation on the subject.

Mr. Oakley.

Why Arabella, you are drest very fine. I suppose it is to receive or to pay visits.

Arabella.

Yes, papa, I am to spend the evening with the Miss Monktons.

Mr. Oakley.

I thought you were going to figure in a circle of duchesses. What needs all this dressing for friends that you see every day?

Arabella.

Why, papa, you know—when one goes out, one should not be in a dishabille as at home.

Mr. Oakley.

Then you are generally in dishabille at home?

Arabella.

No, papa;—but you know there ought to be a difference.

Mr. Oakley.

I understand. You mean that you should be a little more attentive to your dress. But I thought, as I came in, that you seemed busy in examining your looks, and your figure. Does your glass tell you that your studies have succeeded? (Arabella tooks down, and blushes.) What is your intention?

Arabella.

Papa, one always likes to please, and—we would not appear so as to frighten people.

Mr. Oakley.

Ha, ha! then it depends on our choice to please people, or to frighten them?

Arobella.

Not entirely. But I meant—as others do when they say, one looks like a fright.

Mr. Oakley.

I should like to know what that means. It may be of use to myself.

Arabella.

Why for instance; when one is pitted deeply with the small-pox, or has a great long nose and chin, or a wide mouth.

Mr. Oakley.

Thank heaven you have none of these; but rather, indeed, a sensible little countenance. What more do you want, in order to please universally, and not to be a fright?

Arabella.

Ah! I can't tell how it is, but I know some little misses that have very handsome faces, and yet they do not please me; and I know other that are not counted handsome, and yet I like their faces very much.

Mr. Oakley.

Can you trust me with your thoughts? Tell me those first that are handsome and yet have not the good luck to please your taste.

Arabella.

That is easily done. In the first place, there is Miss Bloomer. She has a clear smooth skin, as white as a lily, with fine blue eyes and rosy lips. But she has an affected loll which makes her seem lower than she is; and she hangs her head on one shoulder, so that her face looks quite another thing. Then she draws out her words slowly, as if she weighed each syllable, and in speaking she looks at you, expecting you to admire every sentence. In the next place, there is the eldest Miss Archly; she passes for a beauty, but her looks are so proud and sneering, that when we are a number of us together, we cannot help thinking she despises or ridicules us. As for Miss Drake, she carries herself with so much confidence, and speaks with such an air of command, that a boy would blush—

Mr. Oakley.

Softly! At this rate we shall fall into scandal. I would rather hear you mention those who, without being handsome, have found means to please you.

Arabella.

You know Miss Emily Johnson? She is much marked with the small-pox, and even has a pearl on her left eye from it; but yet her countenance is so pleasing, that one may read in it good-nature, mildness, and complaisance. The youngest Miss Archly has the smallest cast in the world with her eyes, from having had something hung before one eye that was sore for almost a twelvemonth when she was young. She looks to the right, to see what is on her left hand. Well, it is nothing when one becomes used to it, and we all love her dearly; she is so lively, and so gay.

Mr. Oakley.

You seen then, outward advantages, such as a fair soft skin, white teeth, a handsome nose, rosy lips, a fine easy shape, in short, all the beauties of face or person, are not sufficient by themselves to make one please: one must have besides a happy countenance, and engaging manners.

Arabella.

Certainly, papa; for otherwise I cannot tell how some please me who are neither handsome nor well shaped, and how others are disagreeable with all these advantages.

Mr. Oakley.

But can you tell why the first have something in their countenances more agreeable to us than the regular features of the second?

Arabella.

Because, I should think, one sees there some figns of their disposition; and we are apt to think that those who have an appearance of good-nature in the features of the face, must have a good heart.

Mr. Oakley.

When you were before your glass, you strove, no doubt, to throw a little good-nature into your countenance, that people might imagine you to possess it in your disposition too?

Arabella.

Oh! pray papa, do not make game of me.

Mr. Oakley.

I do not mean it. But you told me just now that you wished to please, and you owned this to be the surest method of doing so.

Arabella.

Yes, certainly.

Mr. Oakley.

But do you think that such a countenance may not be deceitful, or that one can assume the power of pleasing and lay it down at pleasure?

Arabella.

Yes, papa, I think so, for I have heard you and others say a hundred times, "I would never have thought that little girl to have such a deceitful countenance.—That man looked like honesty itself, and yet he has deceived us.—Such a person knows how to compose his face so, that one would swear him to be possest of every virtue."

Mr. Oakley.

But did we speak, then, of those that we had seen often, or for a long time, or pretty near us?

Arabella.

Ah! I do not know that, papa.

Mr. Oakley.

Or might not this wrong judgment proceed from a want of sagacity? or from not sufficiently remarking whether such persons have always the same countenance, or only take it up upon occasion; or in short, whether they speak and act consistently, and uniformly?

Arabella.

What is the meaning of that, papa?

Mr. Oakley.

Whether every thing agrees, their countenance, their eyes, the sound of their voice, all the features of their face; whether any part contradicts, or gives the lie to the other.

Arabella.

Oh! there are a good many things to mind in that. And yet I should imagine, if I saw any one a long time, and pretty often, and took particular notice of what you have mentioned, I could not be mistaken.

Mr. Oakley.

Ah! child, do not be too sure.

Arabella.

However, I think, I can see in my little friends what is affected, and what is natural.

Mr. Oakley.

So then you suppose that you are knowing enough in the art of disguising the thoughts, and that you have judgment and penetration enough, to distinguish truth from hypocrisy upon a countenance? Really, I should never have expected so much from so light a little head as yours.

Arabella.

Oh! I have taken notice in Miss Bloomer, that her prim mouth, her stare, her motions with her head, and that drawling tone of hers, are not natural; and that the elder Miss Archly's proud flouting look, and Miss Drake's free undaunted manner is not at all affected, because the one is really vain and self-conceited, and the other impudent.

Mr. Oakley.

Perhaps they are not far enough advanced in the art of putting on counterfeit looks. However your opinion is, that our aversions and our likings, our faults and our virtues are painted on our faces, and that one can read in a person's features, as in a book, what he is in the bottom of his heart.

Arabella.

Why not? I never saw a passionate person with a mild aspect, nor an envious person with a smiling countenance; nor one who was cruel and unfeeling, with looks of tenderness. Only see our neighbour, Mrs. Grimston, how she eyes people as if she would eat them up, and with what a grumbling voice she speaks. Every time that Miss Artichoke, the old maid, comes here, when mama has company, only observe how her eyes go round, to see if any lady present has any thing new or elegant about her dress; and with what looks of jealousy she measures her from head to foot, as if she was hurt at another's happiness.

Mr. Oakley.

Why, indeed, we may pretty safely pronounce that the one is envious, and the other passionate. But may it not sometimes happen, that nature should give the same person a happy countenance, and a perverse disposition; or, on the other hand, indifferent features along with a noble heart?

Arabella.

I do not know, but I can hardly believe it.

Mr. Oakley.

Why so?

Arabella.

Because we may see by a person's figure whether he is weak or strong, sickly or in health; and it must be the same with the disposition.

Mr. Oakley.

Well, now I shall give you two passages from history, that seem to contradict your notion. A certain able physiognomist, called Zopyrus, boasted that from a view of a person's shape and countenance, he could distinguish his manners and ruling passions. After one day looking at Socrates, he judged him to be a man of a bad mind and vicious inclinations, some of which he mentioned. Alcibiades, the friend and scholar of Socrates, who was well acquainted with his master's merit, could not help laughing at the judgment of the physiognomist and taxing him with gross ignorance. But Socrates confessed that he was really by nature inclined to those vices of which he was accused, and that he preserved himself free from them by the constant exertions of philosophy. Aesop, that slave who was endowed with so much wit, had a person so disagreeable and deformed, that when he stood to be sold he could prevail on nobody to purchase him, until his witty answers shewed them convincingly what he was.—Here are two examples that seem to prove the contrary of what you maintained.

Arabella.

Well now, that surprizes me as to Socrates: I have often heard you talk of him with admiration. And as to Aesop too, I have read his fables with so much pleasure. I should have thought them both the finest looking persons in the world. But however, it agrees again with what I said, that one may be ordinary, and yet have I don't know what of wit, sensibility, or goodnature, in the countenance.

Mr. Oakley.

You are right; sickness or grief may alter the features. But that was not the case with Socrates. He owned himself that he was at first viciously inclined, and the features of his face strongly confirmed it.

Arabella.

I think his answer explains the difficulty. He was born with a bad disposition, but as he had much good sense at the same time, and saw that passion, pride and envy were terrible vices, he struggled with them and came at length to get the better of them. His heart was purged of his faults, but his countenance kept the marks of them still.

Mr. Oakley.

You seem to be pretty ready at a reply. Nay, there is some truth, too, in your reasoning. However, I have a small question to propose to you.—If Miss Archly, that proud little miss, who has a face, you say, expressing disdain and self-conceit, should, from the sensible instructions of her parents, be convinced of her own folly; or if distresses and sickness obliged her to endeavour to render herself agreeable to others, by being mild, affable and mannerly, so that she should become quite the contrary to what she is at present; and suppose it were the same with your other little friends, as to the faults that you find in them also; would those marks of pride, affectation or impudence remain still upon their faces? Or when, by continual and redoubled efforts they should have changed their vices into the opposite virtues, would the same alteration take place in their countenances?

Arabella.

Yes, certainly, papa.

Mr. Oakley.

Well, the truth may lie between our different ways of arguing. Socrates, when young, yielded to the folly of his passions, and even retained for a long time his choleric temper, since he entreated his friends to admonish him, whenever they saw him ready to give way to it. But in a more advanced age, when he had been instructed in the school of wisdom, he began undoubtedly to combat his vices, to reform himself daily, and to rise by degrees to the highest pitch of perfect on in every moral virtue. But then it was too late to new-model his features. The muscles and fibres of his face becoming stiff, the beauty of his mind could make no impression through his countenance. It was like the sun in a cloudy sky. Now in childhood, when the features are more tender and flexible, the different movements of the soul are in their turns forcibly impressed on them. So that if by a reform during that period the virtues take place of the vices in the mind, the outward expression of these virtues on the countenance will also efface that of the vices. For the countenance may be compared to a thin veil. If you throw it over the head of a fair Circassian, and afterwards over that of a Negro wench, you will easily see through it the florid bloom of the one, and the sooty blackness of the other. I do not know whether you understand what I mean.

Arabelia.

Oh! yes, perfectly from that comparison; and to shew you that I do, I will give you one of my own. I have often with the greatest ease cut the letters of my name, or the date of the year, upon a young tree, but I could not do so upon an old one: the bark would have been too hard, and too rugged.

Mr. Oakley.

Why you surprize me. But even though your comparison should not be quite exact, it is certainly true that if we do not take up a habit of virtue until an advanced age, we shall appear the less amiable in the eyes of others; because our features, long accustomed to express our former vicious inclinations, can with difficulty be modelled to represent our present virtuous sentiments: and what are we to conclude from this?

Arabella.

That we should—that we should—

Mr. Oakley.

Consider well before you express yourself.

Arabella.

That we should endeavour, while young, to have an amiable countenance.

Mr. Oakley.

But if we are not in our heart what our countenance denotes, would not the contrast be remarked? You said just now of Miss Bloomer, that she was not what she wished to be thought. So, you see—

Arabella.

Yes, I see that we should strive to be really what we wish to appear. So, for instance, if we would appear mild, modest, reserved, or good-natured, we should struggle against all those inclinations that would hinder us to be so in effect, otherwise our counterfeit looks will soon be discovered. For if one is really mild, modest, reserved, or good-natured, the features of his face will shew it.

Mr. Oakley.

Very well, my dear Arabella. And is not that an excellent receipt for obtaining true beauty, and the genuine art of pleasing? How unhappy would those be to whom nature has refused her charms, if they were debarred the hopes of acquiring an amiable and engaging countenance by goodness of heart, and other qualities most pleasing in the sight of God and man. Therefore, my dear, take my advice; do not go to seek in your glass for the art of appearing better than you really are. But whenever you find yourself ruffled by any passion, run immediately and consult it. You will see the ugliness of envy, anger or vanity. Then ask yourself, if such a portrait can be agreeable in the eyes of either God or man.

Arabella.

Yes, papa; your advice is very good, and I will follow it. But I shall reap another advantage from your instructions.

Mr. Oakley.

What is that?

Arabella.

I will look very attentively at every body that I see in company, and strive to discover by their faces what opinion I should have of them.

Mr. Oakley.

No, child, take care how you do so. The first would be contrary to good manners, and unsuitable to the modesty of your sex; and the second would be very dangerous, considering your candour and inexperience. To discover in the features of any person his disposition or way of thinking, requires long study, repeated observations, and a very penetrating judgment. You would find yourself continually deceived in your likings or dislikes. The knowledge of the world will instruct you by degrees. At present study only yourself, and use all the strength of your mind to acquire every virtue, in order to become more amiable and more beautiful.

NARCISSUS AND HIPPOLYTUS.

NARCISSUS and Hippolytus were nearly of the same age, and loved each other from their earliest infancy. As their parents were close neighbours, they had opportunities of being together every day. Mr. Chambers, the father of Narcissus, had a place under government, the profits of which were immense; but the father of Hippolytus, Mr. Marvel, possessed a moderate fortune, on which, however, he lived content, and all his views aimed at making his son happy by the advantages of a well directed education, since he had it not in his power to leave him great riches. To obtain this end, he made choice of means the most worthy of his prudence. Hippolytus, at nine years of age, was formed to all the exercises of the body, and his understanding enriched with many useful acquirements. Being constantly in exercise and motion, he was healthy and robust. Always contented, and happy in the affection of his parents, he enjoyed a mild chearfulness which communicated its influence to these who had the happiness of being in his company. His little neighbour Narcissus was one who felt this happiness; for the moment that Hippolytus left him, he would be quite at a loss for amusement. That his time might not hang wearisome, he was continually eating without being hungry, drinking without being dry, and dozing without being sleepy. So that scarce a day passed but he was troubled with qualms of the stomach, or violent head-achs. Mr. Chambers, as well as Mr. Marvel, tenderly wished his son's happiness; but to procure it he had unfortunately taken the means which were quite opposite to his end. Narcissus from the cradle had been bred up with the utmost delicacy. He had always a servant behind him, to hand him a chair whenever he had a mind to change his seat. He was drest and undrest as if he had not the use of his hands. It seemed as if all those who were about him only breathed for him, and that he could not help himself even to live. While Hippolytus, in a thin linen jacket, helped his father to cultivate a little garden for his amusement, Narcissus, in a fine scarlet coat, was lolling in a chariot, paying morning visits with his mama. If ever he went to take the country air, and alighted out of the carriage but for a moment, they took particular care to put his great coat on, and a handkerchief round his head, for fear he should catch cold. Accustomed as he was to be humoured in his slightest fancies, he wished for every thing that he saw; but this wish lasted only for a moment; and the more troublesome it was to procure him what he wished, the sooner he was tired of it. To spare him the smallest subject of ill humour, his mother had ordered all the servants to respect even his follies. This ill-judged indulgence made him so whimsical and imperious that every body in the house hated and despised him. Besides his parents, Hippolytus was the only person that loved him and could patiently put up with his humours. He knew how to manage his temper, and could make him even good humoured like himself.

How do you contrive to be always so merry? said Mr. Chambers to him one day. I do not well know, sir, answered he. It comes of itself. But my papa tells me, that one is never perfectly happy, without mixing a little work with one's play. And I have observed it, too, whenever any strangers come to our house, and we quit our work to entertain them: I never find my time hang heavy but on such days. It is this mixture of exercise and amusement that makes me always be in good health. I fear neither the winds, nor the rain; neither the heat of the day, nor the cold of the evening; and I have almost dug up a whole plat in my garden, before poor Narcissus quits his bed of a morning. Mr. Chambers heaved a sigh; and that very day he went to consult Mr. Marvel how he should act, in order to make his son as healthy and as chearful as Hippolytus. Mr. Marvel took pleasure in answering his questions, and laid before him the plan that he had followed. The powers of the body and of the mind, said he, should be equally kept in exercise, unless they are meant to be unserviceable, as money buried in the ground would be even to its owner. Nothing can be imagined more prejudicial to the health and happiness of children, than to give them a pusillanimous turn, by using them to excessive delicacy; and from a pernicious complaisance, to give way to their whimsical and obstinate humours. To what vexatious disappointments will not a man be exposed, who has been accustomed from his childhood to see even his follies flattered; since of all the warmest wishes of his heart, he may happen to see scarcely one accomplished, and thus be led basely to murmur against his destiny, when he should for the most part thank heaven for rejecting his infatuated vows? He added, with tokens of heart-felt satisfaction, that Hippolytus would certainly never be that unhappy person. Mr. Chambers was struck with this discourse, and resolved to conduct his son to happiness by the same way. Alas! it was too late. Narcissus now was fourteen years old, and his mind, so long enervated, could not bear any exertion, though ever so little fatiguing. His mother, as weak as himself, entreated her husband not to teaze their darling. Her husband, wearied out with these entreaties, dropped the sensible design that he had formed; and the darling sunk more and more into habits of pernicious effeminacy. Thus the strength of his body declined, in proportion as his mind was degraded by ignorance. At sea•th, when he had gained the age of seventeen, his parents sent him to the university, intending him afterwards for the study of the law. Hippolytus being destined for the same profession, accompanied his young friend. I had forgot to mention that Hippolytus, in his different studies and acquirements, had never had any other instructor than his father. Narcissus had as many masters as there are different accomplishments to acquire; and he remembered a few of the terms used by each of them tolerably well. This was all the fruit of his studies. The understanding of Hippolytus, on the contrary, was like a garden whose airy situation every where admits the kindly rays of the sun, and in which every seed, by a judicious cultivation, comes rapidly to the growth. Already well instructed, he earnestly desired fresh knowledge. His diligence and good behaviour afforded a pattern for imitation to his companions. His mild temper, his lively apprehension and joyous humour, made his company strongly attracting. Every body loved him, and every body wished to be his friend. Narcissus at first was happy to be in the same lodging with him. But very soon his pride, mortified by the esteem that Hippolytus had acquired, would not suffer him to be longer a witness to it. He therefore separated from him upon a frivoious pretence. Being now left to himself, and his own vitiated taste, he sighed for pleasure, and thoughtlessly snatched at whatever seemed to offer her deceitful image to his view. I shall not attempt to describe to you how often he blushed for himself, and how from one imprudence to another, he fell at last into the grossest irregularities. It will suffice to inform you that he returned to his father's house with the seeds of a mortal distemper in his bosom; that he languished six months on a bed of pain, and expired in the severest agonies. Hippolytus came home to his parents, regretted both by his teachers and his companions, and enriched with a treasure of learning and prudence. With what transports of joy was he received by his family! O children, how sweet a thing it is to make ourselves beloved by all who know us, and at the same time to feel ourselves worthy of this universal affection! His mother thought herself the happiest of women; and tears of joy filled his father's eyes whenever he beheld him. A considerable employment in his profession was conferred on him with the unanimous approbation of all who knew his character, and enabled him to gratify his ardent desire of promoting the happiness of his friends. And he enjoyed their happiness as much as they did themselves. His parents, too, shared the same generous sentiments, and lived in affluence to a good old age. He took pleasure in repaying them with interest the attentions which they had shewed for him. A wife endowed with beauty and virtue, and children resembling himself, made his happiness complete. Whenever, therefore, any man was mentioned as being both happy and worthy to be so, the name of Hippolytus always occurred first to the thoughts of those who knew him.

THE MAN WHO ROSE TO SUDDEN FORTUNE.

ONE fine evening, in the month of June, Mr. Russel went out with his son Eugene, to take a walk in some of the most agreeable environs of the city. The weather was mild, the sky clear, the purling streams and waving trees lulled them to an agreeable thoughtfulness. What a lovely evening! said Eugene, enchanted with the beauties of nature that surrounded him. He pressed his father's hand, and said to him, If you knew, papa, what thoughts rise in my heart! He was silent for a moment, then lifting up towards heaven his eyes which were moistened with tears. I thank my God, said he, for the happy moments that he gives me to enjoy. Oh! that every body could taste the beauties of the evening as I do! That all mankind overflowed with joy, as I do at this moment! I could wish to be king over a large country that I might make all my subjects happy. Mr. Russel embraced his son. My dear Eugene, said he, the benevolent wish that you have just expressed, comes from a heart as generous as humane. But would not your thoughts change with your fortune? Would you preserve in an exalted station these sentiments that animate you now in the middling condition to which heaven has appointed you?

Eugene.

Why do you ask that question, papa? cannot one become rich without becoming cruel or wicked?

Mr. Russel.

It does not always happen so, my dear. There are some fortunate persons who remember their past distresses, and in whom this reflection produces sentiments of charity towards the unfortunate. But to the disgrace of the human heart, a change of fortune frequently alters affections the most tender and sympathetic. While we are unfortunate ourselves, we think that heaven requires it of all men as a duty to relieve our sufferings. If the hand of God remove misfortune from us, we conclude all his intents in the preservation of the universe to be fulfilled; and we no longer think of those wretches that remain in the gulf from which we have been rescued. We have an instance of this in the man who comes sometimes to ask relief of me. I give it to him with a reluctance that I cannot conquer, though I reproach myself for it.

Eugene.

Why true, papa; I observed that you put your alms coldly into his hand, without ever giving him those words of comfort that you do to other poor people.

Mr. Russel.

I will shew you, my dear, whether he deserves them. Mr. Lowe was a linen-draper in the Minories. Though the profits of his business were but moderate, a poor person never appeared at his door in vain. This was all the pleasure that he indulged himself in purchasing; and he thought himself happy to enjoy it, though he could not command even this to the full extent of his wishes. Business called him one day upon Change. He saw in one part of it a number of principal merchants together, who were talking of vast cargoes, and immense profits to be expected from them. Ah! said he to himself, sighing, how happy these people are! If I were as rich, heaven knows, I should not be so for myself alone, and that the poor should partake of my abundance. He goes home full of ambitious thoughts, but how can his narrow business enable him to fulfil hisvast projects? With tolerable oeconomy, it was no more than sufficient to afford him a decent subsistence the year •ound. "I shall always be at a stand here!" cried he, "and never rise above this middling condition in which I linger at present." A hand-bill, inviting adventurers to purchase in the lottery, was at this moment put into his hand. He seized the idea with eagerness, as if inspired by fortune; and without minding the inconvenience to which his covetousness might reduce him, he went to the lottery-office, and laid out four guineas, the only money that he could spare in the world. With what impatience he waited for the drawing! He one time repented having so foolishly hazarded a stake, the loss of which would disturb him. At another time he fancied that he saw riches falling down upon him in showers. At last the drawing began.

Eugene.

Well, papa, did he get a prize?

Mr. Russel.

Five thousand pounds.

Eugene.

Aha! he would jump for joy.

Mr. Russel.

He went immediately and received his money, and spent some days in thinking of nothing else. When he had had enough of that, I can put this sum to a better use, said he, than barely poring over it. He therefore enlarged his stock, extended his dealings, and by his activity and knowledge of trade he soon doubled his capital. In less than ten years he became one of the richest men in the city. It must be said in his praise, that he had till then been faithful to his vow, in making the poor partake of his abundance. At the fight of an unfortunate person he remembered his own former condition without being ashamed of it. And this recollection never failed of profiting the person who occasioned it. Led by degrees to frequent fine company, he contracted a taste for luxury and dissipation. He purchased a magnificent countryhouse and fine gardens, and his life became a round of pleasures and amusement. The most extravagant whims he gratified without scruple, but soon perceived that they had made a considerable breach in his fortune. Trade, which he had given up in order to be quite at leisure to enjoy himself, no longer enabled him to repair it. Besides, a habit of indulgence and a mean vanity would not suffer him to lessen his expences. I shall always have enough for one, thought he; let others provide for themselves. His heart, hardened in this resolution, was thenceforth shut to the unfortunate. He heard the cries of misery around him, as one hears the tempest grumble, when sheltered from its fury. Friends whom he had till then supported, came to solicit him for fresh relief. But he refused them harshly. Have I made a fortune, said he, only to squander it upon you? Do as I do, said he, depend upon yourselves. His mother, whom he had cut short of half the pension that he allowed her, came to beg for a retired shelter in a corner of his house, there to spend her few remaining days; but he had the barbarity to refuse her, and with dry eyes beheld her die in misery. This crime, however, did not long remain unpunished. His debaucheries very soon exhausted all his wealth, and deprived him of the strength necessary to support himself by work. In short, he was reduced to the state of misery in which you see him, and now begs his bread from door to door, an object of contempt and indignation to all honest people.

Eugene.

Ah! papa, since fortune can make men so wicked, I wish to remain as I am.

Mr. Russel.

My dear Eugene, I wish the same for the sake of your happiness; but if heaven destines you to a more exalted station, may you never forseit the nobleness and generosity of your soul. Think often of the story that I have just now told you. Learn from this example, that we can never taste true happiness, without feeling for the misfortunes of others; that it is the powerful man's duty to comfort the sorrows of the weak; and that he reaps more true happiness from the performance of this duty, than from all his pomp and luxury.

The sun was now going to set, and his parting beams threw a lively glow upon the clouds which seemed to form a purple curtain round his bed. The air, freshened at the approach of evening, breathed an agreeable calm. The birds, in repeating their farewel songs, rallied all their powers of melody. The leaves of the grove mingled a gentle murmur with their concert, and every thing seemed to inspire sentiments of joy and happiness; but Eugene and his father, instead of the transports which they had felt at first, returned home lost in melancholy reflexions.

THE GREYHOUND AND THE RING.
A DRAMA, in TWO ACTS.

CHARACTERS.

- Mr. CALVERT.

- SERINA, his Daughter.

- EUSTACE, his Son.

- LIONEL, Friends to Eustace.

- RUFUS, Friends to Eustace.

SCENE, An apartment in Mr. Calvert's house.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Serina (alone.)

AH! my poor little Diana! I shall never be able to sit at work without you. It was here on this little cushion that you lay down beside me, while I was at my needle. How joyful and pleased were we both when you awoke! You would run, shaking your tail, under the sopha and under the chairs and tables, and then jump from one to the other. How happy did you appear when I took you in my lap! How you would li•k my hands and face, and play with me! Oh! how sorry shall I be if I never see you again! Ah! I should never have lost you myself; but that careless—

SCENE II.

Serina, Eustace.

Eustace. (overhearing these last words.)

I see, my name is called in question.

Serina.

Ay, whose else should it be? If you had not been so positive in taking her out with you yesterday, she would not have been lost.

Eustace.

That is true, and I am as sorry for it as you are: but what can I do now?

Serina.

Did I not beg of you to leave her at home? but you could not go a step without having her at your heels.

Eustace.

I own it. I was so pleased when she was along with me, to see her walk sometimes before me, and sometimes behind me. Then she would run from me as if I was pursuing her, and come back again at full speed, and jump up about me so playful.

Serina.

Then you should have taken better care of her.

Eustace.

Yes, I should so. But as she used to go away from me, and come back of herself without any occasion for my calling her, I thought—

Serina.

You thought?—you have never the least mistrust of any thing; and by that poor Diana was lost.

Eustace.

I promise you, sister, the next time—

Serina.

Yes, another time when we have nothing to lose. I could not sleep a quarter of an hour together all last night. I thought I heard her whining to me at a distance, and that I ran to the side from which her cries seemed to come. Then I awoke, and found myself alone. Ah! I dare say she is as dull too, for her part.

Eustace.

Dear sister, it makes me doubly unhappy to see you grieve so. I would give all that I am worth in the world to have her again.

Serina.

Now you make me grieve still more. Why, don't you know at least where you missed her? One might enquire amongst all the neighbours thereabouts.

Eustace.

I'd lay a wager she followed me into this street, and almost as far as our own house too. But as she runs up into every court smelling about, somebody must have shut their door upon her and kept her in.

Serina.

Yes, I dare say it was so; otherwise she would have come back to her lodging. She knows the way to it well enough.

Eustace.

Lionel was along with me, and declared to me that he saw her but the moment before we missed her. And it was his fault; for he was playing such comical tricks as we walked along, that I forgot Diana just then.

Serina.

Well, he should have helped you at least to look for her.

Eustace.

So he did all yesterday evening, and to-day again very early. We went into all the streets and lanes round about, and searched every court and market near us. We enquired, in short, among all our acquaintances, but could hear nothing of her. Indeed, sister, I am ashamed to look you in the face. I know you must be angry with me.

Serina, (taking him by the hand.)

No, I am not angry now. You did not mean to disoblige me; and besides, you are so sorry yourself! But who is this coming up stairs? Go and see.

SCENE III.

Serina, Eustace, Lionel.

Lionel. (opening the door.)

It is I, it is I, Eustace. Good morning to you, Miss Serina.

Serina.

Good morning, Master Lionel.

Lionel.

I have got a scent of Diana, and I hope pretty soon—

Serina.

What? to find her again?

Lionel.

I'll tell you. You know that old woman that lives at the corner of the street, and sells cakes and garden stuff?

Serina.

What? has she my little dog?

Lionel.

No, no; she is a very honest woman, and a good friend of mine. You know, Eustace, that Diana too wanted t'other day to scrape acquaintance with her, standing up with her paws upon the counter, and smelling at the biscuits.

Eustace.

Ah! yes; but her little fond tricks would not do there, for the old woman gave her a great stroke on the nose with her glove.

Serina.

Oh! that is nothing. Well, Master Lionel?

Lionel.

Well, just now I went to her shop to buy some cakes, and was telling her of our loss. What, says she, that little cur dog?—

Serina.

Cur dog, Master Lionel? Don't call my pretty Diana so. I would rather not hear you talk of her at all.

Lionel.

Nay, I only tell you her own words. That little cur dog, says she, that belongs to that pretty young gentleman, your acquaintance? Yes, said I, the same. Well, you know another little master that lives here below, at the large house with the balcony? It was he that coaxed her away.

Eustace.

How? could she mean Rufus?

Lionel.

Don't you remember that he was at the old woman's shop yesterday as we passed, and pretended not to see us, for fear of being obliged to offer us some of his walnuts?

Eustace.

That is very true. I recollect it now.

Lionel.

Well, when we had past her house a little way, he called Diana as she was following us, and offered her a bit of cake, and while the poor thing was busy feasting herself, he snatched her up in his arms and carried her home. The good woman told me the whole trick.

Serina.

An ill-natured creature! well, however, we know where she is. Brother, you had better go to him without any more ado.

Lionel.

I am greatly afraid that he would not find her there. Rufus has taken her only to sell her, as he does his books and whatever else he can purloin at his father's. He is capable of any thing. Why, we were playing at marbles t'other day, and he cheated.

Eustace.

Ay• is that his way? I'll run to him this moment.

Lionel.

You will not find him at home. I have just been there, and he was out.

Serina.

Perhaps he bid them say that he was not at home.

Lionel.

No; I went up to his room, and I told the maid that I wanted him to come and play at marbles, and that I would wait for him at your house.

Serina.

He will never have the face to shew himself here, if he has really taken Diana.

Lionel.

Ah! you do not know his assurance. He would come here on purpose, that you might not suspect him; but I'll convict him before you.

Serina.

We must go cunningly to work and question him slily, to make him discover the secret.

Lionel.

I'll tell you. All the cunning required is to shew him at the first word that he is a rogue and a thief.

Eustace.

No, no, my dear Lionel, that would only b•ing on a quarrel, and my papa would not have any here. Mild words, perhaps, will touch him better than reproaches or violence.

Serina.

Perhaps too he does not know that the little greyhound is ours.

Lionel

Not know, does not he see her along with your brother every day? he has played with her a hundred times, and stole her yesterday to sell her. That is just his character.

Eustace.

Hist! here he comes.

SCENE IV.

Serina, Eustace, Lionel, Rufus.

Rufus.

They told me at home, Lionel, that you wanted me to play at marbles. Come, I am ready. Ah! Eustace, how do you do? Your humble servant, miss.

Serina.

You are going to your diversion, Master Rufus, Nothing gives you uneasiness; but we are all in trouble here.

Rufus.

What is the matter then?

Serina.

We have lost our pretty little greyhound.

Rufus.

Dear! that is a pity! she was a pretty little creature, indeed. Her body so handsome; a gre• with black spots here and there, and her breast and forefeet and tail all white. She is worth two guineas, if she is worth a farthing.

Serina.

You know her so well! could not you help us to f•d her again?

Rufus.

Do you take me for a dog-keeper? or am I obliged to look after yours?

Eustace.

My sister did not mean to affront you, Rufus.

Serina.

Oh dear! no. It was only a civil question. As you live in our neighbourhood and she was lost not far off, I thought that you might have been able to give us some account of her.

Lionel.

Certainly, you could not apply to a better person.

Rufus.

What do you mean by that, Master Lionel?

Lionel.

What is best known to yourself; though I am perfectly acquainted too with the whole affair.

Rufus.

If it were not out of respect to miss—

Lionel.

You should thank her yourself, that I do not chastise you for your impudence.

Eustace, (taking Lionel aside.)

Softly, my dear Lionel, or we shall lose the greyhound.

Serina.

If, as you say, you have some regard for me, Master Rufus, be so good as to hear me attentively, and answer me, yes or no.

Lionel.

And without shuffling.

Serina.

Have not you our greyhound? or don't you know where she is?

Rufus, (confused.)

I? I your greyhound?

Lionel.

Do you stammer at the question? you have her. And I know the whole story too. You took her treacherously, coaxing her with a bit of cake.

Rufus.

Who told you so?

Lionel.

One that saw you do it.

Serina.

I ask it as a favour of you, Master Rufus, to tell me is that true or false?

Rufus.

And suppose I did give your dog a bit of cake, or that I took her up a moment to play with her, is that a reason that I should have her, or know what is become of her?

Serina.

Nor do we say so. We only ask you if you know where she is just now.

Eustace.

Or if you did not keep her at your house last night out of a frolick, to frighten us a little, and afterwards to give us the pleasure of a surprize?

Rufus.

What, do you take our house for a dog-kennel?

Lionel.

He must have a vast deal of assurance!

Rufus.

I have nothing to say to you. You may be counsellor f•r greyhounds as long as you will, I won't be examined by you.

Lionel.

Because I have confounded you.

Serina.

Softly, Master Lionel, you must be mistaken. I cannot suspect Master Rufus of so much meanness as to keep our dog if he had found it.

Eustace.

If he had lost any thing, and I could give him an account of it, I would do it with pleasure. So he need not be angry at our questions.

Rufus.

I am very angry at them, and I will make a complaint of it to your father.

Lionel.

You had better come to the cake-woman's house; I will go along with you.

Rufus.

It is very pretty of you, to believe such a prating gossip before me.

Lionel.

Such gossips, however, have eyes and ears, and, as far as honesty is concerned, I should trust them sooner than you.

Rufus.

I won't put up with this affront, and you shall pay for it. (He goes out.)

SCENE V.

Serina, Eustace, Lionel.

Lionel.

What an impudent liar! I would lay my life that he has the dog. Did not you see how he was confounded when I told him flatly that he had her?

Serina.

I cannot believe it yet, and indeed it would be quite too scandalous.

Lionel.

You cannot believe it, miss, because your own heart is so good; for my part I can believe any thing of him.

Serina.

I must own, however, that it was very rude not to answer our questions civilly.

Lionel.

If you had not been here, miss, I would have tweaked him by the ears a little.

Eustace.

Tut, man, he is taller than you by the head.

Lionel.

If he was twice as tall, I'll wager he is a coward. Did not you observe that he grew more impudent as we were more civil? and the harder I pushed him, the quieter he became. But I'll go and follow him and take Diana from him, wherever he has put her.

Serina.

Your pains would be to no purpose, master Lionel. Once more, I cannot believe it. He lives too near us, to expect to hide such a theft from us.

Eustace.

I hope he may not go and kill her, for fear of being found out in a lie.

Lionel.

No, my friend, he won't kill her. He keeps her for sale.

Serina.

O heavens! what an opinion you have of him!

Lionel.

It is such as he deserves, and I'll go and convince you of it.

SCENE VI.

Serina, Eustace.

Eustace.

Lionel is too hot. He makes a terrible quarrel of the smallest difference. If they must wrangle, I am glad at least that it is not here.

Serina.

For then, papa would give us a fine lesson. Lionel, I believe, is willing to serve us; but I am sorry that he seems to seek his own revenge more than our advantage.

Eustace.

He desires no better than to be in every quarrel, and he has done us more harm than good. If Rufus really stole Diana, he would return her to me sooner for good words than for threats. But here comes papa.

SCENE VII.

Mr. Calvert, Serina, Eustace.

Mr. Calv.

What have you done to Rufus? He came to me as I was in my room, and seemed quite ruffled. He complains of you very much, but particularly of Lionel, and says that you accuse him of stealing Diana. Is she lost?

Eustace.

Ah! yes, papa. I did not like to tell you, because I hoped every moment to find her again. She went astray from me yesterday evening.

Serina.

Ah! you cannot imagine how sorry I am for her. I cried the best part of last night, when I awoke and missed her from my side.

Mr. Calv.

Luckily, it is but a dog. Losses of much more consequence happen every day in the world, and we should early accustom ourselves to bear with them. But you, (to Eustace) why did not you take care of her?

Eustace.

You are very right, papa. It was my fault. I should have left her at home, or else not have lost sight of her, since I took her in my charge. And I am sorry for it especially, on account of my sister, because Diana was hers more than mine.

Serina.

I cannot be angry with my brother for it. I have sometimes vexed him without intention, and he has excused me.

Mr. Calv.

Kiss me, my dear child; I love to see you bear a misfortune with courage; but I am still better pleased to see you, in the midst of your grief, not the least provoked against him that occasioned it.

Serina.

My poor brother is sufficiently punished for his negligence, for he was as fond of Diana as I. She was all his amusement; and he grieves, besides, that he was the occasion of my uneasiness.

Mr. Calv.

Always preserve these sentiments, my dear children, one towards the other, and indeed towards all your fellow-creatures, for they are of the same family. I know many persons who, for such a trifle, would have turned away an honest servant.

Serina.

Oh! heaven forbid! Prefer a dog to a servant? A creature without reason to a person of our own kind?

Mr. Calv.

Why do not all men make that difference as well as you, my dear child? We should not then know those who would rather see a poor child suffer hunger or thirst than a favourite dog; who shed tears at the indisposition of a spaniel, and look without pity on the lot of an unhappy orphan abandoned by all the world.

Serina.

papa! is it possible?

Mr. Calv.

In return for the sentiment which draws that generous sigh from your breast, I promise you, my dear, a greyhound as handsome as the one that you have lost, if you are not lucky enough to find her again.

Serina.

No, papa, I thank you. I have suffered too much from the loss of Diana. If she does not come back, I will never have another. I will not run the risque of grieving so again.

Mr. Calv.

You carry things too far, my dear Serina. In that case we must resign all the most agreeable pleasures of life. We should be afraid to love a friend, because death or absence might one day separate us from him. If you compare the pleasure which Diana's playful fondness has afforded you ever since she was born, to the short uneasiness that her loss occasions to you now, the first you will find exceeds the second by a great deal. Nothing is more natural than to be fond of a pretty little creature, like Diana; and indeed, it would be a mark of ingratitude in you—

Serina.

Yes, if I did not think of her now, because she is not here to play about me.

Mr. Calv.

What comforts me a little in this misfortune is, that from this you will be better enabled to bear perhaps a greater. Every thing that we possess upon earth may slip from our hands with the same readiness, and it is wise to accustom ourselves early to the most severe losses. But, with regard to our first subject of conversation, you have treated Rufus ill, it seems.

Serina.

Not we, papa; we spoke to him very mildly. It was Lionel that touched him close a little.

Mr. Calv.

And what did he say in answer?

Eustace.

He defended himself but lamely. Indeed he was quite out of countenance at the first question.

Serina.

But now I will ask you, papa, do you think that he could have the assurance to deny it, if he had really taken my greyhound?

Mr. Calv.

I can say nothing as to that; but, I should think, his confusion could not come from a very clear conscience. However, that we may have no reproach to make to ourselves, concerning Diana, we must advertise her to-morrow in the public papers.

Eustace.

But, papa, if she is really in his power, that trouble will be useless.

Mr. Calv.

No, it cannot be useless. A dog requires to be fed, and is not so small or so quiet that one can hide it from every body's eyes. There may happen to be some person in his house honest enough to give us information of it. I will not apply to his father, I know his rude manners too well. Besides, he is offended with me for forbidding you a too close intimacy with his son. We must wait to see what our advertisement will produce.

Serina.

I should have some hopes from it, if I were able to promise a large reward to whoever would bring me back the dog.

Mr. Calv.

I shall take care of that. Come, Eustace, into my closet; we will put down her description, and you shall take it to the printing-office.

Serina.

Oh! what joy it would be for the poor little creature, and for me too, to see each other once more!

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Eustace, Serina.

Eustace, (running into the room overjoyed.)

Sister! Sister!

Serina.

What is the matter? You seem to be in high spirits. Is Diana found?

Eustace.

Diana? Oh! something much better. See, (shewing a ring in a small case.) look at what I have found not a yard from our door.

Serina.

Oh! the charming ring! But the stone that should be in the middle, where is that?

Eustace.

I suppose it had fallen out. See here it is in a paper. Look at this diamond in the light. See how it sparkles! My papa's brilliant is not so large.

Serina.

I pity him very much that has lost it.

Eustace.

It is worse than to lose a greyhound.

Serina.

Oh! I don't know that. My little Diana was so pretty, and so fond of us. And then we had her a whelp. Oh! when I think how happy we were to see her learn new tricks as she grew bigger, and to amuse ourselves with her play, the finest ring that ever I could put on my finger would not make me half so happy.

Eustace.

But with this ring you might buy a hundred grey hounds like her.

Serina.

It should not buy mine, for all that. He that lost the ring has others, perhaps, and I had only my poor Diana. I am worse off than he is.

Eustace.

It must belong to a rich man. Poor people have not such toys as this.

Serina.

Yet if it was some unfortunate servant that lost it, in taking it to the jeweller—or if it was the jeweller himself; the diamond being loose would make one suspect so; what a misfortune it would be for the poor people!

Eustace.

You are right. Well, now I am quite out of humour with my prize. We must ask papa's advice about it. Oh! this is lucky! here he comes.

SCENE II.

Mr. Calvert, Eustace, Serina.

Mr. Calv.

Well, will the advertisement for your greybound be in to-morrow's paper?

Eustace.

Papa, I have not been at the office yet. Here is what kept me. A ring that I have found. (Gives him the case.)

Mr. Calv.

A very fine diamond, indeed.

Eustace.

An't it? This is enough to put a little dog out of one's head for a moment or two.

Mr. Calv.

Yes, if it were your own. Do you intend to keep it?

Eustace.

Why, if nobody makes inquiry about it.

Mr. Calv.

Did any body see you take it up?

Eustace.

No, papa.

Serina.

For my part, I should never rest until I knew who owned it.

Eustace.

Let the owner shew himself, and certainly the ring shall not stay long in my hands. No, that would be as bad as if I had stolen it. We must give every one his own.

Mr. Calv.

You will not be, perhaps, so well pleased then?

Eustace.

Why not, papa? I own, I did not think of any thing at first but my good luck in finding such a jewel. I looked upon it as already my property: but my sister has given me an idea of the trouble that he must feel who lost it. I should be much happier in putting an end to his uneasiness, than in keeping this ring, which would make me blush every time that I looked at it.

Serina.

There is so much pleasure in comforting those who are troubled. For that reason, I cannot imagine that Rufus or any other could be so ill-natured as to keep my Diana, if he knew how sorry I am for her.

Mr. Calv. (kissing them.)

Amiable little innocents! My dear children, how I rejoice in being your father! Let such generous sentiments continue to spring up and gain strength in your hearts. They will be the foundation of your own happiness and that of your fellow-creatures.

Serina.

You give us the example, papa. How should we have other sentiments?

Eustace.

Oh! I'll go and shew my prize to every body; and we should advertise both together in the papers, that we have lost a greyhound and found a ring.

Mr. Calv.

Not so fast, my dear; there are precautions to be taken. There might be some people who would claim the ring, without being the owners.

Serina.

Oh! I should be as cunning as they. I would ask them first how it was made, and I would not give it to any but him that told me very particularly.

Mr. Calv.

That way is not the surest, neither. A person may have seen it upon the owner's finger, and come here before him to demand it.

Serina.

Ah! papa, I see you know better how to manage than we do.

Mr. Calv.

The loser will think it worth while to make every enquiry after so valuable an article. So we must wait.

Eustace.

But if they should not think of doing so?

Serina.

We thought of doing so for Diana; certainly others will for a diamond.

Mr. Calv.

Meanwhile I shall take care of it; and do you be cautious not to speak of it to any body.

SCENE III.

Eustace, Serina.

Eustace.

It is very stupid, for all that, not to be able to talk, when one has any thing so agreeable to tell. I should have been so happy to shew every body my ring!

Serina.

And why, since you neither can, nor would keep it? There is no great merit in finding any thing valuable in the street.

Eustace.

That is true; but what I tell you is very true too.

Serina.

People say of the ladies, that they cannot keep a secret. Let us see which of us two will be most discreet.

Eustace.

For fear my secret should want to escape, I will think of nothing but Diana; and now I'll go to the printing-office with the advertisement.

Serina.

Go, brother; do not lose a moment. But what does Lionel want with us?

SCENE IV.

Serina, Eustace, Lionel.

Lionel, (to Eustace, who is going out.)

Where are you going, Eustace?

Eustace.

I have something particular to do.

Lionel.

Oh! before you go, you must liften to a story that I have to tell you. It will make you die with laughing. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Eustace.

I have not time for laughing now.

Lionel.

You will laugh in spite of yourself. Only listen. We have got full satisfaction.

Eustace.

Full satisfaction? Of whom?

Lionel.

Of Rufus. He has lost his father's ring. Ha, ha, ha, ha! (Eustace and Serina look at each other with an air of surprize.)

Serina.

His father's ring?

Lionel.

It is fact. He had it given to him this morning to take to the jeweller's, to have the middle diamond set in again, that had fallen out. (Eustace jogs Serina; she makes a sign to him to be silent.) He had it when he came here; but as he went away, quite flustered with anger, the case of the ring must have dropt out of his pocket as he whisked along.

Serina.

And have you seen him since he lost it? How does he look?

Lionel.

Frightened out of his wits.

Serina.

Does his father know it?

Lionel.

There he has drawn himself into a fresh scrape, by telling a great fib. When his father asked him if he had given the ring to the jeweller, he answered, with the greatest assurance, that he had.

Scrina.

Unhappy creature!

Lionel.

Why you pity him, do you?

Eustace.

Indeed he is to be pitied.

Lionel.

He? I wish you had seen what game I made of him.

Serina.

What did you find so comical in all that?

Lionel.

How? don't you take the jest? To see him running from shop to shop, inquiring about his ring, and plucking every one by the skirt that passed. I stuck close to him, to enjoy his distress, and at last he came up to me: "Have not you found it? Have you heard nothing of it?" What is it to me? said I to him. Am I your ring-keeper?—"If you knew what it was worth!" So much the better for him that has found it. "And then my father, what will he say?" Why, he'll talk to you with a good stick.

Serina.

Fie! master Lionel, that was very cruel of you.

Lionel.

He had not more feeling for you.

Eustace.

Should we be ill-natured then, even towards those that are so themselves?

Lionel.

Oh! revenge is sweet, and I never have any compassion for them that offend me. If I had the good luck to find his ring, he should not have it so soon.

Serina.

Would you keep it then?

Lionel.

Oh! no. I would give it to him after his father had threshed him well.

Eustace.

I should never have thought you so ill-natured, Lionel.

Serina.

And I cannot believe it, though I hear it from his own mouth. You were so much concerned about my poor greyhound. It seems, it was not in earnest.

Lionel.

It was from the bottom of my heart. I love those dearly, that I do love; but when I hate any one, I hate him heartily.

SCENE V.

Serina, Eustace, Lionel, Rufus.

Lionel.

Heh! there he comes. (Points at him with his finger.) Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Rufus.

Oh! pray now forgive me. I have been very bad, to be sure, but I have been full as unfortunate. I am punished now, and well punished too, for—

Lionel.

Have you stuck up hand-bills concerning your ring?

Rufus.

I dare not appear before my father, and I don't know where to hide myself.

Lionel.

I would lay a wager that the ring is hanging at Diana's tail. We shall find them both together.

Rufus.

I have deserved your jeers; but, for pity's sake—

Eustace.

Make yourself easy, master Rufus; your ring is here.

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Rufus, (astonished.)

What, have you it? You my ring?

Lionel, (aside to Serina.)

He is making game of him: that is right.

Rufus.

But is it really so? Oh! on my knees I'll— But no—you shall first hear how wicked I have been.

SCENE VI.

Serina, Eustace, Lionel.

Serina.

What is the meaning of that? He is gone off.

Eustace.

I am afraid the poor boy has lost his wits.

Lionel.

Your joke, for all that, may cost you dear. If he goes and fetches his father to demand the ring?

Eustace.

Do you think then that I will keep it?

Lionel.

Why, have you actually the ring?

Eustace.

Certainly I have it, otherwise I should not have said so. I picked it up close by our door.

Lionel.

Indeed you are too good. He does not deserve to be so happy. You should have left him a little longer in pain, at least.

Serina.

How, master Lionel? Does not my brother's example move you? Do you know that you lose ground now very much, in his friendship and mine?

SCENE VII.

Mr. Calvert, Serina, Eustace, Liovel.

Mr. Calv.

What is the matter with Rufus? I saw him from my window, come in here all in tears.

Serina.

The poor boy was half dead.

Eustace.

It was he who lost the ring that I found. It belongs to his father.

Mr. Calv.

Have you convinced him of the meanness of his behaviour towards us?

Lionel.

Dear sir, no. Diana has not been so much as mentioned.

Mr. Calv.

At least I would have insisted upon his returning her. He should not hear of his ring without that.

Eustace.

Ah! papa, my heart would not let me be so harsh. I saw Rufus so afflicted.

Serina.

Though I love Diana very well, I could not possibly think of her just then, nor of any thing but the grief of that unfortunate boy.

Mr. Calv.

You have both acted generously, and you are my dear children, my best friends, all my joy and all my pride. None but base souls would insult the distress of an enemy that is fallen. But where is Rufus? Why did not he ask for the ring as he went away?

Eustace.

He was so transported with joy, that he did not know what he was doing.

Serina.

He ran towards the door, and went out as if he were mad.

Eustace.

O! papa, did you but know how overjoyed I am to see you approve my behaviour, and my sister's!

Mr. Calv.

Could you believe me insensible to a generous action?

Eustace.

Because you had forbidden me—

Mr. Calv.

I forbad you to speak unguardedly about the ring, but I did not tell you to keep it, when the owner should appear.

SCENE VIII.

Mr. Calvert, Serina, Eustace, Lionel, Rufus (having the greyhound under his arm.)

Serina, (with an exclamation of joy.)

Ah! Diana! my dear Diana! (She runs to her, takes her up in her arms, and caresses her.)

Rufus.

You see how much I was to blame, and how little I deserved your generosity. Can you pardon me this fraud, and my unworthy behaviour? (Perceiving Mr. Calvert.) Ah! sir, how bad I must appear in your eyes!

Mr. Calv.

A person is no longer so when he acknowledges his fault, and endeavours, as you do, to repair it. Here is your father's ring.

Rufus.

I am ashamed and sorry to have offended so excellent children. What difference between them and me! How wicked I am, and how generous are they!

Serina.

It is only a little prank of yours, Master Rufus, and you would not have let the day pass without returning Diana to me.

Rufus.

You think too well of me. I had hid her up in the garret, and—

Mr. Calv.

We don't wish to know any more. It is sufficient that you are sorry for what you have done. You now see yourself, that bad actions make God and man our enemies, and are always discovered sooner or later. I should take the liberty too of proposing to you as a model, the behaviour of my children, generous little creatures! How should I thank Heaven for sending me such a gif•! You see, the most noble and certain revenge is that of doing kindnesses, and that nothing is more worthy a great spirit, than to repay ill-nature with good offices.

Rufus.

Ah! I feel that now myself with the most lively sorrow. (To Eustace and Serina.) Will you ever forgive me?

Eustace, (taking his hand.)

Yes, from this moment, and sincerely.

Serina

I have my Diana once more, and all is forgot.

Rufus, (to Lionel.)

We should be unworthy of this pattern if we did not follow it.

Lionel.

I am as much ashamed as you, and this lesson shall not be lost on me.

Rufus.

I have just confessed all to my father. In proportion as he was angry with me, he was touched with your generosity. He requests permission to come in about an hour hence, to thank you and to beg your acceptance of a small token of his gratitude.

Mr. Calv.

No, there is no occasion for any presents. To do well, my children desire no reward but from themselves. Besides, restoring a person his property is no more than a strict duty.

Eustace.

How pleasing to perform that duty! I have gained a friend for my whole life; have not I, Rufus?

Rufus.

If I could be worthy of that honour. I shall do every thing in my power to be so.

Lionel.

Do not exclude me from your friendship. I was no better than Rufus; but I have just now felt how noble a passion revenge may be made.

Serina, (caressing the greyhound)

Ah! little runaway! this will teach you another time to stray from your masters: you have passed a night in prison for it. Offer to do so again, and you'll see!—Well, what would be the consequence? Ah! no, whatever you do, I find I shall always be fond of you.

THE HEN.

HOW happy was Cyprian in so worthy and affectionate a father as Mr. Tisdall. Whenever he had shown himself for any length of time discreet and diligent, he was assured that his father would not fail to testify his satisfaction with some recompence or other. Cyprian had a taste for gardening, and began, about the age of twelve, to cultivate choice flowers. His father saw it, and immediately began to study how he might afford his son more pleasure.

They were both at dinner. Cyprian, said his father, your preceptor has informed me, that you have begun this very day to read the Roman History, and the Geography of Italy. If, in a week, you can but give me an exact account of every thing you may have learned on these two subjects, you cannot think what I intend shall recompence your application!

Cyprian, one may easily suppose, did not forget such a promise. He employed himself in studying all the week, to get this recompence; or rather, he received such pleasure from his study, that indeed it was he who should have bestowed a recompence on his Papa if he had been able.

He saw the day of trial come, without anxiety; and underwent the examination like an hero. He had learned the history of all the kings of Rome, and marked out in his map the gradual progress of that growing empire.

In a transport of delight, his father took him by the hand, embraced and kissed him. Come, says he, since you have sought to give me so much pleasure, it is but just that I should contribute in my turn to yours. Saying this, he led him into an adjoining garden, pointed out a vacant spot to him, and told him that it was to be his. You may part it in two, continued he; and plant what flowers you like in one, and any vegetables that you think proper in the other. After this, they went into an out-house, close behind the gardener's hut, where Cyprian found a spade, a watering-pot, a rake, and other implements of gardening, all perfectly adapted to his size and strength. On the walls were baskets hung up, of every size, great and small, and on shelves about them, sundry boxes full of roots, and bags of seeds; the whole together duly ticketed, with cards on every box and bag, marking the proper time for sowing each article.

One should be of Cyprian's age to know the excess of his joy upon this occasion. In his mind, the little spot of earth which his father had assigned him, was as great as monarchs think their kingdoms; and whatever hours of relaxation his preceptor let him take, and which he spent before in folly, were now taken up in cultivating his domain.

One day, when he came in from doing something about his garden he forgot to shut the gate. A hen was pecking near the spot, and took it in her head to go a hunting on his grounds. The flower-bed had been strewed but lately with a layer of the richest mould, and was consequently quite full of worms.

The hen, charmed with such delicious fare, began to scratch the mould up, and employ her beak as well as talons to unearth the worms; and in particular, she took a mighty inclination to a part, where Cyprian had, the day, before been planting some fine pinks.

How great therefore was the excess of his rage when coming back to his plantation, he beheld the door a jar, and this new-fashioned gardener digging up his beds? Ah! ah! you impudent slut! said he; your bones shall pay for this. And immediately he shut the door, for fear his victim should escape, and picking up flint stones, sand, clods of earth, and whatever he could lay hold of, he threw them at the bird, pursuing her all the while as close as he could.

The frightened hen, at one time ran with all her speed, and at another time strove to fly upon the wall, but found that her wings would not befriend her in reaching such a height. Unhappily, she fell back more than once on Cyprian's flowers, and got her wings and feet entangled with the finest hyacinths.

Young Cyprian, beholding her thus embroiled, supposed that he had her fast. Two rows of tulips separated them. His anger was so vehement, that stepping over, as he meant to do, this interval of separation between the hen and him, he trod them down himself. The hen, however, at her enemy's approach, redoubled her former efforts, and attempted now a second time to gain the wall. She rose a great deal higher than before, yet still came short; but what was matter of regret for Cyprian, bore away with her from underneath as she rose, a beautiful rose-bud-coloured ten-belled hyacinth. On this, he seized his rake, and flung it at the bird with all his strength. The rake turned round, and while he fancied it upon the point of hitting the fugitive mark, it came down, and dashed two panes of glass to pieces in a melon frame, as well as broke out two of its own teeth upon the ground.

The little Fury, made much more furious by these damages, had run for his spade, and now the combat would perhaps have had fatal consequences for his feathered adversary, who fatigued and giddy had crept in between a rose-bush and the wall, if Mr. Tisdall, at first attracted to his window by the noise, had not made haste to her assistance.

The moment Cyprian saw his father, he stood stock still in evident confusion; however he made shift to find his tongue at last, and cried out, See, papa, what ravage this vile creature has committed in my garden.

Had you shut the door replied his father with an affected indifference, this ravage would not have been made. I saw your whole behaviour. Are you not ashamed of having put forth all your strength against a harmless hen? She has no reason to conduct herself, and though she has rooted up your pinks, it was not with a wish to do you any damage, but to get her ordinary food. Now, Cyprian, should you have put yourself thus into a passion, if she had scratched up nothing but as many nettle roots? And how can she distinguish between pinks and nettles? It is yourself alone that are to blame for all this havock. With precaution you would certainly have driven her out so that she might do no further mischief; and in that case, neither your rake, nor my melon frame, would have gone to ruin, or your loss have exceeded that of a few flowers. Therefore you alone are punishable, so that were I to cut a branch off from this hazle-tree, and with it make you suffer just what you designed the hen should suffer—which of us would act with the greatest justice? I shall not, however, go to this extremity, purposely to shew you that we may all suppress our resentment, if we think proper. Notwithstanding, for the damage done to my melon frame, I shall deduct as much as will repair it, from the arrears of your allowance in my hands; for I am not to suffer through your rashness.

Cyprian, upon this, withdrew much abashed, and all day durst scarcely lift his eyes up, while before his father.

On the morrow, Mr. Tisdall proposed a walk, and asked if he desired to join him. Cyprian followed, but oppressed with sadness which he sought in vain to hide. His father saw it, and affecting a degree of wonder, wished to know why he appeared so grievously dejected.

Cyprian.

Have I not the greatest cause to be dejected? For this whole month past, I have denied myself so many pleasures, merely to buy something for my sister. I had saved ten shillings, with which I thought to purchase her a pretty hat; but must give the half of it perhaps to have your melon frame repaired.

Mr. Tisdall.

I dare say, you would have been delighted to oblige your sister, but my melon frame, however, must be paid for first. This lesson will teach you in future not to yield yourself up to the mischiefs of resentment which in general aggravates the first misfortune happening to us.

Cyprian.

Ah! you may depend upon it, sir, I will never leave the garden-door open again, or take revenge upon a hen for what would be my own omission.

Mr. Tisdall.

But, pray tell me, do you fancy that, in this vast universe, hens only have it in their power to do you damage?

Cyprian.

O! no, no; for look ye, not above a week ago I left my map upon the table while I went a walking, and my little sister coming into the room, with a pen and ink so blotted it all over, that no one could distinguish Europe from America.

Mr. Tisdall.

Then it is prudent to secure yourself against the mischiefs that you may suffer from your fellow-creatures.

Cyprian.

It is so, papa.

Mr. Tisdall.

Without desiring in the least to give you a distaste of life, I can assure you that you will have to suffer many disagreeable affairs, and those a deal more prejudicial to you, than the mischiefs caused by the hen. Mankind always seek their interest and their pleasures, just as hens seek worms; and they will do so at the hazard of your interests, as hens will at the hazard of your flowers.

Cyprian.

I see it plainly, sir, by Bella's behaviour; since the little pleasure that she received from scribbling on a bit of paper, has occasioned me the loss of an extremely useful map.

Mr. Tisdall.

But could you not have avoided this loss, by putting up your map before you left the apartment?

Cyprian.

Certainly.

Mr. Tisdall.

Then think for the future to conduct yourself so, that no body may have power to do you any real mischief; but if after all, in spite of your precaution, you should be so unlucky as to receive an injury, consider how you may endure it, so as not to render the first wrong still more prejudicial.

Cyprian.

Ay, papa; but how must I endure it?

Mr. Tisdall.

With indifference, if it be a slight injury, but, on the other hand, if a great one, with courage. Now that we are by ourselves, I dare propose you as an example the conduct that I pursue towards Mr. Hotham.

Cyprian.

Pray don't speak of him, papa. These two years past, he takes no notice of you whenever you meet each other, and there cannot be a falsity that he will not say to prejudice you in the opinion of the world.

Mr. Tisdall.

And do you know what urges him to such behaviour?

Cyprian.

That I never yet durst ask you.

Mr. Tisdall.

Nothing but for the preference which I obtained respecting an employ that my father had so worthily filled up for five and thirty years, and to which he had affectionately formed me by the most diligent instruction. Mr. Hotham had no title to the post, except his ignorance and self-sufficiency. My right succeeded, notwithstanding all his interest, and therefore am I honoured with his calumny and hatred.

Cyprian.

Ah! papa, were I as big as you, I'd teach him better manners.

Mr. Tisdall.

Quite the contrary, I let him go on railing at me just as he thinks fit. The conduct which you should have pursued, when you were injured by the hen, I faithfully pursue towards him. The pinks that she scratched up by the roots, in seeking for worms, may represent the reputable character that I bear, and which in order to gratify the worm of Envy that gnaws him, he labours to undo. Were I to seek the means of punishing him, I should trample under foot that deference and respect which I owe to myself, as you trod under foot your tulips. The me•on frame and rake which you damaged, are that wealth and peace of mind that I should destroy, by hurrying on to vengeance. Taught in future by the losses that you have suffered, you will shut the garden door, in order to keep the hen out. Taught too by the wicked disposition of my enemy, I lay, by means of proper conduct on my part, an insuperable barrier between us. Thus inaccessible to his vindictive attempts, I enjoy the comforts of my moderation, while he spends himself in those attempts, and will in time experience the compunction of his evil conscience. Could his insults vex me, I should make myself the victim that he would sacrifice, and be reproached for imbecility, by every worthy character of my acquaintance; while on the other hand the insensibility that I manifest for his injurious treatment yields him to his own contempt, and, in the bosom of good men, keeps up the reputation that I have gained among them.

Cyprian.

Ah! papa, what trouble may I not shun hereafter, by remembering every thing that you have taught me!

These last words were hardly uttered, when they found themselves at home, without imagining that they had been so near it. Their discourse, for the remainder of the day, was a continuation of the past; and bed-time being come, they separated quite content with one another. Cyprian sunk to slumber, with a bosom full of gratitude for the instruct on which he had just received, and Mr. Tisdall with one possessing all the satisfaction that a good father cannot but experience, who is sensible that he has done something to promote his offspring's happiness.

THE LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN.

CHARACTERS.

- Mrs. VINCENT. her Daughters.

- LOUISA, her Daughters.

- LEONORA, her Daughters.

- SOPHY, her Daughters.

- CLARA, their Friend.

- A POOR WOMAN.

- MADGE, her Daughters.

- JOAN, her Daughters.

Louisa, with Leonora her sister, are discovered working in their room: Sophy stands by Louisa; Clara enters to them.

Clara.

HARD at work! How melancholy you all look! I thought to find you at play upon the snow. Come, come, and see the trees: they are powdered just for all the world like—what d'ye call 'ems.

Louisa.

No: we would not leave our work for any pleasure that you could name to us.

Clara.

Oh, I frequently leave mine for nothing—But you have not long I hope, to sit here moping.

Leonora.

We were moping, as you call it, all yesterday; and have been at it again ever since the clock struck seven.

Clara.

My stars! I was not up till ten: and in the name of goodness! what possesses you, to work at such a rate?

Louisa.

If you but knew, Clara, for whom we are, I am sure, you would willingly make make one amongst us.

Clara.

Indeed, I would not, Louisa, were it even for myself.

Louisa.

Yourself! I should not work, thus late and early, with such spirits, for myself: nor you, I fancy, Leonora.

Leonora.

No, indeed.

Sopby.

Guess who 'tis for.

Clara.

Not for yourself, you say. It must be for your dolls then.—I have guessed it! Have I not?

Louisa, (shewing the clothes before them.)

Yes, yes; look here, and see if these will fit a doll.

Clara.

How! how! Why, here's a dress complete! Which of you is going to be married?

Leonora.

Did you ever hear the like? a jacket to be married in! The girl is crazy, she will never guess.

Sophy.

Well then, I'll tell you who 'tis for. You know these two poor children, that have nothing on but rags?

Clara.

What! that poor woman who has lately lost her husband, and cannot get a bit of bread?

Louisa.

Yes, the same; it is for her poor children that we are so hard at work.

Clara.

But you know, your mama and mine both sent her money.

Louisa.

So they did; but there were debts to pay, and bread to buy. As for clothes—

Leoncra.

We have taken that upon us.

Clara.

But, my dear, why not much rather send them some of your own old clothes? You would, in that case, spare yourselves a deal of trouble.

Louisa.

How you talk! As if our clothes were fit for such small children!

Clara.

That I know: they would have been too big, and dragged upon the ground at least a quarter of a yard; but then, their mother might have made them less herself.

Louisa.

She cannot.

Clara.

And why not?

Leonora, (looking stedfastly upon Clara.)

Because her parents never taught her how to use her needle.

Louisa.

Now, as we are rather ready at it, we desired mama to let us have some dimity, and other stuff, and to out us out the necessary patterns, promising to do the rest ourselves.

Leonora.

And when the whole is finished, we shall visit the poor woman with it, that her children may be dressed a little warmly this cold weather.

Louisa.

Now, my dear, you know the reason why we won't go play upon the snow.

Clara (with a stified sigh.)

I'll work a little with you.

Louisa.

Ay, I said so.

Leonora.

No, no; we have almost done.

Louisa.

But, Leonora, why deprive her of so great a pleasure? Look you here, my friend; complete this hem: but you must sew it carefully.

Sophy.

If not, my sister will undo it; I am sure of that.

Clara.

What you must speak too then, Mrs. Whippersnapper; just as if you knew what is going forward.

Louisa.

How, Clara? I assure you, Sophy has assisted us surprizingly. It was she that held the stuff while we were cutting it, handed us the pincushion, and picked us up our thimbles when they fell. Here, my little dear, take the sciffars: Leonora wants them.

Clara.

Look, dear Louisa, have I done this right?

Leonora, (laying hold of the work.)

Oh fie! these stitches are a mile too long, and all awry.

Louisa.

True, they would not hold. But stay; I'll give you something else.—Here, pass this bobbin through the jacket collar.

Clara.

Ay, ay; I shall succeed better in this.

Leonora, (looking over her.)

See! see! how she sets about it!—

Louisa.

Ah, that's all my fault, who did not tell her how it should be done.—See here, my dear Clara,—in this manner.

Clara.

I was never taught to do so much as you; and that is the reason that I am so awkward.

Leonora, (with a sneer.)

Oh, I easily believe you.

Louisa.

But do not vex her, sister: she has done her best. Hold, let me look a little. How! you have passed the bobbin through already. Look ye, Leonora.

Leonora (pulling the bobbin.)

What a pity, it will not stir. A mighty clever needle-woman, truly! she does nothing else but make us work.

Clara (sorrowfully.)

Alas! I know no better.

Louisa.

Do not afflict yourself: you have the best of wills; and we have nothing more to boast. It shall be quickly put to rights. I will do it for you. There; the matter is settled. Have you finished, Leonora?

Leonora.

Only one more stitch:—and then, to cut the thread off.—There: now I will make up the parcel. (She is preparing to do so, when Mrs. Vincent enters.)

Sopby.

Here is mama.

Mrs. Vincent.

Well, my dears; how do you go on? Perhaps you wish for my assistance.

Louisa.

No, mama; we have finished.

Mrs. Vincent.

Have you? Let me see a little.—Very well indeed!—What, my Sophy! I am afraid, you thought the time tedious.

Sophy.

Oh, not I, mama: I always had some little thing to do; ask my sisters.

Louisa.

Yes, indeed: we should not have ended so quickly, but for her assistance. She has never quitted us.

Mrs. Vincent.

That was well done. Ah! here is our little neighbour too, Miss Clara. She must have helped you a good deal.

Leonora, (with a sneer.)

She tried; but—

Louisa.

Indeed, we had almost finished when she came.

Sophy.

She made a stitch or two, but she hardly knows more than I: if you had but seen, mama, how crooked—

Louisa.

Hold your tongue!

Mrs. V•ncent.

Come; since you have been so very diligent, I have joyful news to tell you.

Sophy.

What, mama?

Mrs. Vincent.

The two poor children and their mother are below. I will send you up the little ones, that you may dress them, and enjoy the astonishment of their mother, when she observes them so much altered.

Louisa.

Ah, mama, how you increase our pleasures!

Sophy.

Shall I go and fetch them up?

Mrs. Vincent.

Yes; follow me: and you shall come back with them. In the interim, I will have a little conversation with the mother, and contrive how she may find out some employment for the time to come, and earn a little money. (She goes out with Sophy.)

L•e.

Stay you here with us, Clara: we shall want your help; and you must have some business at our toilet.

Clara, (embracing Louisa)

Ah! my friend, you have a good heart! I see that plainly.

Lionora.

I have had a fling or two at you, Clara. Lo•a makes me blush, and therefore I entreat your pardon.

Clara, (embracing Leonora likewise.)

Yes, with all my heart.

Lousa.

I hear the children coming up. (Sophy enters, bringing in the little girls, Madge and Joan)

Sophy, (whispering Louisa.)

How surprized they will be. I have not told them any thing about it.

Louisa.

You did well: their pleasure will be the greater, and ours likewise.

Leonora.

I shall take Madge.

Louisa.

I Joan.

Clara.

And Sophy and myself will hold the pincushions. (They begin to undress them.)

Madge, (crying.)

We are cold enough already. Will you take away the little clothes that we have left?

Louisa.

Do not be afraid, poor thing! come hither. You shall see. A little this way towards the fire.—You are almost dead with cold.

Joan.

We have not warmed ourselves to-day.

Madge.

These sine new clothes, are they for us?

Joan.

Oh bless me! what will mother say? She will take us for your sisters; we shall be so fine!

Louisa.

And you shall be our sisters for the time to come: so never call us any otherwise.

Madge.

Oh, good young lady, we are your servants.

Louisa.

Let me have your arm—The other.—But how short it is! it only reaches to her knees. Well, hairbrains! (to Leonora) this is like you! Do not you see that you have handed me the little jacket?

Leonora.

So I have indeed: for my part, I was puzzled likewise. Madge's feet were covered, and I could not see her head. We need but change. There is Joan's.

Louisa.

Let us be as quick as possible; and in the mean time, Sophy, do you run and bid mama come up.

Sophy.

I am gone. (She goes out.)

Louisa.

Ah, now all is right. Turn round.—Once more. Very well: and now, take one another by the hand, and walk across the room before us. (The children do so, and survey themselves with pleasure.)

Clara.

How extremely well they fit! they are quite pretty! and there is only one thing wanted. (To Madge.) Here is my handkerchief.—Blow hard. (To Joan.) Now you.—What else?—If you had time to dress their hair.

Louisa.

No, no, my dear Clara; it is much better hanging loosely. Leonora, what say you?

Leonora.

A comb, however, to untangle it, would not be much amiss. I will do that, Louisa.

Sophy, (runs in jumping.)

Here is mama. (Mrs. Vinrent enters with the mother of the children.)

The Mother.

Oh, heavens! what do I see? Are these my children? O my generous lady! (falling down at Mrs. Vincent's feet.)

Mrs. Vincent, (lifting her up.)

My good friend, it is not to me that you are indebted for this happiness. My children wished to make a trial of their skill in needle-work, and I permitted them to do so. (Examining the children's jackets.) Not so bad, considering a first essay; you might almost set up for yourselves.

The Mother, (to Louisa and her sister.)

My charming ladies, let me thank you. God will recompense your kindness, for I cannot. (Perceiving Clara at a distance) Pardon me, my little lady; I did not see you; otherwise I should have paid you also my acknowledgments.

Clara, (sighing.)

No, no. I had no hand in this day's business.

Mrs. Vincent.

Do not afflict yourself upon that account; my dear. By sighing, you will get nothing; but by stedfastly resolving, every thing. However, tell me; do not you think it useful and delightful for a young lady, like you, to accustom herself betimes to work of some sort or other?

Clara.

Think so? Certainly.

Mrs. Vincent.

Of what real pleasure, even at present, are you not deprived, by having hitherto neglected an employment so adapted to your sex and age?

The Mother.

Dear little lady, learn betimes, if you would be considered provident or prudent, to love work; or it will soon be too late. I should be very happy now, had any one but given me such a lesson in my childhood. I could now have got my br•ad, and been of use to those dependant on me for support, instead of being burthensome to worthy people.

Mrs. Vincent.

Truly, my good friend, it would have been much happier for you, I must own, although I should have lost the pleasure of assisting you. But you are yet full young enough to make up for lost time, by application to some honest labour. Children, you must know, I have procured her some employment at a weaver's in the neighbourhood; and when she happens to have nothing to do there, she is to come and work here in the garden.

Sophy.

I am very glad of that; for I will go too, and help her, if I am able.

Mrs. Vincent.

With respect to Madge and Joan, I mean that my house shall be their school; and you have both, (to Louisa and Leonora,) deserved to be their mistresses in work and reading.

Clara.

And may I be their assistant, madam?

Mrs. Vincent.

With all my heart, if your mama consents; in which case, you and Sophy shall endeavour to outdo each other. (To the poor woman.) My good friend, are you contented that matters should be as I have settled?

The Mother.

Contented? My benevolent and generous lady, I shall owe you all my happiness, and that, too, of my destitute and friendless children. Dear good angels, give God thanks, for having blessed you with so careful a mamma, who trains you up thus betimes to diligence. You see, it is the source of comfort to yourselves and to us too.

∵ Omitted here, "THE LOVE OF GOD AND OF OUR PARENTS," a Piece that indeed will not well bear to be translated into English.

THE VETERAN DISMISSED WITH HONOUR.
A DRAMA, in one ACT.

CHARACTERS.

- LORD CORNWALLIS.

- AN OFFI•ER, attending him.

- CAPTAIN, and MRS. GREVILLE.

- DOUG•AS, their Children.

- •UOENIA, their Children.

- MARY ANNE, their Children.

The SCENE is at the entrance of a grove, before the house of Captain Greville, somewhat distant from the road.

SCENE I.

D•uglas, and Eugenia.

Eugenia is discovered sitting on a trunk, and picking strawberries. Beside her lies her straw bat to hold the strawberries when picked. Douglas brings her more in his. Both bats are neatly lined with leaves.

Douglas.

LOOK ye, sister, we shall quickly have enough.

Eugenia.

I do not know, Douglas, how I shall dispose of mine: my hat is too full already.

Douglas.

Mary Anne cannot be long before she brings the bushel; and indeed she might have gone into the house, found one, and returned in much less time than this. However, in the interval, Eugenia, put them in your apron.

Eugenia.

Yes, yes; that would make fine work indeed. To spot it all from top to bottom! What do you suppose mama would say? and therefore I have thought of something else. Your hat is biggest; so I will add my strawberries to yours, and you shall go and gather more, while I am picking these.

Douglas.

Well said, indeed; and in the interim, Mary Anne cannot fail to come, and then we shall have got enough.

Eugenia.

When they are all together, we shall see.

Douglas.

What is over when the baskets are filled, we will take ourselves.

Eugenia.

I think, we shall not have much appetite to taste them afterwards. Ah, brother! it is the last time that we shall eat with our papa this year, and who can tell whether we shall ever see him more.

Douglas.

Oh! do not be dejected, sister. Every one is not killed in a battle.

Eugenia.

Oh frightful war! if men were not so wicked; but would love each other, just as we do—

Douglas.

Mighty fine, indeed! And do not we quarrel every day for trifles? We each think ourselves in the right; and frequently it would puzzle any one to find which is. It is just the same among grown men.

Eugenia.

They ought at least, then, to be friends again, as soon as we are. Our worst quarrels never come to bloodshed.

Douglas.

No; because our parents settle them: but men, Eugenia, are not children; and won't let themselves be governed, if they have but arms. And in fact, is it right that we should suffer any one to injure us, without resisting?

Eugenia.

You are always talking like a soldier!

Douglas.

A good reason why; because I am to be one. Look ye, sister; notwithstanding any thing that you say against it, war is a very charming thing. Without it, how do you imagine that we should live; would our papa's little fortune be sufficient to support us? But do not weep. You grieve me.

Eugenia.

Let me weep, dear brother, while we are alone. I had much rather do so here, than in the presence of papa, for I know, it would afflict him.

Douglas.

Come, come; dry your eyes, and set to work for some amusement. I will go and fill your hat.

Eugenia.

Go that way; we have left none hereabouts. (Douglas goes out, and after a moment's silence, she goes on.) I would I were but learned enough, that I might pray to God, for he would hear me. Or at least, if I were big enough, I would go to court, and fall before the king; and he, I am sure, would grant me my papa's dismission, when I begged and prayed him to oblige me. He has served his country long enough, I think. (She sets about picking her strawberries again.)

SCENE II.

Eugenia, Lord Cornwallis, the Officer.

Lord C. (whispering the officer.)

Yonder is the house where we were told Captain Greville lives: he will be very much surprized and pleased with what I bring him; a dismission from the service with such honour. But, what charming little girl is this? I will stop and have a little conversation with her; so do not you address me by my name. (To Eugenia, tapping her upon the shoulder.) Why, you are very hard at work, I see, my pretty child.

Eugenia.

Oh! sir, you frightened me.

Lord C.

I ask your pardon then, my dear. I did not mean to do so. And for whom are you preparing all these strawberries? They cannot but be very fine, I think, as they are picked by such a plump and snowy hand.

Eugenia, (holding out the hat.)

I beg, then, you will take some, sir. Do not be afraid; for they are very clean. I only wish I had a better plate to put them into. (Lord C takes two or three, as does the officer.)

Lord C.

I never tasted any better: do you sell them, little dear?

Eugenia.

No, sir; though you were to give me—I cannot tell how much.

Lord C.

You are in the right: they are above all value, being gathered by so sweet a little hand.

Eugenia.

Fie! sir, how you talk! no, it is not for that: they should be at your service, were they not intended for (wiping her eyes) my dear papa. We have not gathered any for •m yet this season; and perhaps, these are to be the last that he will taste.

Lord C.

What, my dear, he is ill then; and you think that he will die?

The Officer.

His illness, however, it is to be hoped, is not yet quite desperate, since he thinks of eating strawberries.

Eugenia.

No, not that. It is true, indeed, he has been troubled with the rheumatism, all last winter, to a very great degree; and is not yet quite cured. But cured or not, he must set out to-morrow.

Lord C.

And pray why is his departure then so needful?

Eugenia.

Oh, because his regiment then goes through the village; and he must join it on the march.

Lord C.

His regiment?

Eugenia.

Yes, my Lord Cornwallis's, that is going to America.

Lord C. (aside to the officer.)

I would lay you any wager, this is one of Captain Greville's children.

Eugenia, (overhearing him.)

Yes, that is my papa's name.—Do you know him?

Lord C.

Know him? Why, the gentleman and I are both his comrades.

Eugenia.

What! and is the regiment so near then?— Will it go through the town to-day?

Lord C.

No, not till to-morrow. We are come, my dear, before it; and—and— (aside to the officer.) What excuse can I invent to serve my purpose?—And a wheel belonging to our carriage being broke hard by, we thought to get a little shade here, while it was mending. And now every thing, I fancy, must be set to rights. This path, I take it, leads directly to the road again.

Eugenia.

No, sir; it takes you to the village.

Lord C.

And the village, I suppose, belongs to your papa?

Eugenia.

Belongs to him? I wish, indeed, he were so rich: he has nothing but a little cottage, with a garden, this small grove, and yonder meadow. When he is not at the regiment, he passes all his time here with us.

Lord C.

He was ill then, in the winter?

Eugenia.

Yes indeed, sir, to our sorrow; and he could not move a limb. Besides, a wound which he received many years ago, below the temple, has broke out afresh. And now that he is almost well, he must be forced to go again, to meet with new misfortunes.

Lord C.

In such a situation, why does not he sell out? He might procure sufficient attestations from the surgeon.

Eugenia.

Oh, mama did that in private for him; but her letters never yet were answered. Certainly the king refuses to believe her; or perhaps, that Lord Cornwallis who commands the regiment, is so cruel—

Lord C.

Truly, I believe, my Lord Cornwallis would not like to lose so good an officer as your papa, by whose 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 instructions I myself and all the younger officers may learn so much.

Eugenia.

And yet, you do not appear so very young; but are your papa and mama still living?

Lord C. (a little disconcerted.)

Do you doubt it?

Eugenia.

Oh, I warrant you, they cried at parting with you. How could they consent to lose you? I remember how much grief it caused mama and us, when first my eldest brother went abroad to study; and that is nothing in comparison of war.

Lord C.

I cannot tell that; for I have left them after many separations; in which case it is nothing to leave one another. And besides, when first I went to camp, my father went with me.

Eugenia.

Did he? Oh, those fathers that are soldiers themselves, are a little hard, I can tell you; but yet that is not the case with my papa. He is so indulgent! Why, a child is scarce so gentle! It is upon the point of honour alone that he can never be persuaded; so that after all, I fancy he himself is to blame, and nobody else, for his remaining still in the service.

Lord C.

Ay indeed? How is that?

Eugenia.

Because he never asked for his dismission. He is ever saying, people would imagine him a coward, should he quit the service during war. He only wishes that he may always have but strength enough to sit on horseback; and then, he says, he will part with every drop of blood he has, to serve his country. Well he will have his wish one time or other, but we poor children, then, shall be without a father.

Lord C.

Recollect, your father has been hitherto preserved from danger; and why should he not continue still as safe? It is not every musquet that hits.

Eugenia.

But those that do, commonly kill their man; and in the number, may there not be one that will reach papa?

Lord C.

That is true indeed: but what sweet little lady is this?

Eugenia.

My sister Mary Anne.

SCENE III.

Eugenia, Lord Cornwallis, the Officer, Mary Anne.

Eugenia.

So, Mary Anne, you are come at last, I see; and where have you been staying?

Mary Anne.

Why, mama would make me help her to do up papa's portmanteau.

Eugenia.

Where is the basket? let me have it, sister.

Mary Anne.

Have you gathered strawberries enough to fill it?

Eugenia.

You shall see. (emptying the hat.) Your pardon, gentlemen.

Lord C.

Oh, do not mind us. (Whispering the Officer.) What lovely children!

Mary Anne, (whispering Eugenia.)

Who may these be!

Eugenia, (whispering Mary Anne.)

Officers in Lord Cornwallis's regiment.

Mary Anne.

Do they come to fetch papa?

Eugenia.

No, no: they are before the regiment, which will not go through the village till to-morrow, as papa expected.

Mary Anne.

Ah! would all the officers, together with the regiment, were at Jericho.

Eugenia.

Speak lower, Mary Anne. If the gentlemen should hear you?

Mary Anne.

Let them hear me, if they like it. What! they come to take away papa, and shall not we have leave to make complaint?

Lord C. (whispering the Officer.)

Methinks, we are not looked upon very favourably here.

The Officer.

Then my lord why do not you discover yourself, and mention the good news that you bring their father?

Lord C.

No. Their openness delights me; and the affection that they evince in favour of their parents, ravishes my heart.

Eugenia, (to Mary Anne.)

Poor Douglas is hard at work, while we are chattering here without once thinking of him. I will go and help him. Mary Anne, stay you here, and take care how you speak before these gentlemen.

Mary Anne.

Go, go; I know what is proper.

Eugenia.

This is my sister, Mary Anne: I present her to you, gentlemen.

Mary Anne, (with a little frowardness.)

Your servant, gentlemen.

Lord C.

She has a countenance as resolute as yours is timid.

Eugenia.

She will stay here to entertain you, gentlemen; for I must run and help my brother to gather strawberries; so that all of us may go back the sooner to papa. Will you permit me to inform him of your visit?—He will be very happy to receive you.

Mary Anne.

No; he will not be very happy to receive you, nor we neither; we should rather be pleased were we left alone at present.

Eugenia.

I hope, your kindness will excuse this little mad-cap.

Mary Anne.

Oh yes, to be sure! Excuse me? Why these gentlemen are sensible that little girls, when strangers are at table, must not speak a word; and I have twenty thousand things to tell papa at parting, which will otherwise go near to break my heart.

Lord C.

Dear children, do not fear any thing: you shall not be disturbed by us in your delightful conversation. (Eugenia makes a grateful curtsy, and withdraws.)

Mary Anne.

But pray tell me, gentlemen, what reason has the king for thus taking away a good papa from us poor children? Does he think that we do not want one to bring us up?

Lord C.

No, no; but then do you think that he does not want good soldiers, to go abroad and fight?

Mary Anne.

And what necessity for fighting? Or suppose that there should be any, surely our papa, in staying at home to give his children a good education, would not be useless to his country.

Lord C.

No, indeed; especially, my pretty Mary Anne, if his other little ones improve as much as you do.

Mary Anne.

I believe you jest. I know that I am thought a little forward in the family; and I have heard it said, that if I had but a cockade, I could not fail to make a tolerable soldier.

Lord C.

Ha! ha! ha! A little Amazon! You would become a perfect hero!

Mary Anne.

I can tell you, if I had only a sword, I would not be laughed at.

Lord C.

Nay, if that be all, here is mine. I will arm you with it.

Mary Anne.

Do. I should be very glad.

Lord C. (presenting the sword, and stooping to salute her.)

This is the first ceremony.

Mary Anne, (keeping him off.)

Softly! softly! I beseech you, sir.

Lord C. (attempting it again.)

Oh! you are a charming child!

Mary Anne, (running from him.)

Brother! sister!

Lord C.

Mighty well, Miss Soldier; you are afraid of me then, I see!

Mary Anne.

I afraid of you! Oh no. But do not, however, come too near, or I shall run and fetch papa. Papa is an officer as well as you are, and will not suffer any one to hurt his little Mary Anne.

Lord C.

Heaven forbid that I should design to hurt you! It was only done in joke.

SCENE IV.

Lord Cornwallis, the Officer, Mary Anne, Eugenia, Douglas.

Douglas, (coming boldly forward.)

You cried out just now, Mary Anne! I am come to your assistance.

Lord C.

Against us, my little friend?

Douglas.

Against any one that hurts my sister.

Mary Anne.

Thank you, brother; but I did not mean to cry out quite so loud, and have no need of your assistance; for, you see, I have disarmed one. However, sir, (returning Lord C. his sword,) for this once I grant you quarter. But do not come too near in future. I believe you understand me.

Lord C.

Why, I vow, you are an extraordinary little creature!

Eugenia.

I am charmed to hear you talk so; but, gentlemen, at last we have gathered strawberries enough to share some with you. (Presenting them the bushel.) Take a sew, let me request you.

Lord C.

No, indeed; we do not intend to touch them; they have a destination more respectable than that we should think of making free with any.

Eugenia.

Those that you take will all be from our share: and there will be no harm done, should we go without. You are in papa's own regiment; and it is sitting that we shou'd treat you with as much respect as we are able.

Mary Anne, (taking a nosegay from her bosom and presenting it to Lord C.)

Ah! on that account I will beg you to accept this nosegay. I had gathered it for myself. Papa and mama already have had one a-piece, or I could not have given you this: but it belongs to me, sir, and I give it you.

Lord C.

And I, my little dear, accept it with the greatest pleasure.

Mary Anne.

It is somewhat faded by the sun; but if you will stay a little, I will go gather you some jasmin, violets and jonquils in my garden.

Eugenia.

Mary Anne, you remember, I suppose, the rose-bush just before my window? You may gather all the roses that are blown upon it.

Mary Anne.

Well, sir, shall I?

Lord C.

Would you have that kindness, my dear child? But no, I thank you; for the pleasure of conversing with you entertains me more than all the roses in the universe.

Mary Anne.

A thought strikes me. Possibly, you know what way an officer should take to quit the service honourably. Could you not afford us some good counsel to procure papa's dismission?

Eugenia.

If you could, we should be very glad to give you every thing in our power.

Douglas, (who has hitherto amused himself by playing with the hilt of Lord C•'s sword, and looking at his uniform.)

O yes! if you could only tell us how to keep papa at home, my drum, spontoon, cartouch box, and accoutrements, should all be yours.

Mary Anne, (with a smile.)

And I will give you free'y, what you sought just now to take by force.

Lord C.

So many charming things at once! Believe me, if I did but know—

Eugenia, (sorrowful.)

You did but know! So then we only make things worse, and grieve you that you cannot be of service to us.

Mary Anne.

Oh! I do not give up so soon. My Lord Cornwallis, colonel of the regiment, will very soon pass this way. Well then, we three will go and throw ourselves before him, hang upon his clothes, and not let him go until he has granted our desire.

Eugenia.

Yes, sister, he shall see our tears; and we will tell him how extremely ill papa was all the winter; how indifferent he is at present; and how much we should lament his going from us. Do you think, sir, he would be so cruel as to send us from him, and not grant us our request?

Lord C.

I cannot think that of him, my good friends; but if he be not come already on his way thus far, there is room to fear that he will delay his setting out from London longer; and you know, in that case, you would lose your pains, as your papa must march to-morrow. Happily, however, there is a gentleman, his friend, who can do every thing, as if he were my lord himself; and he is at present with the regiment, serving as a volunteer.

Douglas.

A volunteer?

Lord C.

Yes; so they call it; one whose wish is to acquire a knowledge of the art of war, assisted by my lord's instruction. I can answer for it, he will grant whatever your papa may wish for.

Eugenia.

And is he your friend?

Lord C.

Yes, truly.

Eugenia.

Then for heaven's sake, sir, speak to him in papa's behalf, that he may not be parted from his family, who live but by his means; and if he must leave England, do you soften, if you can, his service; and at any time, should he be sick or wounded—

Mary Anne.

Wounded? Do not wait, sir, till he is wounded; but if a sabre should be raised against him, run you in and save him from the blow.

Lord C. (aside.)

How difficult I find it to keep still concealed!—No, generous little souls, fear nothing: I will be answerable for his safety with my life.

Eugenia.

We may rely upon you, then. How much you charm us, sir! Yet do not, upon that account, forget to speak about him to the volunteer that you just now mentioned.—I could talk still to you on this subject; but your heart will tell you every thing that I have left unsaid: and our papa, whom we shall lose to-morrow, must be waiting for us.

Lord C.

Go, dear children; but first take some trifle from me, as a recompence for the agreeable half-hour that I have spent in conversation with you. Here, my sweet Eugenia, take this ring: it is a little too big, but may soon be fitted to your finger.

Eugenia, (refusing the ring.)

No, no, sir; mama, perhaps, would be displeased: and so too would papa, whose least reproach I would not deserve for the world, particularly as he must leave us to-morrow.

Lord C.

You must absolutely take it. Should he be displeased, I will undertake to reconcile you with him, when he joins the regiment, if I cannot, by my speaking to the volunteer, prevent his leaving England.

Eugenia, (taking it.)

Well then, he shall bring it you, in that case; and if otherwise, I shall be very happy to remember you, as often as I look upon it.

Mary Anne.

Come, come, sister; it is high time that we should be gone.

Lord C.

And you, my lovely Mary Anne, I suppose, would not be sorry to remember me? See, here is a copper etric gilt; and at the top, a composition stone; they call it a false diamond.

Mary Anne, (looking at it.)

Yes, I understand you: but there is nothing false about it, except your words. It is gold, I am certain, and a real diamond. I will not have it. You have been a plundering for it. My papa is a captain, sir, as well as you, but cannot make such presents; for he never went a plundering in his life.

Lord C.

Take, take it: there is no plundering in the case. It would be useless to me in the field; and therefore, if you will not have it as a present, keep it for me, till such time as I return.

Mary Anne.

O! that I will, with all my heart.

Lord C.

And now, perhaps, you have a kiss to give me for security.

Mary Anne.

No, no; I have told you the conditions.

Lord C.

Well, then, I will do what I can to obtain them.

Mary Anne.

And I will keep the you know what, sir, till that time.—Come, brother.

Douglas.

Go you first: I shall follow you immediately. I have something to say in private to the gentleman.

Lord C.

I will speak with you this moment.

(The Officer, who some little time before had withdrawn, returns, and gives my Lord a pocket-book: they whisper one another.)

Mary Anne, (whispering Douglas.)

What! and should you like a present too?

Eugenia, (in a whisper likewise.)

Fie, fie, brother! I should never have suspected you of so much meanness.

Douglas.

And fie you too, sisters, that can entertain so mean a notion of your brother! I have something very different, and much more important also, that I should like to ask.

Mary Anne.

Well now, if I were in a merry mood, I could not but burst out a laughing, at the gravity with which you speak of your important something!

Douglas.

Ay, and were you not my sister, I would make you squeak, Miss Saucebox, for suspecting me.

Mary Anne, (going out with Eugenia.)

Well, manage your important something properly.

SCENE V.

Lord Cornwallis, the Officer, Douglas.

Lord C.

I am glad, dear Douglas, that you desire to stay. We were not quite acquainted: but at present, and particularly as my friend here tells me that my chaise is not set to rights yet, we shall have some more minutes to stand talking with each other.

Douglas.

So we shall: but do not imagine that I remain here to get something from you.

Lord C.

How?

Douglas.

Because you gave my sisters each a present, you might fancy that I want one: but I protest, sir, I shall not take any thing.

Lord C.

Unluckily for me, too, I have nothing I can offer you.

Douglas.

Unluckily? I am glad that you have not; for now, neither can be tempted.

Lord C. (aside to the Officer.)

I am charmed with his disinterestedness, and never saw a lovelier figure!

Douglas.

I have but one question, sir, to ask you.

Lord C.

And what is that, my friend?

Douglas.

You told my sister, such a gentleman was with the army as a volunteer. Pray what is a volunteer?

Lord C.

A volunteer is a soldier who may fight, or not fight, as he chuses.

Douglas.

Oh! if I were to turn soldier, it should be to fight; and I would gladly be a volunteer on that condition.

Lord C.

But a volunteer must have a deal of money: have you?

Douglas.

No; but then the king has; and pray, is not he obliged to keep his soldiers?

Lord C.

No; for as a volunteer is not obliged to fight, it is but just that he should subsist himself.

Douglas.

I am sorry to hear this; but if I wanted only bread and water, or should beg the regiment to receive me, sir, instead of my papa;—what then?

Lord C.

Poor child! and what sort of a figure would you cut before a company?—You ought to have experience and authority.

Douglas.

If I have not enough of either to command, I must have, surely, to obey. Let me be any thing, provided I may serve.

Lord C.

Would you be barely capable of following in the march?

Douglas.

I will go as far as I am able; and when tired, let me be lifted up among the baggage; or I will ride upon the cannon. Are you fearful that I should lag behind?

Lord C.

But if you were to serve instead of your para, you do not remember that you must part with him, as much as if he went himself.

Douglas.

And do not you think that I should rejoice to be the means of keeping him at home here, with mama and sisters? You would hardly lose by such a change. Unhappily, my dear papa will not be able to serve long; and I shall very soon be what he was. I love a soldier's business at my heart. I know a number of marches, and can play them on my fife. Look, here is a book of songs: it is called the Grenadier's Delight. I will give it you. I know the whole by heart.

Lord C. (aside to the Officer.)

I have a thought. (To Douglas,) I would not wish better present: and in turn, I will give you, not indeed a book of songs, my little Douglas, but a single son•.

Douglas.

A song, indeed, I may accept.

Lord C. (feeling in his pocket.)

Hold, here is, in the first place, one that you will give your father.

Douglas.

Oh! he never sings, sir, now; and likes no music but the cannon's.

Lord C.

That does not signify. I am sure, you will both be pleased with this—if you do but read it. And here (taking a paper out of his pocket-book) is one for you.

Douglas, (jumping for joy.)

Oh, thank you! Let me see now, if I know it.

Lord C.

No, no, Douglas, you shall read them after we have left you. (He puts the two papers together, and thrusts them into Douglas's pocket.) Let me put them in your pocket: and do you take care not to lose either.—Now farewel, my little friend; and since you love a soldier's life, I will have you for my comrade.

Douglas, (jumping up into his arms.)

Yes, I will be so, I will always love you; and the first engagement that I enter, I will be all the while at your side.

The Officer.

We will go, and let the regiment know that you are coming.

Douglas.

Do: and pray, sir, give me a good word.

Lord C. (retiring with the Officer.)

I feel how much the father's heart must bleed to quit such lovely children: and rejoice on that account to be the bearer of such welcome tidings as the paper, now in Douglas's pocket, will inform him of. Let us withdraw a little to some corner, where we may, unseen, remark him. (They get among the trees, and Douglas has his eye upon them till they are out of sight.)

Douglas, (alone, and sitting for a little while profoundly thoughtful on the trunk: then getting up, and walking to and fro.)

Why should they desire to set papa a singing? (Taking out the papers.) Ha! this paper is sealed!—there is something fur• in it, I suppose. So let me see my own. (Opening it.) Is this a song? It does not look like one. The words go after one another, all along the line. (Reading.) "I promise to pay to Mr. Abraham Newland, or bearer, on demand, the sum of fifty pounds." I do not know any tune that will suit these words. (Reading again.) "London, December 1, 1786. For the Governor and Company of the Bank of England. John Larkin."—He meant to make a fool of me, I fancy, when he called this a song. It is all concerning money!—Ho! Captain! Captain! (going out after them.)

SCENE VI.

Douglas, Capt. Greville (pale and feeble,) Mrs. Greville, Mary Anne, Eugenia.

Capt. Greville.

Where, where is he? (Perceiving Douglas.) Douglas, where is my Lord?

Douglas, (looking about him.)

My Lord! I have not seen the least bit of a Lord, not I.

Mary Anne.

That handsome gentleman that talked with us?

Eugenia.

He that gave me this fine ring. Papa says, no one but a Lord could make so rich a present.

Douglas, (vexed.)

Blockhead that I was, not to discover him!

Eugenia.

Oh! what a fine, fine gentleman!

Mary Anne.

So good and so familiar! Oh, my sweet etui! I will keep you all my life-time, now.

Capt. Greville.

How long has he been gone?

Douglas.

This moment I was running after him.

Capt. Greville.

To-morrow, fortunately, I shall join his lordship; for it must be Lord Cornwallis; it is his cypher that is engraved on the etui: and I can tell him then, how much my children are obliged to his benevolence. I am sorry, however, that I had not an opportunity of asking him to lodge for one night with us. Should you not have been rejoiced to entertain him, children?

Douglas.

Oh! yes, yes, papa. He called me comrade, when he took his leave.

Mary Anne.

For my part, though I like him, yet I am glad that he is gone; for had he staid, we should not have been able then to talk as if we loved you.

Capt. Greville.

Mary Anne is in the right. I should not have been free to mix my tears with yours, dear children, in his presence.

Mrs. Greville.

And, on that account, I could wish to have had his company. The violence that you must have done your sorrows, would, in that case, have enabled me to keep down mine; and since to-morrow we must lose you—

Eugenia.

Oh! do not speak of that, mama.

Capt. Greville.

Dear children, possibly I shall not leave you long. Peace cannot be far off: it is the wish of every one in England; and no sooner shall that wish be gratified, but I will instantly come back, and never part with you again.

Mrs. Greville.

But yet, till things are settled, you must unavoidably be from us; and what comfort shall we have, as long as you are absent?

Eugenia.

With what pleasure would I give him back his ring, if he would leave you with us!

Mary Anne.

And I likewise his etui!

Douglas.

And I too, his new-fashioned song. See, see, papa, what he has put into my hand here. Was there ever such a song before?

Capt. Greville.

Let us see. (Having read a little.) What bounty is in this nobleman! and what a charming way he has of obliging! He has given you, here, an order for receiving a whole pocket-full of gold!

Douglas.

What, has he tricked me? When you see him, give him back his money: I will not have it. But there is something else; and he has given me likewise here a song for you.

Capt. Greville.

A song for me, my little fellow? You are dreaming!

Douglas, (drawing the sealed paper out of his pocket.)

No, no: here it is.

The children, (smiling at each other, and approaching their father with looks of curiosity.)

A song! a song!

Capt. Greville.

Good heavens! what is this?—The king's coat of arms! (He opens the packet with a trembling hand, and looking at the signature, cries out) and signet! (Then casting his eyes over the three or four first lines, breaks forth again.) Is it possible?—Dear wife, and little ones,— rejoice! rejoice!

Mrs. Greville.

If you stay with us.

Capt. Greville.

Let me read the letter out. (They all come round him, and stand silent while he reads.) Oh! unexpected joy! (Continues reading.) No, no; it must be all a dream, in which my pleased imagination forms the most brilliant chimeras!—And yet, stay; for I am awake, and every thing is real, though I never could have hoped for so much happiness.

All speaking at once.

Mrs. Greville.

I am dying with impatience to know every thing.

Eugenia.

Well, well; what is it, dear papa?

Mary Anne.

You keep us all in pain!

Douglas.

Let me see your song.

Capt. Greville, (embracing his wife and children.)

I am to stay with you, my life!—We are not to be separated, my 〈◊〉 children!— (Giving Mrs. Greville the letter.) Yes, yes; read yourself.

Mrs. Greville.

I tremble every limb, and cannot.

〈…〉, (unable to contain themselves for joy.)

Our papa stays with us! Our papa stays with us!

Capt. Greville.

Yes, yes, children, I shall not go to America, or leave you, and yet still continue in the service, in a way so honourable!

Mrs. Greville, (coming to herself.)

And how? how, my life?

Capt. Greville.

The king, informed (but by what means I know not) of my illness, and touched with my situation, permits my staying here in England; but, to recompense my services, (these are h•s own words,) he confers upon me the command of Upnor Castle, with the rank of colonel.

Mrs. Greville.

What, my dear?

Eugenia.

Joy! joy!

Mary Anne.

So then, papa, there is not a greater man in all the army?

Douglas.

And you are colonel? are you?

Capt. Greville.

Yes; and, for the first time in my life, entirely happy. But, my dearest life, (to Mrs. Greville,) shall I be pardoned, when I tell you such an honour is not on account of any step that I took to get it?—It has come I cannot tell how.

Mrs. Greville.

Yes, yes; I know that very well. I did every thing in my power, though what I did was never meant for such an honour, joined to so much happiness. They must be both, however, placed to the account of my solicitation.

Mary Anne.

Ah! the naughty man, say I; but that mama took greater care of us than he did.

Eugenia.

So, papa, then you deceived us?

Capt. Greville.

Yes, my little deary: but still, what could I have done? I have only this excuse to offer, that false modesty restrained me from requesting my dismission, even though I should have thought myself unable to be of any real service to my country. I was not, however, then quite sensible of my condition, but now I feel it: yes, I feel within me, that my constitution is no longer fit for the fatigue of arms.

Mrs. Greville.

And this false modesty would have been death to me, and have left these innocents without a father, but that Providence has ordered your affairs much better. Every thing, however, now, is to be pardoned. All my wish is, that we had here the generous nobleman who brought us this glad news, that we might thank him for his kindness to our little ones, and also for his message, which, if the truth were known, I dare engage he has in some degree been instrumental in procuring; for what likelihood is there that I, an unknown woman, should by myself have so far succeeded beyond every thing that I could ever have wished?

Capt. Greville.

At least, if we had but been able to afford him the hospitality of one night's lodging with us.

Douglas.

Let us run different ways, and overtake him if we can.

Capt. Greville.

Go, go. It grieves me that I cannot follow you.

Mary Anne.

If we can meet with him, and he will but accompany us back, he shall have then, instead of one, three kisses.

SCENE VII.

Douglas, Capt. Greville, Mrs. Greville, Eugenia, Mary Anne, Lord Cornwallis, the Officer.

Lord C. (running from his hiding-place, and laying hold of Mary Anne.)

Shall I?—A match, my little maid. (He kisses her three times.)

Eugenia and Douglas.

My lord! my lord!

Mary Anne, (a little out of countenance.)

You have almost frightened me with your kisses!

Capt. Greville.

O, my worthy general! what words will shew you half my gratitude?

Mrs. Greville.

How can my children and myself express our obligations? To whom we are indebted for such a blessing, we at present know not; but your lordship is the bearer of a paper, which to me restores a husband, and a father to my children.

Lord C.

For this blessing, you and they are debtors to the king. I have done nothing but solicited his bounty, wishing that I might prove the channel through which it should flow. Hearing accidentally, dear madam, of your application, I determined to support it with my little interest, and, if possible, to get more than was solicited. You owe this interference to my knowledge of the captain's merit; being, as I was, convinced how much he had instructed his inferior officers, and been of benefit to those above him. Upon this account, I did not think it reasonable that he should still be forced to serve among us, when his infirmity made service painful to him. And still more, to shew how heartily I prosecuted this affair, with pleasure I took advantage of our march so near his habitation, to bring down myself the news of my success, and glad the bosom of his spouse and children with it. This, believe me, is a joy, that I shall never forget. (He holds out his hand to Capt. Greville, who clasps it with transport.)

Capt. Greville.

And is it possible that I should have met with such a generous friend, who, of his own accord, has seconded an application which the affection of a valuable wife was making for me, but without my knowledge. No one, who had less than your benevolence, my lord, could have so heartily endeavoured to promote the happiness of an afflicted family.

Mrs. Greville.

Then, likewise, you have made such princely presents to my children!

Eugenia.

I am now ashamed that I took this ring. I did not think it to be of so much value.

Lord C.

I must own it is pretty, but much more so on your charming hand. It is indeed so altered, I no longer know it.

Mary Anne.

Neither would you, I suppose, sir, your etui; and therefore I will not speak a word about it.

Douglas.

As for me, I give you back your song. It is not what you meant to let me have.

Lord C.

Then be it a mistake, and, since I have already made it, pardon me; to which I hope your good papa will add another favour; that his Douglas may be made an ensign. I will give order for it, if he chuses.

Capt. Greville.

If I chuse, my lord! You are the guardian angel sent to succour us!

Douglas.

But is it in your regiment?

Lord C.

Yes, my little friend.

Douglas.

Ah! how rejoiced I am! I will go this moment with you, and the name of my papa shall not so quickly be forgotten in the army.

Capt. Greville.

You have conferred so many favours on me!—would you vouchsafe me, now, one more that I am about to ask?

Lord C.

I apprehend your meaning, and so far from not vouchsafing, beg you to bestow it; namely, an asylum in your house for one night, for my companion and myself. (Capt. and Mrs. Greville how respectfully.) Provided, however, that Miss Mary Anne consents.

Mary Anne.

Oh! since my papa is to remain among us, stay as long as you think proper.

Eugenia.

I may hope now, my lord, that you will consent to eat a few more strawberries?

Mary Anne.

You will make them no less sweet to us, than I imagined your arrival would have made them bitter.

Douglas.

Yes, my lord, come in, and honour my papa by eating with us; and hereafter I will do every thing in my power to deserve a second honour like it—in your lordship's tent.

GEORGE AND CECILIA.

LITTLE George, an orphan, had been brought up from his infancy by L•dy Eustace, who, together with Lord Eustace, were retired from London, and resided in a small country town. From the tenderness with which they treated him, a stranger in the family would have imagined him to be really their son. This worthy couple had but one child left them, and that a girl, named Cecilia, who was nearly of an age with George: and Lady Eustace had the satisfaction to behold a more than common mutual sondness subsist between the children.

One delightful morning, towards the end of August, George and Cecilia, with their little friend Lucinda, whose parents lived that summer in the neighbourhood, were out a sauntering in the orchard. The two little girls, of which the youngest (namely Cecilia) was not yet quite eight years old, were arm in arm; and walking with that lovely negligence and those unstudied graces so peculiar to a state of childhood, they hummed over a delightful roundelay, then fashionable in the mouth of every songster in the village, while little George preceded them at leisure, piping on an English flute, to harmonize their discords.

What a series of delightful gambols entertained them in the or•hard! But at last, our Cecilia and Lucinda both cast a longing look upon the fruit-trees round about them. In particular, an apple-tree attracted their attention. All the apples had been gathered several days before; but still, a few that had been overlooked, were here and there discovered hanging, and the deep vermillion that tinged them, and which the leaves could not entirely hide, invited, as it were, the hand to come and take them. George sprung forward, climbed the tree which they were admiring, and threw down as many apples as his hand c•ld reach, while the children held their aprons open to receive them.

Chance so ordered it, that two or three of what were thought the finest fell into Lacinda's, who piqued herself upon this accidental distribution, as she might have done with reason, had it been a pre-determined preference, since George was in reality the prettiest and politest little fellow in the place.

Lucinda, with a joy and triumph in her eyes, that looked like insult, thus addressed herself to Cecilia: "Do but see how fine and large my apples are, while yours are hardly •lf so h•some!" Cecilia, at these words, hung down her head, and putting on a serious countenance, kept silence during the remainder of their wa•k. It was in vain that George studied, by a hundred assiduties, to bring the little maiden back to reason, to spread a smile again upon her cloaded countenance, and to make those lips pronounce a syilable, whose prattle ha• till then been so agreeable.

Not long after this, Lucinda took leave when they had got upon the terrace, and were near home. Before they entered, George addressed his sister, as he always called her, asking why she seemed so angry with him? Certainly you cannot be offended, said he, that Lucinda had her share of the apples? You know very well, I have always loved you most, and would have shewn it in the tree, by throwing you the finest apples; but I know not how it chanced, my dear, they fell into Miss Lucinda's apron. Could I take them from her? Ask yourself that question. And besides, I thought you far more generous than to take offence at such a trifle! You shall see, the very first occasion that presents itself of showing you my real sentiments, it was not my design to vex you.

Hey-dey, Mr. George! said Cecilia, and who told you that I was vexed? Suppose Miss Lucinda's apples had been even ten times finer than what I had, is that any thing to me? I am no glutton, and you know that very well, sir; neither should I in the least have minded it, but for the saucy little creature's looks. I'll not endure them, that I won't; and as for you, fall down upon your knees this instant, or I will never, while I live, forgive you.

O! I cannot do that by any means, said George, (bending half his body backwards as he spoke) for by doing so, I should confess a fault with which you have no right to charge me. I am no story-teller, and must say, it is very wrong in you, Miss Cecilia, if you will not believe that I did not mean to vex you.

Very wrong in me! replied the other. Very wrong in me! What do you mean, sir? But I see why you affront me thus; it is because Miss Lucinda is your favourite. And so saying, and bestowing a contemptuous curtsy on him, while she looked another way, she went into the house in a pet.

As dinner was now ready, they sat down, but pouted at each other all the time it lasted. Cecilia did not drink even once, because she must have said, Your good health, George. And George, on his part, was so piqued at her injustice, that he also thought proper to preserve his dignity. And yet, the little lady would steal a glance still, every now and then at George, and from a corner of her eye, consider all his motions. As it happened, one of these sly glances met with one of George's, who was no less slily studying Cecilia's motions. Being thus surprised, she turned immediately towards another object; and as George took this to proceed from disdain, though in reality it did not, he affected great indifference, and went on eating, just as if he did not care a farthing for her.

When the cloth was removed, and the wine and sruit brought in, unluckily poor Cecilia, mortified as she was at George's whole behaviour, replied a little disrespectfully to her mama, (who had besides been obliged to ask her the question twice over,) and she was therefore ordered instantly from table. She obeyed, and bursting out into a flood of tears, withdrew, as if she knew not whither she was going. As the door was open that conducted to the garden, she passed out that way, and, as it were by instinct, went to hide her sorrow in an arbour at the bottom of it. There, while she burst out again into a flood of tears, and sighed most lamentably, she repented of the quarrel that she had picked with George, who always used, upon such sad occasions, to alleviate her distress by weeping with her.

George, remaining at the table, could not think of Cecilia in c•sgra•e, and not feel greatly for her situation. They had har•ly let him take two peaches, before he set about contriving means to convey them into his pocket for po•r Cecilia, whom he designed afterwards to visit in the garden, upon some pretence or other, which he did not doubt but he should be able to invent, and yet he greatly appre•ended that his intention would be discovered. He pushed back his chair, and asterwards brought it forward, more than menty times, and was continually looking down for something on the carpet. Then all of a sudden; Look at pretty Laura! look at Rover! cried he, seeming to take notice of two dogs in the apartment; and at the same time he had got a peach ready to slip into his pocket, if he could but fix my lord's and lady's observation upon something at a distance from him.

See, papa, mama, how prettily they are playing! Do but turn about; they will make you die with laughing.

Oh! re•d my lord, they will not eat one another, that I will answer for; and having just glanced at them, put himself so soon into his first position, that poor George, who thought himself that moment sure of pocketing the peach, was disconcerted, and obliged to put it down again upon the table.

Lady Eustace had observed him, and conjectured his intention; therefore, having for a while enjoyed the little boy's embarrassment, she made his lordship privy to the affair, as well as she was able, and in dumb show bade him turn his head on one side; which he did accordingly, but could not hide a smile, that notwithstanding all his gravity escaped him.

However, George, who thought himself as yet quite undiscovered, but was fearful lest this device again repeated might betray him, instantly resorted to another stratagem. He took one peach, and placed it in the hollow of his hands put both together, after which he lifted it to his mouth, and made as if he had really been eating, by an imitation of the noise and motion which people make when they are chewing. Then, while with his left-hand he luckily found means to clap his peach into a cavity that he had hollowed beforehand in the napkin on his knees, he put his right-hand out to take the other, which he served exactly in the same manner.

Some few minutes had now passed, and as it happened, my lord and lady had quite forgot little George, and were conversing with each other in their usual manner; so that George, supposing this a proper opportunity to get away, rose up from table, with both peaches in the napkin, and began to imi•te the mewing of a cat, which a young shepherd boy had lately taught him; and his view in this was to engage the attention both of Pompey and Rover, which he did, and put them into motion. Lady Eustace, somewhat angry at these mewings, interrupted him. "What now!" said she; and added, "Well, but George, if our discourse displeases you, I fancy, you may go and mew a little in the garden." George put on a feigned embarrassment at this reproof, which was another thing that he wanted. He runs up therefore to Laura, saying, "See, mama she wants to bite poor Rover!" and in turning, he dexteroussy whipped the napkin all at once into his pocket, and pretended to run after Laura, with an intent to punish her. Laura scampered towards the door which Cecilia had left open, when she went into the garden, and away went Master George, pursuing him.

"George! George! said Lady Eustace; pray, where are you going?" George stopped short. "My dear mama, said he, I will take a turn, if you please, in the garden. Won't you let me? I am sure you will give me leave." But afterwards, as her ladyship returned no answer, he lowered his voice, and in a suppliant manner added, "Pray, my dear mama, do let me! You shall see how well I will behave myself." "In that case, answered she, I will give you leave. Go."

What words can express the greatness of his joy! He was so joyful, that not minding how he ran, his foot slipped and he fell down. By great good luck, the peaches were not damaged in the fall. He got up again instantly, and ran to seek his sister in every nook and corner of the garden.

George was got by this time to the arbour, where he saw poor Cecilia wonderfully changed, and in an attitude of sorrow and repentance. She was now exceedingly unhappy. She had grieved the three best friends that she had; her worthy parents, and her own dear George.

"My sweetest Cecilia!" said George, and fell down on his knees before her. "Let us be friends: I would freely ask forgiveness for my fault, if I had really intended to displease you. Yet, if you will ask my pardon, I will ask yours also. Will you? Come, forgive, Cecilia; let us be friends again. Here, here are two nice peaches: I could not think of tasting them, as you were not to have your share."

"Ah! my dearest George! (said Cecilia, squeezing his hand wh• she spoke, and weeping on his shoulder,) what a good, sweet-tempered little fellow I have always found you! C•inly, (continued she, and sobbed while she spoke,) certainly a friend in one's misfortunes is a real friend indeed. But I will not take your peaches. It would have been pitiful behaviour in me, had I been vexed this morning for the loss of half a dozen apples. You do not think that I was, George, do you! No, it wa• the insulting look with which that pert Miss Lucinda viewed me; but I will not think about her now. Will you forgive me? added she; and with her handkerchief wiped off the tears that she had let fall on George's hand. I know, I sometimes love to plague you; but keep your peaches now, I will not eat them."

"Well, then, sister, answered George, whenever the fancy comes into your head, e'en plague me just as long as you think proper. Yet I will never let another do so. You understand me? But as to these two peaches, I cannot eat them. I have told you so already, and was never guilty of a story"

"No, nor I, (said Cecilia, and that moment flung them both away into the public road.) I cannot endure the thoughts of having made a quarrel up for interested reasons.—But as we are now close friends again, how happy would it make me, if I could but get mama's permission to appear, and ask her pardon!"

"Oh! I will fly and get it for you, answered George; and hardly had pronounced the words, when he was got a good way from the arbour. I will inform mama, continued he, that it was I who made you anger her, by having vexed you in the morning."

In effect, he succeeded sooner than he expected.—Indeed, what errors would not any reasonable woman overlook, in favour of a friendship so affectionate and generous!

THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION.

Mrs. Cranfield, Helen, her daughter.

Helen.

NO, mama: I had much rather finish this purse.

Mrs. Cranfield.

But then, Helen, Caroline would certainly be a great deal better pleased with the workbag. Do not you recollect, she seemed delighted when you showed her yours? and the bag that you have above stairs is made exactly like it.

Helen.

Notwithstanding that, mama, I know she would like the purse a great deal better.

Mrs. Cranfield.

Be it so; but will the purse be finished? There are still at least a dozen rows to do; whereas, the work-bag only wants a ribband to compleat it. Sure you would not pay a visit to your cousin, on her birth-day, and go there without some present for her?

Helen.

O, mama, you know, I should not like to do so; but believe me, you shall see the purse very soon finished

Mrs. Cranfield.

Think before you come to any resolution in the affair. Your father, I suppose you know, sets out at four o'clock exactly, and if any one among you has not finished what she had to do, that one will not go with him.

Helen.

He sets out at five o'clock, mama, not four.

Mrs. Cranfield.

Helen, will you never be rid of this shocking trick? Will you always be determined to assert the absolute reverse of every thing that your hear?

Helen.

But if I am sure that papa sets out at five, and not before?

Mrs. Cranfield.

Well, well, Helen; it will very soon be seen which is in the right. But I advise you, as a friend, to be prepared against the hour that I mention.

Helen.

O, if that be al•, mama, you may be sure to find me ready, even at four: for look ye, it is, as one may say, quite finished. I should gain a quarter of a hour beside, were I to run and work below there, in the garden.

Mrs. Cranfield.

Why so, pray?

Helen.

Because it is so much lighter there.

Mrs. Cranfield.

But sure, you will lose a deal of time in going thither and returning?

Helen.

O! do not fear but I shall recover it again. My work ••ll go on ten times the better for it.

Mrs. Cranfield.

As you please, Helen; but remember, I have forewarned you what may be the case.

Helen.

I will take the consequence upon myself, and run as fast as possible.

In fact, she did run thither very fast; so fast that she arrived quite out of breath. She wanted more than half a dozen minutes to recover; and at last, when she was set at work, her hands were in a tremble, owing to her flurry; so that she frequently took up one stitch for another. In the end, when she was quite recovered, one must own, she pushed her work on very fast. And yet, in spite of all her diligence, it seemed to grow beneath her fingers. Mrs. Cranfield, who was really uneasy, came to find her.

Mrs. Cranfield.

Well, Helen, how goes business forward? Have you finished?

Helen.

No, not yet, mama; nor is it five o'clock yet.

Mrs. Cranfield.

Right, Helen; but it is four: the clock has just struck.

Helen.

Not struck, mama. I have been listening; so I am sure of that.

Mrs. Cranfield.

I do not know how it came about then that I heard it; and your father must have heard it likewise, for you will find that he is setting out.

Helen.

O! now, I am sure, you are joking: that can never be.

Mrs. Cranfield.

However, Dick has put the horses to, and here are your brother and your sisters coming. They are ready.

Helen.

O, dear me! You do not say so, mama!

The Brother, (coming forward.)

Where are you, Helen? We are waiting now for none but you.

Helen.

One moment, brother.

The Brother.

Four o'clock has struck, and you remember, papa at dinner told us that he should go precisely to a minute; having an appointment here, at half past five.

Mrs. Cranfield.

Well now, Helen, you remember what I told you.

Helen.

But, mama—

(Helen's three sisters enter, crying out,)

Helen! come, come, come!

Helen, (vexed.)

Do not be in a hurry children.

The Brother.

How, Helen, have you not done your purse yet? See here the little landscape that I shall give my cousin.

First Sister.

And this bow-pot, which will be my present.

Second Sister.

And this housewise of my making for her.

Third Sister.

And these garters that I have knit her.— But here comes papa.

Mr. Cranfield, (coming in.)

Well, we are setting out. You know, Helen, I never make any one wait for me, therefore never do I stay for others. If you are ready, come along; but if not, remain behind.

Helen.

My purse is not done yet: I have but two short rows to finish.

Mr. Cranfield, (beckoning the other children to follow)

Well, good bye, Helen: I will give your love to Caroline, and say that you wish her well and happy, on her birth-day. (They go out.)

Helen, (crying.)

They are setting out, and I must stay at home quite melancholy! I that waited with so much impatience for this day! Caroline will have a present from every one of them, and I, the eldest, am not of the party! What will she think of me?

Mrs. Cranfield.

In reality, the case is pitiable, I must own; and more particularly so, as it depended on yourself alone, to shun this mortifying situation. I forewarned you what would be the case, in proper time; and if, instead of being obstin•ely bent to go on with your purse, you had but put a ribband to your work-bag; if you had not lost so many minutes as you did in running hither; if you had not taken it into your head, from the first, that your father was not to set out till five, you would have faved yourself all this vexation. The misfortune is now come, and you have only to support it, as you ought, with patience.

Helen.

But my aunt and uncle, what will they think of me? They will imagine that I am in disgrace, or else that I do not love my cousin.

Mrs. Cranfield.

You must own, Helen, they will have some reason to suspect as much.

Helen.

Ah, dear mama! instead of lessening, you increase my sorrow!

Mrs. Cranfield.

No, Helen, I am no less sorrowful than you; but then, if you think proper, I can end your sorrow.

Helen.

Ah now, you are quite good! Yes, yes; I will make an end as soon as possible, and then we two will take the purse. My uncle, aunt, and cousin too, will be agreeably surprized, and see that my coming so late was not my fault. I suppose then, you will send out to fetch a cousin, and in the mean time I shall finish.

Mrs. Cranfield.

No, Helen, that would be to disobey your father, and deprive you of the benefit accruing from a useful lesson. You shall not, at least to-day, go see your cousin; but may have it in your power to be as happy as you would have been by going. I have a certain method to propose to you for that purpose.

Helen.

And what is it, pray, mama?

Mrs. Cranfield.

To form, from this time forward, a determined resolution not to settle matters just as you yourself think proper; to renounce particularly that intolerable trick that you have of contradicting everlastingly whatever you hear said; and to rid yourself of the vile habit of opposing your own ridiculous ideas to the counsels of such people as you know to be wiser than yourself. I am persuaded, you have sufficient courage to take up any resolution, and to support it.

Helen.

Yes, indeed, mama, I will, I will so.

Mrs. Cranfield.

I expected nothing less from you, Helen; and if during the remainder of the week I see you persevere in your laudable resolution, we will go next Saturday and see your cousin. We shall then carry her the purse and the work-bag also, which will make her think that you have delayed your present with a view of complimenting her with something worthier of herself, and more expressive of your generosity.

Helen, (embracing her mama.)

Oh! dear mama, once more you make me happy!

Mrs. Cranfield.

You, Helen, make me no less happy. Possibly this very moment you are laying the foundation of your whole future happiness.

CAESAR AND POMPEY.

MR. Saunders had brought up two handsome dogs, one Caesar and the other Pompey. He had named them so, not with the wish or expectation that they should one day become rivals, like the two illustrious commanders whose names they bore, but though both were littered at a birth, had always fed together, and been treated with an absolute equality, yet it was not long before they manifested very different tempers.

Caesar was extremely meek and docile; Pompey rough and quarrelsome.

The generous Caesar jumped for joy, when any one caressed him, and never took it ill that his brother should be fondled in the same manner; but the surly Pompey, on the other hand, whenever Mr. Saunders had him in his lap, would growl if Caesar met with the least notice, the least smile, or token of affection.

When the friends of Mr. Saunders, coming on a visit, brought their dogs, our Caesar would immediately get in among them, and endeavour to amuse his company; and, as his nature was extremely pliant and insinuating, and his manners very winning, they were always at their ease whenever it was his part to entertain them. They would play and frisk about the apartments, just as if they had been all at school with one another. The good Caesar did his utmost to set off their beauty and activity, that Mr. Saunders might be pleased with their appearance, and induced to do them some good turn or other.

What did Pompey do in the mean time? He would get into a corner, and be all day barking at the strangers. If unhappily they drew too near him, he would then be sure to grin and snarl, and often bite their tails or ears. And if his master noticed any one among them for his breeding and good parts, he would howl with all his might, as if the house was robbing.

Mr. Saunders had remarked this odious temper some time past in Pompey, and begun already to neglect him. Caesar, on the other hand, gained something every day on his affection.

On a certain day, as he was set at table, he resolved to try their dispositions more than he ever yet had done. They were both attending at the table, Pompey being nearest; for the honest Caesar, to avoid dissension, always gave him up with pleasure the foremost place: and Mr. Saunders held out Pompey a nice piece of juicy meat, which he immediately fell a chewing. Caesar was not discontented in the least at this, but waited with the greatest good humour till his turn should come. His turn soon came; but Mr. Saunders threw him nothing but a hard dry bone. He took it without any sign of discontent; but hardly had the churlish Pompey observed Caesar busy with his share, though much inferior to his own, than he rejected with disdain the bit between his teeth, and fell on Caesar to obtain his bone. The gentle Caesar made no manner of resistance, but, imagining that it might please the fickle taste of Pompey, yielded it at once.

Do not think, my friends, that this condescension on the part of Caesar was the effect of cowardice, or even weakness in him. He had given ample testimony of his strength and resolution very lately, in a contest where he had been engaged on account of Pompey, whose intolerable surliness had drawn down upon him the resentment of a dog that lived in the neighbourhood. He had not fought above five minutes, though it was he himself who had previously provoked the fight, before he ran away; while Caesar, though without a friend to take his part, continued the engagement like a hero, and acquired at last such glory, as to make his adversary bite the dust.

This anecdote his master knew; and as his character for courage was so thoroughly confirmed, he made him take the bit of juicy meat that he had before thrown to Pompey, but which Pompey had rejected. "Caesar, my good fellow, said his master, it is but just that you should enjoy your brother's portion, since he first took yours; and therefore eat it."

Pompey scowled at Caesar, seeing the affection that accompanied these words in Mr. Saunders's countenance; and Mr. Saunders added, "Since you have shewn yourself thus complaisant and generous towards him who treats you with such j•alousy and envy, you shall be in future my own dog, and range about the house as you think proper; but your brother shall be tied up in the yard: so quick, a chain for Pompey! and let some one bid the carpenter this moment knock up a kennel for him." Accordingly this last was instantly conducted to his station, while the other had his liberty to walk about the apartments.

Pompey would very probably have enjoyed with insoleace so great a mark of favour, had he gained the advantage in his master's judgment; but the heart of Caesar bled at the idea of his brother's sentence, and he essayed all means to soften his condition. When the servants gave him any thing, he would be sure to carry it to Pompey, wag his tail with pleasure, and invite him to regale upon it; and at night he would not fail to visit Pompey in his house, amusing him in the midst of his sufferings by all possible means, and for hours together warming his benumbed limbs.

But Pompey, far from being softened by such kind actions, never welcomed Caesar to his kennel, nor received him otherwise than with continual howlings; so that very quickly after, rage inflamed his blood, his heart was ulcerated, and his entrails perfectly dried up.

You, children, who read this, if there be any one among you of a disposition such as Pompey had, consider what a miserable lot awaits you, and reflect upon his punishment. You will otherwise lead a life of sorrow and humiliation, and expire in horror.

THE LITTLE GIRL WITH WHISKERS.

"WON'T you do what I bid you then, Mr. Obstanacy? Come, sir, obey; or else you will be the worse off for it, I can tell you." Thus Camilla, a pert little vixen of whom we are now going to give an account, was perpetually rating and commanding her poor brother.

Might her word be taken for it, he did every thing amiss: on the contrary, whatever she thought of doing, was a master piece of reason and reflexion. The diversions that he proposed were always dull and heavy in her judgment; but forgetting this decision, when the next day came, she would most probably chuse them herself, as the liveliest and most entertaining. Her unhappy brother was obliged, on pain of being soundly lectured, to obey her whims and fancies. If he durst attempt to shew her the unreasonableness of her procedure, she would be that moment in her airs; his play things then were sure to go to ruin, and himself was forced to mope, without amusement, in a corner of the room.

Camilla's parents had a hundred times endeavoared to break her of this fault. Her mother in particular, was always telling her that people never gained the love of others, if they were not complaisant and gentle; that a little girl, who would on all occasions set up her own will by way of law for others, would be found the most intolerable creature in the universe. These prudent lessons, or instructions, made no manner of impression on her heart. Her brother, sick of so much tyranny, began already to lose something of his love and kindness for her; and Camilla was so far from shaking off her domineering disposition on that account, that she became a hundred times more arbitrary and insulting.

As it chanced, a gentleman of understanding, and who was always remarkably sincere and open in his speech and conduct, dined one day, upon an invitation, with Camilla's parents. He observed with what a haughty air she treated her poor little brother, nay, and every body in the room. At first through mere politeness, he kept silence; but, tired out ere long with her impertinence, he began, addressing his discourse to Mrs. Fleming, her mama, as follows: "Had I such a little girl as yours, I know what I would do."

What, sir? said Mrs. Fleming.

You shall hear, replied the gentleman. I am lately come from France, and, as I liked to see the soldiers exercise, I amused myself, by visiting the grand parade where the soldiers are drawn up, as frequently as I had leisure. Among the soldiers, there were many that I observed with whiskers; and, one cannot but acknowledge, they looked very fierce, as soldiers should. Now, had I a child like your Camilla, I would give her instantly a soldier's uniform, and I would clap a pair of whiskers on her, and make her a Swiss Corporal, so that she might completely satisfy her passion for commanding.

Hearing this, Camilla stood confounded. She could not refrain from blushing, and even wept.

From that time forward, she was sensible how much a tyranizing disposition misbecame her, and resolved to shun the mortifying consequences which it would soon or late bring down upon her. This resolution, assisted by the prudent counsels of her mother, quickly proved successful.

Such a change was doubtless very prudent on her part. It were however to be wished, for all young ladies labouring under such a fault, that they would yield obedience to the kind instruction of their parents on this subject; and not wait till such time as a man of understanding tells them, to their face, that they would look better in a surly soldier's uniform, with whiskers, than set off with nice white cambrick frocks, like all good-natured little ladies.

THE SCAR.

FERDINAND, from nature, had received a soul endued with elevated thoughts and generous notions. He possessed a lively turn of mind, a strong and quick imagination, with a chearful temper. His whole person in a word, and his polite behaviour, won him every heart.

However, with so many amiable qualities, he had a certain great defect, extremely inconvenient to his friends, of giving way to every slight impression, and yielding up his soul to the emotions which any accidental circumstance might raise within him.

When he sought amusement in the circle of his playmates, trifling contradictions ruffled his impatient disposition, and they saw the fire of rage in a moment inflame his whole countenance; he stamped upon the ground, cried out, and was beside himself with passion.

Once upon a time, as he was walking in his chamber to and fro, and meditating on the necessary preparations for a treat which his father had permitted him to give his sister, Marcian, his dear friend and favourite, intended to communicate his notions on the subject. Buried as he was in thought, he saw not Marcian. Marcian, therefore, having called out to him, but in vain, drew nearer, and began to pull him by the sleeve; but Ferdinand, disturbed and out of patience with these interruptions, unexpectedly turned round, with so much rudeness, that he sent poor Marcian quite across the apartment to fall down beside the wainscot.

Marcian, after he dropped, lay still without the least appearance of life. To which I am to add, that, in falling, he had siruck his head against the moulding of a book-case, and received a wound, as Ferdinand then fancied, in the temple, whence there came a deal of blood.

Heavens! reader, what a shocking prospect was this for Ferdinand! who never had intended any harm to Marcian; and for whom he would have even lost his life, if there had been occasion.

Ferdinand fell down beside him, lamentably crying out, He is dead, he is dead! I have killed my friend! Instead of trying any means for his recovery, he remained stretched all along, uttering dismal groans. Happily, his father heard him; he came running up, took Marcian in his arms, and having laid him on a bed, called out for salts, and threw cold water in his face, which recovered him a little.

The return of Marcian to new life, transported Ferdinand with joy; but, as he might relapse, it was not great enough to take away entirely his anxiety.

A surgeon, being sent for, probed the wound. He found it to be not in the temple, but so very near it, that the difference of a hair's breadth in its position would have made it dangerous indeed, if not quite mortal. Being carried home, he soon became delirious.

Ferdinand could by no means be persuaded to leave Marcian. He took up his station by his dear friend's pillow, and maintained the profoundest silence; Marcian frequently pronounced the name of Ferdinand, while his delirium lasted. My dear Ferdinand, he would say, in what had I offended you, that I should be treated thus? Yet, it is quite impossible that you should be less afflicted than myself, for having wounded me, without the least degree of provocation. Let it not, however, grieve your generous nature. I forgive you, and do you forgive me likewise, Ferdinand, for having put you, as I must have done, into a passion. It was not my wish to vex you.

This discourse which Marcian thus addressed to Ferdinand, without observing him, though present, and even holding him continually by the hand, redoubled his affliction. Every word proceeding from the lips of Marcian, as it served but to proclaim the greatness of his friendship, was a poignard to the heart of Ferdinand.

At last, however, it pleased God, for Ferdinand's great consolation, to assuage the violence of the fever. In ten days time the patient was enabled to get up.

What tongue can represent the joy of Ferdinand! It is not to be comprehended certainly by any one, unless he himself has felt beforehand, the sorrow which Ferdinand experienced all the while that he was a witness of his friend's distressful situation.

Marcian being at last thoroughly recovered, Ferdinand resumed his former chearful humour, and not needing any other lesson than the sorrowful event that had so late y happened, he laboured hard to overcome the vehemence of temper to which he had been a slave.

Marcian in a very little time had no mark of the accident remaining, but a trifling scar, as just now mentioned, near the temple. Ferdinand could never see this scar without emotion, even when they were both come to years of manhood. It became, in short, the seal of that much closer friendship in which they were ever afterwards mutually united.

THE SILK SLIP.

LITTLE Matilda had worn nothing but a plain white frock, till she was eight years old. Neat red Morocco shoes, with silver buckles, set off her small feet; her ebon hair, which had never yet felt the torturing iron, floated in large curls upon her shoulders.

She had been one day in the company of certain little girls, who, though not older than herself, were dressed already like great ladies; and the richness of their cloaths awakened in her heart the first vain notions that she had ever had within it.

Dear mama, said she, returning from the house where she had met with these fine ladies, I have seen this afternoon the three Miss Flowerdales. I suppose, you know them. The eldest of them must be younger than myself. O dear mama, how sweetly they were dressed! Their parents, sure, must have a deal of pleasure, seeing them so fine! I dare say, they are not so rich as you; so give me, if you please, a fine silk slip, with such embroidered shoes as they had on; and let my hair be dressed by Mr. Frizzle, who, they tell me, is extremely clever.

The Mother.

I desire no better, if to do so will contribute to your satisfaction; but I fear, with all this elegance, you will find yourself not quite so happy as you have been hitherto, in the simplicity of such plain things as you generally wore.

Matilda.

And why so mama?

The Mother.

Because you will be eternally afraid of spotting, and even of rumpling what you wear. A dress so elegant as that of the Miss Flowerdale's will require the greatest care and attention in the wear, that it may do you honour. If it gets one spot, the beauty will be lost for ever, as one cannot put it in the wash-tub to recover its first lustre; and however rich you may suppose me, I shall not be rich enough to let you have a new silk slip whenever you may want one.

Matilda.

Oh! if that be all mama, do not make yourself uneasy. I will be very careful of it.

The Mother.

Will you? Well then, I must give you such a dress; but still, remember that I have hinted what uneasiness your vanity may cause you.

Unpersuaded by the wisdom of this counsel, Matilda did not lose a moment in destroying all the pleasure and enjoyment of her infancy. Her hair, which had till then hung down at liberty, was now to be confined in paper, and squeezed close between a burning hot pair of tongs; and that fine jet, which had till now so happily set off the whiteness of her forehead, was to disappear beneath a clot of powder and pomatum.

Two days after, Matilda had a handsome slip brought home, of pea-green taffety with fine pink trimmings, and a pair of straw-worked shoes to match them. The taste that appeared in her cloaths, their vivid colour and elegance of make—charmed the eye; but when she had them on, it was evident that her limbs were under great constraint; her motions had no longer their accustomed ease and freedom; and her infant countenance, amidst so vast a quantity of flowers, silk, gauze, and ribbands, lost entirely every trace of ingenuous simplicity.

She was, notwithstanding, quite enchanted at her metamorphosis. Her eyes, with mighty satisfaction, wandered over her whole little person, and were never taken off, except when she looked round about her, to find out some glass in the apartment that might represent before her, at full length, the idol which she then worshipped.

She had wrought on her mama to send out cards of invitation to her little friends, that when they came to visit her she might enjoy a feast, in viewing their surprise and admiration. When they had all met together, she walked to and fro before them, like a peacock; and from her behaviour, any one would have imagined that she supposed herself an empress, and considered those about her as subjected to her empire. But, alas! this triumph was but of a very short duration, and a multitude of mortifying circumstances followed it.

The children were permitted to go out a walking in the fields, near that part of the town where she lived. Matilda therefore led the way, and they reached, in ten or fifteen minutes, a delightful country.

A luxuriant meadow first of all attracted their attention. It was every where enamelled with a vast variety of charming flowers, and butterflies whose wings were of a thousand mingled colours, hovered in each quarter of it. The gay little ladies hunted these fine butterflies; they dextrously caught, but did not hurt them; and when once they had examined all their beauty, let them go, and with their eyes pursued the little creatures as they fluttered to and fro. They employed themselves in making nosegays likewise of the flowers that sprung up in the meadow, which they gathered for that purpose.

Matilda, who from pride had first of all disdained these mean amusements, wanted very soon to share the entertainment that they afforded; but the ground, they told her, might be damp, in which case she would stain her shoes, and damage her fine slip; for they had now discovered that her intention, in thus bringing them together, was to vex them only with a sight of her fine clothes, and they resolved to mortify her in their turn.

She was of course obliged to be solitary, and sit still; while she observed the sprightly chearfulness of her companions who sported round about her. The delight of contemplating on her pea-green slip was, compared thereto, a very sorry kind of entertainment.

At the corner of the meadow there was a sort of little grove, in which was to be heard the music of a thousand birds, that seemed as if inviting every person who went through the meadow, to go thither, and enjoy the coolness of the shade. This grove our children entered, jumping as they went along with joy. Poor Matilda would have followed them, but she was told that the bushes would tear all her finery to pieces. She observed her friends to divert themselves at pussey in the corner, and pursue each other through the trees. The more she heard them shout with joy, the more, as any one might have expected, she was peevish and ill-humoured.

But the youngest of her visitors had some sort of compassion on her. She had just found out a corner where there grew a quantity of fine wild strawberries, and therefore beckoned to her to come and eat part of them. She would willingly have done so, but had scarcely got into the grove, when unexpectedly a loud cry was heard. The children gathered to the spot, and found poor Matilda fastened by the gauze upon her hat and ribbands, to a branch of white thorn from which she could not by any means disengage herself. They made haste to loose the pins that held her hat on; but to add to her affliction, as her hair, which had been frizzed with so much labour, was likewise entangled with the branch of white thorn, it cost her almost a whole lock before she could be set at liberty; and thus all at once the charming superstructure of her head-dress was absolutely pulled to pieces.

'Tis not difficult to guess how little this misfortune thus befalling Matilda touched her play-mates, when they found, as we have said already, why she had invited them. Instead of consolation, which she needed, and perhaps expected, they could hardly keep from laughing at her comical appearance, and did actually jeer her with a hundred wicked witticisms. After having smoothed her down a little, they ran off in search of fresh amusement, towards a hill that they saw at some small distance from them.

Matilda however could not, without very great difficulty, reach this hill. Her strait shoes, which had been made so to set off her little feet the better, were a great obstruction to her speed; nor was this all the mischief, for her stays were drawn so close that she could not easily fetch breath. She would have now been happy to go home and change her dress, in order to be at ease; but then she knew that her little friends would never have consented, upon her account, to be deprived of their amusement.

They had got by this time to the summit of the hill, and were enjoying the fine view which a spacious horizon presented them on every side. They saw on one hand verdant meadows; on the other, yellow harvests; before them rivulets meandering through the country; and by way of termination to the landscape, a large river, on whose banks were many pleasant country houses. So magnificent a prospect charmed them. They even danced about with joy, while Matilda at the bottom of the hill, (for she was absolutely out of breath, and could not possibly get further,) was devoured with sorrow.

She had time and opportunity enough, in such a situation, to make many sad reflexions. To what purpose, said she to herself, are these fine clothes! how much pleasure do they not prevent me from enjoying! and what pain do I not suffer, merely from having put them on!

She was giving up her mind to these afflicting thoughts, when suddenly she heard her friends come running down the hill, and all cry out together, as they passed her, Run, run, Matilda, there is a dreadful storm behind the hill; it is coming towards us! if you do not make haste, your slip will soon be wet quite through!

Matilda felt her strength returning, at the fear of such a great misfortune as her play-mates threatened. She forgot her weariness, her pinched feet, and her tight lacing, and made tolerable haste to reach some place of shelter. But in spite of all her efforts to shun so grievous a misfortune as the spoiling of her clothes, she could not run so fast as her companions, who were lightly dressed. Then, too, every moment she was stopped, at one time, by her hoop and flounces in the narrow paths by which she was obliged to go; at another, by her train which was frequently caught fast by the furze; and at others by the fine seaffold work about her head, on which the wind bent down the branches of those trees, under which she was forced to pass in her way homeward.

At that moment too the storm burst forth in all its fury; and there fell a shower of hail and rain mixed together, after all but Matilda had regained their several habitations.

In the end, however, Matilda got home likewise, but wet through and through. She had besides left one of her fine shoes behind her in a heap of dung, which as she hurried homeward, she had scrambled over without seeing it; and to increase the list of her disasters, she had not quite cleared the meadow, when a gust of wind blew off her hat into the middle of a dirty pool of water.

They had all the trouble that one can possibly imagine to undress her; so much had the sweat and rain even glued her shift and other garments to her body; so that her whole dress was spoiled, and absolutely good for nothing.

Shall I have another slip, my dear, made up for you against to-morrow? said her mother drily, seeing her in tears.

O no, mama, said Matilda, kissng her: I am convinced, fine clothes can never make the wearer of them happy. Let me take up with my nice white frock again; and have no more pomatum in my hair, till I am eight or ten years older than at present; and forgive my folly.

Matilda, with the dress of childhood, came again into the full possession of her liberty, and seemed as modest and as charming as she had ever been. Neither did her dear mama regret the loss that she had experienced in the purchase of this fine silk slip, &c. since it proved the means of reinstating her beloved daughter in the happiness which her vanity and folly would have taken from her, had it not been for this useful lesson.

THE FIRE, A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

- MR. and MRS. CRESWELL.

- ADRIAN, their Children.

- JULIA, their Children.

- TRUEMAN, a Farmer.

- JANE, his Wife.

- LUBBIN, their Children.

- SUKEY, their Children.

- GILBERT, Mr. Creswell's Groom.

SCENE, The entrance of a village, in the environs of London, in a part of which, contiguous to the fields, appears a fire. On one side is a farm-house with a pump, and on the other side a hill.

SCENE I.

Adrian, (running by a path that conducts round the hill. His clothes and hair out of order. He looks back and sees the fire burst forth with double fury.)

O Heaven! O Heaven! all burning still! What volumes of thick smoke and flame! What is now become of my papa, mama and sister? Am I an unhappy orphan? Heaven take pity on me, and let them be safe; for they are more to me than all the world beside—Without them what should I do? (Oppressed with grief and weariness, be leans against a tree. The farm-house door now opens, and the little peasant Lubbin, who has his breakfast in his hand, comes cut.)

Lubbin, (without observing Adrian.)

So it does not finish then, this fire? What could possess my father to go poking with his horses, just into the middle of it! But the sun is now rising. He will soon be back. I will sit down here, and wait till he returns.

(He goes to sit down by the tree, and sees little Adrian.)

Hey! hey! who is here? a fine young gentleman! what brings you out so early, my pretty master?

Adrian.

Ah! my little friend, I neither know at present where I am, nor whither I am going.

Lubbin.

How! mayhap you live in town? and very likely where the fire is?

Adrian.

Yes, indeed, I have escaped I cannot well tell you in what manner.

Lubbin.

Is your house on fire?

Adrian.

It was in our street that the fire broke out. I was in bed, and sleeping very soundly. My papa ran up to snatch me out of bed: the servants dressed me in a hurry, and one carried me directly through the fire, which blazed all round us as we went forward.

Lubbin.

Poor dear little fellow!

(Somebody from the house cries out, Lubbin! Lubbin! But Lubbin is listening to little Adrian, with so much attention, that he does not hear it.)

SCENE II.

Adrian, Lubbin, Jane, Sukey.

Jane, (to Sukey, at the entrance.)

I hope, he is not gone away, to see the fire: I think, it is enough to tremble for his father's danger.

Sukey.

No, no, mother: here he is. Ah! ha! he is speaking to a little gentleman.

Jane, (to Lubbin)

Why did not you answer, when I called you?

Lubbin.

Have you been calling me? I did not hear you. I was listening to this poor boy here.

Sukey.

Poor! What has happened to him?

Lubbin.

He was like to have been burnt alive. His house was all in flames, he tells me, when they got him out.

Jane.

How pale the poor child is! And how did they contrive to save you, my little master?

Adrian.

Our helper was bid to take me to the village where I had been nursed; so he put me on his shoulders; but they stopped him in the street, wanting hands to work. I fell a crying, when I saw myself alone; at which, a good old woman took me by the hand, and brought me out of town, directing me to walk strait forward, till I saw a village; so I followed her advice, and here I am.

Jane.

And can you tell me what your nurse's name was?

Adrian.

No, not now; but I can recollect I used to call my little foster-sister, Sukey.

Sukey, (carnesily.)

If this little boy were Adrian, mother!

Adrian.

Yes! yes! that is my name!

Jane.

What, Adrian, Mr. Creswell's son?

Adrian.

O, my good dear nurse! I recollect you now. And this is Sukey, and this, Lubbin. (They embrace each other.)

Jane, (kissing Adrian.)

How happy am I now! I thought of nothing but my poor dear little Adrian, since this fire began. My husband is gone to give you all the assistance that he can.—But how tall he is grown! should you have recollected him! I think not, Sukey.

Sakey.

Not in mediately, indeed; but when I saw him first, methought I felt my heart beat towards him. It is a long time now since we were last together.

Adrian.

I have been a great way off, at school, and came home only three days since, for the holidays. Had I remained at school, I should, at least at present, have known nothing of this day's misfortune. O, papa! mama! O sister!

Jane.

Poor dear child! there is no cause to make yourself uneasy. On the first alarm of fire, so near your quarter of the town, my husband instantly set out, to see if he could be of any use. I know him. Your papa, mama, and sister, will be safe, if mortal man can save them. But, my lovely Adrian, you have been up and running these two hours at least, and must be hungry. Will you eat a little?

Lubbin.

Look ye, master, here is a Yorkshire cake and butter. Take it!

Adrian.

Master! You were used to call me Adrian, and not master.

Lubbin, (embracing him.)

Well then, Adrian, take my breakfast.

Sukey.

Or stay, Adrian, you must certainly be dry as well as hungry. I will go fetch my milk pottage. I was putting in the bread—

Adrian.

No, no, my good friends. I cannot have any appetite, till I see my dear papa, mama, and sister. I will return and seek them.

Jane.

Do you think of what you are saying? Run into the flames!

Adrian.

I left them in the flames; but it was against my will. I did not like to part with them, but my papa would have it so: he threatened me, and in an angry tone bid Gilbert pay no heed to my resistance. I was forced at last to yield, for fear of putting him into a greater passion. I cannot hold out any longer, but, whatever be the danger, I must go back to find if they are in safety.

Jane.

I cannot let you go, that is certain. Come into the house with us.

Adrian.

You have a house then. Alas! I have none.

Jane.

And is not our house your's? I fed you with my milk, and surely then I cannot deny you bread. (She forces him in, and says to Lubbin) Take care, and stay you here, that you may see your father the sooner, and let us know of his coming.—But do not run to see the fire. Remember, I forbid you that.

Lubbin, (alone.)

And yet I have half a mind to do so. What a charming bonfire it must make! I do not see clearly, but I think that steeple is down, that had the golden dragon on the top. There is many a poor soul, by this, burnt out of house and home! I pity them, and yet they must not hinder me from finishing my breakfast. — (To Sukey, who re-enters with a tumbler) Well now, sister, you are a dear good girl, indeed, to bring me drink so kindly.

Sukey.

Oh! it is not for you. I am come to get a glass of water for poor Adrian. He will have neither milk, nor ale, nor wine. "My dear papa, (says he,) mama, and sister, very likely, are at present dry and hangry, and shall I have such nice things? No, no, indeed: let me have therefore nothing but a little water; that will serve me well enough, especially as I am so thirsty."

Lubbin.

One must own, however, it is something comical, that Adrian should refuse a drop of any thing that is good, because he cannot get tidings of his parents.

Sukey.

Oh! I know you well enough! Your sister might be burnt alive, and you not eat a mouthful less on that account. For my part, I should be like Adrian: I should hardly think of eating, if our house were set on fire, and no one could inform me what had happened to my father, mother, or even brother.

Lubbin.

No, nor I—provided I were not hungry.

Sukey.

Can one then be hungry in such a case? Look ye, Lubbin, I have not the least degree of appetite. To see poor Adrian weep, and take on so, has made me quite forget my hunger.

Lubbin.

So you won't eat your milk-pottage this morning?

Sukey.

What, you want it, after having swallowed your own breakfast, with Yorkshire cake into the bargain?

Lubbin.

No; I would only take your breakfast, that, if neither you nor Adrian wished to have it, nothing might be loft; that is all. But let me have the tumbler: I have not drunk any thing yet.

Sukey, (giving him the tumbler.)

Make haste then! Adrian is very dry.

Lubbin, (after drinking.)

Stay, stay, I will fill it for him.

Sukey.

Without rincing it?

Lubbin.

Do you suppose then that I have poison in my mouth?

Sukey.

Very proper, truly, with the crumbs about the rim! I will rince it out myself. Young gentlemen are used to cleanliness, and I should wish to let him see as much propriety and neatness in our cottage, as at home. (She rinces the tumbler, fills it up, and then goes out.)

Lubbin, (alone.)

So, there is my breakfast done. Suppose now that I should run to town, and see the fire. I shall not be missed if I set out, stay there but half an hour or so, and then come back: it is nothing but a good sound scolding from my mother. However, I will go a little way, and then determine. It is not more than twelve or thirteen minutes' walk before I am there.— Come, come; faint heart, the proverb tells us, never won fair lady. (He sets off, but meets his father.)

SCENE III.

Lubbin, Trueman (with a chest upon his shoulders, tired and out of breath.)

Lubbin.

What you are come back, father? I was going on a little way to meet you.

Trueman, (with anxiety.)

Were you? And is Adrian here?

Lubbin.

Yes, yes; not long ago arrived.

Trueman, (putting down the chest.)

Thank God! then the whole family are safe. (He sits down upon the chest.) Let me take breath a little.

Lubbin.

Won't you come in, father?

Trueman.

No, no; I will remain here in the open air, till I am recovered from my hurry. Go, and tell your mother that I am returned.

Trueman (alone, wiping his face.)

I shall not die then, without having, in my turn, obliged my benefactor.

SCENE IV.

Trueman, Jane, Adrian, Lubbin, Sukey.

Jane, (running from the farm-house, and embracing Trueman.)

Ah, my dear! what joy to see you come back safe!

Trueman, (embracing Jane in return.)

My life! But Adrian, where is he, pray? Let me see him.

Adrian, (running up.)

Here I am. Here, here, father! (Looking round about him.) But what, are you alone? Where is my papa, mama, and little sister?

Trueman.

Safe, my child; quite safe.—Embrace me!

Adrian, (jumping up into his arms.)

O what joy!

Jane.

We have been all in very great perplexity. Our neighbours are come back already.

Trueman.

They had not their benefactor to preserve, as I had.

Jane.

But the fire, dear Thomas, is it out, and all the mischief over?

Trueman.

Over, Jane! the whole street is in flames. If you could only see the ruins, and the multitude of people! Women with their hair about their ears, all running to and fro, and calling out to find their husbands and poor children; to which add the found of bells, the noise of carts and engines, with the crush of houses when the timbers are burnt through, the frightened horses, and the throng of people driving full against you. I cannot tell you how I made my way amidst the flames that crossed before me, and the burning beams that seemed ready every moment to fall down and crush me.

Jane.

Bless us! you make my blood run cold.

Sukey.

See, see, mother, how his hair and eye-brows are all singed!

Trueman.

And see my arm too. But why should I complain? Could I have only got away with life, I should not have mattered losing a limb for Mr. Creswell.

Jane.

How, my dear, a limb?

Trueman.

What, wife, to save our benefactor! Was it not through his means that we both came together? Are we not indebted to his generosity, not only for this farm, but for every thing? And what is still more, my jewel, was it not your milk that reared his weakly child, now so strong and hearty? (Adrian clings to Jane.) Did I say that I should not have mattered losing a limb for Mr. Creswell? —I say more: I would have given my life to save him.

Jane.

Then you have been able to assist him?

Trueman.

Yes, I have that happiness to boast. He himself, his lady, and his daughter, had scarce got out of their house, as they supposed in safety, when a half-burnt beam fell down into the street before them. Happily, I was not ten yards off: the people fancied that they were crushed beneath its weight, and ran away. I heard their cries, came back, and rushing through the burning ruins, brought them off. I had already saved this chest that you see here, and my cart, besides, is loaded with the greatest part of their most valuable furniture.

Adrian.

Be sure, my father will most richly recompense you.

Trueman.

I am recompensed already, my dear little friend! Your father did not perhaps expect such a service at my hands, and I have saved him. In that thought, I am much better paid than in receiving any recompense. But this is not the whole: I dare say he will be here presently, and all his family and people.

Adrian.

What then, shall I see them soon?

Trueman.

Yes, my Adrian. But run, wife, and make a little preparation to receive them: let some ale be drawn, and have the cows milked instantly. Air sheets to put on all our beds; and as for us, we will take up our lodging in the stable.

Jane.

Be it so. I will play my part, I warrant you.

SCENE V.

Trueman, Adrian, Lubbin, Sukey.

Trueman.

And I will go put the hay up in some kind of order in the barn, and make a little room for those who may come hither requiring some shelter. All the fields, alas! are covered with them. I imagine, I still see them! some struck speechless, gaze with absolute insensibility, while they behold their houses burning, or else fall down on the ground, fatigued and frightened! others run along like madmen, wring their hands, or pull their hair up by the roots, and uttering fearful cries, attempt to force their passage through a line of soldiers, who with bayonets keep them off, that they may save the property of the sufferers from being plundered.

Sukey.

O my poor dear Adrian! had you been there, they would have trod you under foot.

Trueman.

As soon as they bring back my horses, I will go out again, and take up all the children, women, and old men that I meet Had I been the poorest person in the village, this misfortune would have rendered me the richest; since the unhappy whom I shall succour will belong to me. (He stoops to take the chest up.)

Lubbin.

Dear father, let me help you.

Trueman.

No, no: have a care! it is far too heavy for your strength. Go rather, and bid Humphry heat the oven, and put all our kitchen things in order; and let Carter know that I want some flour sent in: these miserable people who are burnt out of their habitations shall at least find wherewithal to satisfy their wants! Thank God! I am not so poor, that any one applying to my charity should die for want of food. If I had nothing else, I would give them my last bit of bread. (He and Lubbin go out.)

SCENE VI.

Adrian, Sukey.

Sukey.

Oh! that I would share with you too, Adrian. Who, alas! would have supposed that I should have ever seen you in your present situation?

Adrian.

Who indeed, my dearest Sukey? for it is very hard in one night to lose every thing.

Sukey.

Be comforted, however, my dear friend! for do not you recollect how happy we were once together here, when we were less a great deal than at present. Well, we will be as happy with each other again. Do you fear that you can want any thing, as long as I have any thing to give you?

Adrian, (taking Sukey by the hand.)

No, I do not indeed: but then, I thought, it would have been my part to make you happy, to get you a good husband, as papa has often said in joke, and to take care of your children, like my own.

Sukey.

Well, now I must contrive to do all this myself; and when we love each other, it is exactly the same thing. I will get you all the finest flowers that I can make free to pull in our garden, and whatever fruit they will let me gather. You shall also have my bed, and I will sleep all night long upon the ground beside you.

Adrian, (embracing her.)

O my dear, dear Sukey! how I ought to love you!

Sukey.

You shall see likewise what care I will take of Julia. I will be always with you both. We drank, you know, the same milk; and is not that all the same as if you were my brother, pray, and I your sister?

Adrian.

Yes, and you shall always be my sister, and I do not know which of the two I shall love best for the future, you or Julia. I will present you also to papa, that you may be his daughter: but when, think you, will he come?

Sukey.

Why make yourself uneasy? You have been told that he is safe.

Adrian.

But my father is just like yours; and who can tell but he will go back again into the flames to save some friend or other. I must therefore be uneasy till I see him once again. But hark ye! do not I hear a tread on the other side of the hill? Oh! if it were he!

SCENE VII.

Adrian, Sukey, Gilbert.

Adrian.

Ah, Gilbert!

Gilbert.

Ah, my little master! you are safe then?

Adrian.

Truly, there is great need to talk about my safety! Where is papa, mama, and Julia? are they with you?

Gilbert, (not knowing what to say.)

With me?

Adrian.

Yes; you have not left them behind, sure?

Gilbert.

Behind? (Turning about.) They are not behind me.

Adrian.

They are not come with you, then?

Gilbert.

Unless they be here, I do not know where they are.

Adrian, (impatintly.)

You do not come here to seek them? do you?

Gilbert, (in confusion.)

Do not be frightened, my dear little master!—Are they not come hither?

Sukey.

None but Adrian.

Adrian.

He is confounded, and has some bad news to tell me!—They are lost, even after all the pains that honest Trueman took to save them!

Gilbert.

Hear me.—There is no cause, at least I hope not, to alarm yourself. About an hour or forty minutes after they had forced me from you to assist the sufferers, I found means to get into the crowd.—Dear Master Adrian, do not be frightened; but so it is indeed.—I ran about the ruins to discover where my master was, but could not come at any tidings of him; no, nor of my mistress, nor Miss Julia. I enquired of every one that I met, if they had heard of such a family? but constantly was answered, No.

Adrian.

O Heaven! take pity on me! Dear papa, mama, and Julia, where, where are you? Perished doubtless!

Gilbert.

I have not told you all yet; but pray do not be frightened.—The worst part of the affair comes now.

Adrian.

What is it then? Why do not you tell me, Gilbert?

Gilbert.

How, in Heaven's name, would you have me tell you, if you let yourself be frightened in this manner?

Adrian.

Speak! pray Gilbert speak!

Gilbert.

Well then, the rumour was as follows: that a gentleman, a lady, and a little girl, were crushed to death, when they were just got out of doors, and thought themselves in safety. (Adrian swoons away.)

Sukey.

Help! help! help! Come here to our assistance, some one! Adrian is dying. (She falls down by him)

Gilbert.

Why, what ails him? I mentioned this but as a report; and besides, they could not tell me who it was. It may be nothing, after all.

Sukey.

Why, how you talk! His fright at what you mentioned overcame him, and he quite forgot that my father had preserved them.

Gilbert, (feeling Adrian's cheek.)

O my poor dear little Adrian! he is as cold as any ice!

Sukey, (half getting up.)

And what could bring you here? It is you that have killed him!

Gilbert.

I?—And yet, I am sure, you heard me bid him not be frightened. (He raises him a little.) Master Adrian! (He lets him fall again.)

Sukey.

How you go to work!—Do not touch him any more.—He will die, if he is not dead already, with such treatment! O my dear, dear brother Adrian!—Father! mother! Lubbin!—Why, where can they all be? (She runs in for help.)

Gilbert, (leaning over Adrian.)

No, no, he is not dead: he breathes a little. Were he dead, I would go and fling myself this moment into some pond.— (He calls out) Adrian! Master Adrian!—If I knew but how to bring him to himself!— (He blows on Adrian's face.) This blowing tries my lungs!—It was very foolish, I must own, in me, to tell him what I did; but much more so in him to pay attention to it: and particularly when I bid him not be frightened.—Could I possibly speak plainer?—Adrian! Adrian!—He does not hear me.—When my dear wife died, I took on very sadly for her; but to die on that account, would have been very silly!—Adrian! Adrian! —What had I best do? He does not seem as if he would recover. Ah! I see a pump—I will go and fill my hat with water—Half a dozen sprinklings very possibly may have a good effect upon him. (As he is coming back to Adrian, Mr. Creswell enters, leading in Mrs. Creswell and Julia. Gilbert drops his hat, and runs away.)

Gilbert.

Heaven forgive me! Should he find him dead, I do not know what he will do! For my part, I am dead with fear already.

Mr. Creswell.

Was not that our Gilbert?—Gilbert, what is the matter? Where is Adrian?

Mrs. Creswell.

Sure he ran away, as if afraid of meeting with us. Where can he have left him?

Julia, (seeing Adrian on the ground.)

What is this here? A child! (Stooping down.) O Heaven! my brother! and he is dead!

Mrs. Creswell, (falling down by Adrian.)

How Julia! Adrian?—Yes, indeed; help! help!

Mr. Creswell.

Was this misfortune wanting after all? (Examining the body.) But he is not dead!—Thank Heaven, we are better off than that —He breathes a little.— My dear life, (to Mrs. Creswell,) as Adrian needs assistance, keep your strength that he may have it.

Mrs. Creswell, (nearly swooning.)

Adrian! Adrian!

Julia.

Ah! my poor dear brother! Would to Heaven the flames had rather taken all from us! (Mr. Creswell raises Mrs. Creswell, and brings Adrian to her.)

Mr. Creswell.

There is no time to lose.—Have you your salts about you?

Mrs. Creswell.

I cannot tell, I am in so great an agitation. After so much fear and fright, here is one still greater. I would part with all that is left us for a draught of water. (Mr. Creswell sees the pump, and hastens to it.)

Julia, (feeling in her mother's pocket.)

Here is your sal volatile, mama. (While the salts are using.) Hear, hear, hear me, Adrian, and look up! or I shall die with grief. (He comes a little to himself.) O heavens, he breathes! (She runs to her papa.) Come, come, papa! come quickly! come and see him. (Mr. Creswell brings a little water in the hollow of his hand, and throws it on his face.)

Adrian, (sighing bitterly.)

Oh! oh! Papa; papa!

Mr. Creswell.

He supposes I am dead. That blockhead Gilbert must have frightened him.

Julia, (in transport.)

See! fee! his eyes begin to open!

Mr. Creswell.

My dear child, do not you know us?

Mrs. Creswell.

Adrian! Adrian!

Julia.

Brother!

Adrian, (looking round him.)

Am I dead or living? or where am I? (He sits up in Mrs. Creswell's lap.) Ah! my dear mama!

Mrs. Creswell.

My child! and have we brought you back to life?

Adrian, (turning to his father.)

Papa too!

Julia, (embracing him.)

My dear Adrian! my sweet brother! I am alive again, now you are.

Adrian.

Oh! what joy to see you thus again, dear sister! (He turns to his mother.) It was your sweet voice, mama, that brought me back to life.

Mr. Creswell, (to Mrs. Creswell.)

My dear, I was lamenting our misfortune just before; but now I find that there was a great deal more to be lost, than goods and such things.

Mrs. Creswell.

Let us not think a moment more about them.

Mr. Creswell.

Nay, rather we should rejoice that they are in reality so trifling. I behold you all three safe, and can have nothing to disturb me.

Julia.

But brother, what brought you into such a situation?

Adrian.

Would you think it?—Gilbert.

Mr. Creswell.

There, I said so.

Adrian.

Why, he told me that you had all three perished in the flames.

Julia, (looking towards the hill.)

Ah! there he is, papa; above there. (They all look up, and Gilbert draws his head in.)

Mr. Creswell

Gilbert! Gilbert!—He's afraid to answer me; so do you call him, Adrian.

Adrian.

Gilbert!—Do not be fearful, but come down and show yourself.—I am alive.

Gilbert, (on the hill)

Are you sure of that?

Adrian.

I think so. Did you ever hear a dead man speak?

Gilbert, (coming down, but stopping on a sudden.)

You do not intend, I hope, sir, to discharge me. If you do, I need not be at so much trouble to come on.

Mr. Creswell.

See, simpleton, the consequence of speaking without thought!

Mrs. Creswell.

A little more, and you had been the death of Adrian.

Adrian.

Pray, mama, forgive him! It was not his fault.

Gilbert.

No, certainly. I bid him not be frightened. (Adrian holds out his hand.) However, I am glad that you do not intend me any harm; and for the future, I will think no one dead, till such time as I see him ten feet under ground, and fairly buried.

SCENE VIII.

Adrian, Mr. and Mrs. Creswell, Julia, Trueman, Jane, Lubbin, Sukey.

Trueman, (running in.)

O the wretch! where is he?

Sukey, (shewing Gilbert.)

Look ye, father, here! (Gilbert slinks behind his master.)

Trueman.

Who is this? (Sukey and Lubbin run towards Adrian, who presents them both to Julia; the farmer bows to Mr. Creswell.)

Mr. Creswell, (taking him by the hand.)

My friend! what means this humble distance? With such respect to bow before me! my preserver! and not only mine, but all my family's!

Trueman.

Yes, sir, it is another obligation that you have laid upon me. I have had the opportunity of showing you my gratitude for all your favours.

Mr. Creswell.

You have done much more for me than ever I did yet for you, and more than I shall ever have it in my power to do.

Trueman.

What say you, sir? The service of a moment only. I, on the other hand, have lived these eight years past by means of your bounty. You observe these fields, this farm: from you I had them. You have lost your all; permit me therefore to return them. It will be happiness enough for me, that I shall always have it in my power to say, I have not been ungrateful to my benefactor.

Mr. Creswell.

Well then, my good friend, I do permit you to return them; but on this proviso, to enrich you with much better. You have, luckily for me, preserved my strong box that had all my writings in it, and those writings are the best part of my fortune; so that to you I owe the preservation of my whole property. Having now no house in London, I will go down into the country, whither you shall follow me, and we will fix our habitation at a seat that I have in Norfolk. All your children shall be mine.

Adrian.

Ah! dear papa! I meant to beg as much. See here is my sister Sukey, and here is Lubbin, my brother. If you knew the love and friendship that they have shewn to me! Possibly I might have now been dead, but for their kindness.

Mrs. Creswell, (grasping Jane's hand.)

Henceforth we will be but one family; and all our happiness shall be in loving one another, like relations.

Jane.

In the mean time, enter and repose yourselves. Excuse us, if our cottage cannot afford you the accommodations that we certainly could have wished to do.

Trueman, (looking towards the hill.)

I see my cart, sir, and a number of poor people following. Will you give me leave to go and offer them the service of which they are so much in need?

Mr. Creswell.

I will go with you, and console them likewise. I am too much interested in the melancholy accident that has distressed them, though far less a sufferer by it.—Less! I should have said, no sufferer, but a gainer; for the day which I supposed, at first, to be so unfortunate, gives me back much more than I have lost. It gives me, in return for such things as with money I can purchase, what is far beyond the value of all money;—a new family and friends, who shall therefore be henceforth precious to my heart.

THE GREAT GARDEN.

MR. Sage had received no very great inheritance from fortune and his parents, but was not without the happy secret of limiting his desires to what he possessed; and notwithstanding he was frequently obliged to go without a number of conveniencies and comforts which others could command by means of their abundance, never did one envious thought disturb his equability of temper. He had never suffered more than one affliction of considerable magnitude, arising from his want of this life's comforts; and that was the loss of an affectionate and virtuous woman, torn from his embraces by the hand of death. A charming little fellow, Polydore Sage, was the only child remaining to console him; and the education of this charming little fellow, was the single object of his study and attention.

Polydore was endued by nature with very strong imagination; and by this, his father had found out the happy secret of improving his reason, at a very early time of life; namely, by exhibiting before him every object in its real point of view, of which he had beforehand only given him an idea. By a series of strong images, arranged in order, and selected in a proper moment to produce their full effect, he had enabled him already to make many accurate and deep reflexions.

Satisfied with his condition, this good father wished particularly to inculcate in his son those principles to which he owed himself the calm of his condition, and the peace within his mind. Yes, often would he whisper to himself, if I can but accustom him to live contented with his humble fortune, and point out to him the folly of putting any value upon what he must not hope to obtain, I shall contribute more to make his manhood happy, than by leaving him a heap of gold and silver.

Occupied incessantly on this important lesson, he thought fit one evening to accompany his son to Vauxhall Gardens, for the first time in his life. Immediately on entering, Polydore was struck with admiration and delight. The perfume of the flowers, the beauty of the paintings, the well-ordered disposition of the walks, the crowd of men and women who were in them, elegantly dressed, the incessant motion of the multitude, the hum of their discourse, the noise of the cascade, all joined to attract his contemplation; and his eye considered at one view ten thousand objects. His good father seeing him, if we may say so, swallowed up in thought, conducted him to that part of the gardens which was more retired from public observation; that his senses, which were too much occupied by such a crowd of images, might be in some degree at rest. Soon after, he proposed indulging him with some refreshment, if he liked it.—Polydore gladly took his father's offer; and soon after, having satisfied his appetite and palate, spoke as follows:

How extremely happy every one here present seems to be! I should like, papa, if we had such a charming garden. Did you notice what a number of fine carriages were at the door? And all those gentlefolks that pass us, how well dressed they are! I should be glad to know why we must live so savingly, when others in the world indulge themselves with every thing that they fancy. I begin, papa, believe me, now to see how poor you are. But why, then, are so many around us rich? They are not better people sure than you, papa.

You speak exactly like a child, replied the father. You begin to see how poor I am? Now I can tell you, I am quite rich.

Polydore.

And where, then, are your riches?

Mr. Sage.

I have a garden bigger by far than this.

Polydore.

A garden? You, papa! I should be glad to see it.

Mr. Sage.

When we go into the country, you shall see it.

They went very soon, it being now the season for taking the pleasures of the country, and on the very day of their arrival at the country-house, not far from London, Mr. Sage took his son and led him up a hill, from whence the eye commanded an extensive prospect. On the right, was seen a spacious forest, whose extremities seemed lost at the horizon. On the left, appeared a beauteous mixture of fine gardens, verdant meadows, and vast fields quite covered with the promise of a plenteous harvest. Close below the hill was stretched a valley, watered in its whole extent with a thousand little rills; and all this landscape was in motion. There were fishermen in one part, busy with their nets; and husbandmen, who in another were employed in gathering fruits and herbs, and sportsmen with their greyhounds urging the swift stag, and shepherds watching by their flocks, or playing near them in the shade; and reapers carting their last sheaves, and dancing all the way before them as they proceeded homeward. This delightful picture captivated Mr. Sage and his son, who for a time kept silence, till the child began the following conversation:

Papa, when shall we reach your garden?

Mr. Sage.

We are at it now, my child.

Polydore.

But this is not a garden: it is a hill.

Mr. Sage.

Look round as far as you can see; for this, I tell you, is my garden. Yonder forest, and these fields are all my property.

Polydore.

Your property, papa? You are joking!

Mr. Sage.

No, indeed, I am not. I will convince you in an instant that I dispose of every thing all around us as the owner of it only can do.

Polydore.

It will delight me to be sure of that.

Mr. Sage.

If you had all this country, what would you do with it?

Polydore.

What the owners of estates generally do.

Mr. Sage.

What may that be?

Polydore.

In the first place, then, I would cut down a deal of timber, and make fire-wood of it, to be used this winter. In the next place, I would go a hunting to catch venison; and sometimes I would fish. I would breed sheep, and oxen; and in harvest, gather in the corn that covers this fine country.

Mr. Sage.

Why, you comprehend the matter admirably, Polydore: and I am glad to find our notions are so like each other's. Well, whatever you would do, then, I already do; and I will convince you of it.

Polydore.

How, papa?

Mr. Sage.

I say, then, in the first place, I have men who cut down for me in this forest all the wood that I want.

Polydore.

And yet, I never heard you order them to cut down any for you!

Mr. Sage.

And why not? because they have the forethought to prevent me. We have always a good fire below, and sometimes, too, up stairs. Well then, I have the wood brought to me from the forest to keep up those fires: for here, you know, we cannot get coals to burn as if we were in London.

Polydore.

You have, indeed, the wood brought to you from this forest; but must pay for what you have.

Mr. Sage.

If I were what you call the real owner of this forest, should I not be forced, as I am at present, to pay for what I might have brought me from it?

Polydore.

No indeed, papa. It would be cut down for you, and sent in without a penny cost on your part.

Mr. Sage.

You believe so, do you? On the contrary, I think the cost might be a great deal more in that case than at present; for you will grant, if I possessed the forest, I must keep at least a woodman to cut down the trees for fire-wood.

Polydore.

Well; pass over this: but can you go a hunting?

Mr. Sage.

And why should I hunt, Polydore?

Polydore.

For instance, to have venison.

Mr. Sage.

Could we two, then, eat a buck or doe ourselves entirely?

Polydore.

We should have a charming appetite to do so.

Mr. Sage.

Well then, as I cannot go a hunting, I send huntsmen in my place; and very probably, the venison that you have seen hang up at Charing-cross, where, as you remember, you went with me lately to buy some, was hunted in this forest. I can therefore, without hunting venison, have as much as I think proper.

Polydore.

For your money!

Mr. Sage.

Well; and is it not a charming thing for me that I can come at venison on these terms? for I have no wages to pay to those who hunt it for me; or provided they should shoot it, I have neither to supply them with gun, nor ball nor powder. Those various kinds of dogs that our squire maintains, thank Heaven! they eat up nothing that belongs to me.

Polydore.

Are those cows too, and sheep that graze in yonder meadow, yours?

Mr. Sage.

Yes, truly. Have not you fresh butter every day? I get it from those cows.

Polydore.

But papa, if all these flocks, and all those little rivers too, are yours, why have not we at dinner every day all sorts of meat and fish, as other rich folks I am told have?

Mr. Sage.

Do they eat up every thing that their servants set before them?

Polydore.

No: but they may chuse at table whatever they like.

Mr. Sage.

And as for me, I make my choice before my victuals come to table. Every thing that I want, I have. Superfluous things, it is true, I do not possess; but what benefit would they procure me if I had them? I should want, in that case, a superfluous stomach also.

Polydore.

Wealthy people make good cheer; but you, papa, I fancy, do not.

Mr. Sage.

Indeed I do, and better than the wealthy, Polydore. I have a sauce that almost always fails them; namely, a good appetite.

Polydore.

And have you then a deal of money, as they have, to satisfy a thousand wishes?

Mr. Sage.

Much more money; or at least, what is better, I have no wishes.

Polydore.

I believe, however, there is a deal of pleasure in contenting them.

Mr. Sage.

A hundred times more pleasure, child, in being content of one's self, as I am.

Polydore.

But does not God, pray, love the rich a great deal more than you, since he bestows upon them so much gold and silver?

Mr. Sage.

Polydore, do not you recollect the wine that we had last Wednesday on the table, when your uncle came to dine and sup with us, and which you said was so delicious?

Polydore.

Yes, papa; I remember you were so good as to give me half a glass full of it.

Mr. Sage.

But you wanted more. I might have let you have it, since, you know, the bottle had a deal left in it, even after supper: why, then, did I not oblige you, pray?

Polydore.

Because you were afraid that it would make me ill.

Mr. Sage.

I recollect I told you so: and do not you think that I did right?

Polydore.

Oh! as for that, you did indeed; I know you love me, and are always studying how to make me happy. So you would not have refused me such a trifle as a glass of wine, if you had thought that it would have pleased me, and not hurt my health.

Mr. Sage.

And can you think that God loves you less than I do?

Polydore.

No, papa, I cannot, after what I have heard you say so often of his goodness.

Mr. Sage.

On the other hand, do you believe that he would have found it difficult to give you gold and silver in abundance?

Polydore.

No more difficult than I should find it to give any one a handful of the dust that we tread.

Mr. Sage.

On the other hand, do you believe that he would have found it difficult to give you gold and silver in abundance?

Polydore.

No more difficult than I should find it to give any one a handful of the dust that we tread.

Mr. Sage.

Well then, if, as you acknowledge, he is able to bestow these on you, and does not bestow them, even though he loves you, what are you to think of his refusal?

Polydore.

That the riches which I desire from him would be hurtful.

Mr. Sage.

Are you perfectly convinced of this?

Polydore.

Yes, perfectly, and have not a word to say against. Yet, papa—

Mr. Sage.

Well; why thus shake your head? You have still some burthen on your heart: what is it?

Polydore.

Notwitstanding all your reasonings, I can never bring myself to fancy all this country yours.

Mr. Sage.

And why?

Polydore.

Because you cannot enjoy it as you please.

Mr. Sage.

You know the famous Mr. Norton?

Polydore.

Do I know him? Why that is he who has such charming gardens.

Mr. Sage.

And can he enjoy those gardens as he pleases?

Polydore.

No, indeed; poor man! he dares not even eat a bunch of grapes!

Mr. Sage.

And yet you have seen some very fine ones in his garden?

Polydore.

I have; but they would do him harm.

Mr. Sage.

You see then, one may easily possess a number of good things, and yet not dare to use them as one likes. I dare not use my gardens as I certainly should like, because my fortune will not let me: and this Mr. Norton dares not use his garden as he likes, because his health will not allow him. So that I am much the happiest.

Polydore.

But, papa, you love to ride a horse-back— do not you?

Mr. Sage.

Yes; for it is an exercise that does me good, when I have time to take it.

Polydore.

Well then, if these meadows are all yours, why do not you take the hay that grows upon them, and in future keep a horse?

Mr. Sage.

Why that is the very thing which I do. And those same hay-cocks that you see there, are po•bly intended for the horse that I ride.

Polydore.

And yet I never saw one in your stable?

Mr. Sage.

Heaven be praised, I am not at such a great expence.

Polydore.

Nor do you ride as frequently as you would like?

Mr. Sage.

You are wrong: for I am so prudent, that I never wish to ride but when a ride would do me good, and then I get it for about three shillings. God be praised! I am rich enough to pay that sum.

Polydore.

Do not you imagine that to have two fine piebald horses, and to be drawn about the country in a fashionable coach, would be very pleasant?

Mr. Sage.

Agreeable enough: but when I think of all the inconvenience that attends a coach; how often one would want the harness-maker, smith and wheelwright; how much one depends upon the health of horses, and the conduct of a coachman; and what risque one runs of being overset, together with the fatal consequences which luxury too frequently occasions,—truly, Polydore, I do not grieve that I am obliged to used my legs, which certainly will last me long enough. But see, the sun is now set, and we must think of getting home before the evening closes on us. Let me have your hand —Now, are you not quite pleased in having seen my great estate?

Polydore.

Ah! dear papa, I should be much more so, could I but be persuaded that it were yours.

The father smiled at this reply; and down the hill they walked together. As it happened, they went by a meadow, which at first they thought had been a pond, because it was quite covered with water. Bless me! cried out Mr. Sage, do you see this meadow, how it is overflowed? The neighbouring river must have burst its bounds, and all the hay this year is spoiled.

Polydore.

I fancy he to whom the hay belonged will not be very happy, when they tell him of his loss.

Mr. Sage.

No, no; nor yet is this the worst: he will be forced to mend the banks, and very likely make another dam Why, he will be very happy, if he does not spend in these repairs the produce of ten harvests that he could make in such a meadow.

Polydore.

Oh! What a misfortune!

Mr. Sage.

But I thought there had been a windmill hereabouts.

Polydore.

And there is, papa. Look there before you.

Mr. Sage.

Right, I see it now: the reason is, I did not hear it going. I would lay any wager that the torrent coming down has forced away the wheelwork. Let us go see.—Just so.—It is broke to pieces.—What will the poor owner do? He must be very rich indeed, to stand against so many l•sses!

Polydore.

On! I pity him with all my heart! But since the c•y is over, pray why are the bricklayers still at work?

Mr. Sage.

I cannot tell why. We need but ask the reason. Pray friend, be so kind as to inform us why you work so late?

A Bricklayer.

We shall be here all night; for yesterday, when it was dark, a gang of thieves pulled down the wall, that they might get into the park, and steal away the furniture that had been put into a new built summer-house. The theft was not discovered till this morning; and indeed it is very lucky that no one caught them in the fact.

Mr. Sage.

How so?

The Bricklayer.

Because the thieves had previously disposed combustibles to set the summer-house on fire, if they had been disturbed in plundering; so that they might get away assisted by the bustle and confusion which such destruction would have caused. The owner of this ground, as you may judge, is therefore very happy in his loss: he might have seen his summer-house burnt down; whereas, the affair will cost him now no more than some slight repairs to his wall, the expence of keeping up a watch all night, and buying other furniture instead of the former, which indeed had cost him a good deal.

Well, Polydore, now said Mr. Sage to his son, when they had walked a little way in silence, what do you observe on these misfortunes? Do not they grieve you?

Polydore.

Why should I be sorry? I have suffered nothing by them.

Mr. Sage.

But if this estate had been your property, as Mr. Norton's grounds are his; and if, when going out this morning, you had seen your meadow overflowed, your wind-mill broken to pieces, your park wall demolished, and your summer-house robbed, would you have gone home as satisfied as you appear to be at present?

Polydore.

Oh by no means. I should, on the contrary, be miserable, had I undergone so many heavy losses in a day.

Mr. Sage.

But what if you had every day such losses to endure, or to dread? would you be as happy as at present?

Polydore.

I should be a thousand times more miserable.

Mr. Sage.

Well then, Polydore, such is in reality the state of all who possess great abundance. Without reckoning up the cares that agitate them, and the innumerable wants which they fancy,—in the elevation of their fortune lies too frequently the cause of its decay. A barren season, or a false step in the pursuit of their rapacious projects, frequently suffices to produce their ruin. As they fear the loss of their imaginary consequence, should they resolve upon some sacrifices to their luxury and pride; the more they undergo distressing losses, the more they suppose that they ought to make a sumptuous show to keep up the appearance of their riches, and support a credit which already totters to its fall. What then is the effect of such a wretched sort of vanity? Their servants, perhaps, kept out of their wages an unseasonable time, proceed to introduce a sort of robbery through all the house. The improvement of their fortune, and the education of their children being overlooked, their lands in some sort as it were lie fallow, or produce a blighted harvest only; and their children, left to riot in the ways of wickedness, commit disgraceful actions which are stified by the necessary aid of money. All their property, when seized by inexorable creditors, is in the end completely dissipated, or else the law lays hold of what would otherwise be left them. And these favourites of fortune, once so proud of their abundance, elevated station, and enjoyments, fall at once to the lowest pitch of indigence, shame an•pair.

Polydore.

Oh what a frightful picture is this, papa?

Mr. Sage.

It is one, however, daily to be seen in society; and be •ssured, there is not one exaggerated feature in the wh•le portrait. I can at all times shew you, in the public papers, the dec•y of some great family or other: and these striking instances God's providence exposes to the observation of the rich, that they may see what fortune is most likely to await their pride and folly. In the morning we will go and gaze on those fine buildings which excite your envy now, where you may read the ruin of too many families inscribed on every pillar round about, till they are swallowed up themselves in their own ruin. Why, alas, can I not spare your sensibility the cries of many desolated families, which are but too evincing tokens of such miserable revolutions!

Polydore.

What then, should I look upon the mediocrity of our condition as a blessing meant us from above?

Mr. Sage.

Yes, yes; if you are only frugal and industrious, and possess sufficient resolution to renounce ambition and the immoderate wish of getting money, of confining your desires, and keeping them within the limits of that state you fill. Do I want any thing to make me happy? and in reason, would you wish hereafter to be happier than your father is? Consider the whole universe as your estate; since if you are but properly industrious, it will furnish you a comfortable maintenance. God's providence has placed your earthly habitation half way up a hill, whose summit is extremely craggy, and its base choaked up with swamps. Lift up your eye at intervals upon the rich and great, not with a view to envy them their situations, but to think upon the storms that bellow round them. Sometimes too, look down upon the poor beneath you, not by way of insult on their friendless situation, but to hold them out your hand. If God should bless you with a family of children, let them often hear the lesson which I have just now taught you; but particularly, give them in your life and manners that example which God's blessing has enabled me to afford you.

By this time they were both at home. The virtuous Mr. Sage went up stairs into his chamber, and there falling on his knees, gave thanks to God for all the blessings which he had constantly received, and offered him the sacrifice of his existence, as the best return that he could make. What need had he of being any longer upon earth? His days had been replete with probity and honour, and by giving such a lesson on contentment to his son, he endeavoured, as far as in him lay, to endow him with a valuable patrimony, such as no one could take from him.

BLIND-MAN's BUFF.
A DRAMA, in Two ACTS.

CHARACTERS.

- Mr. JEPHSON.

- FRANK, his son.

- LUCY, his daughters.

- ISABEL A, his daughters.

- DORINDA, their Friends.

- ALICE, their Friends.

- LAURA, a little lame, their Friends.

- ELDER DANBY, Friends to Frank.

- YOUNGER DANBY, who stutters, Friends to Frank.

- ROBERTS, their acquaintance.

- Mr. Jephson's groom.

SCENE an apartment in the house of Mr. Jephson, with a table, and upon it books and other papers, and a speaking trumpet in the corner.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Frank, (speaking to his father as he goes down stairs.)

NO, no, papa, do not be afraid: I will tal• the greatest care that no accident shall happen to your papers. I will put up your books too in the closet.— (he comes for ward, jumping for joy.) We shall have some fine diversion! When the out is away, the mice (it is said) will play. (To Lucy, who now comes in) Well now, Lucy, is mama gone out, and all our little friends arrived?

Lucy.

My friends are all three come; but none of your companions yet.

Frank.

O, I can easily believe you sister. We do not want to run a gadding like you girls; and so we are not the first to keep appointments of this nature. You must force us from our study, if you would have us. Look you, I would lay any wager that the Danby's, at least, are hard at work, while we are speaking.

Lucy.

Yes, to settle what fine tricks they can contrive to put upon us.—But pray, Frank, is it true that papa will let us pass the evening here? our room above is so very small, we could not have found room to turn ourselves well round.

Frank.

Could my papa refuse you any thing, when I concerned myself to ask it? Softly, little girl, do not discompose the papers.—Let them he.

Lucy.

Keep that advice, sir, to yourself: I meant to lay them smooth.

Frank. (with an air of importance)

No, no, you cannot, miss; I am charged with that commission.

Lucy.

Truly, my papa could not have given it to so orderly a gentleman! let me at least assist you then; and afterwards I will put the chairs in order. These great books I shall remove first.

Frank.

Do not think of touching them! At most I can permit you only to take one by one, and pile them up upon my hands. (She does so, till they reach his chin.)

Lucy.

There is enough.

Frank, (•aning backwards.)

One more only.—So—I have no, sufficient for one turn.

(He takes a step or two, when all the books fall down.)

Lucy. (B•ing out a laughing.)

Ha, ha, ha, ha! there, there they g! Those handsome books that papa would never let us to•h! I fancy he will be greatly pleased to see them all t•bled together thus!

Frank.

I 〈◊〉 lost the other of Gravity, as my tutor says; and you know, he is Gravity itself. (He picks the books up, but they tumble down as fast as he gathers them.) Deuce take it! They have been at Sadler's Wells, I think, and learned to tumble sure!

Lucy.

You will never finish, if I do not assist you. So d'ye see, I will spread my apron, and do you stoop down and pile them in it.

Frank.

That is well thought indeed! (Frank goes upon his knees, takes up the books and places them in order in his sister's apron.)

Lucy.

Softly, brother, they will rub one against another! So; I have got them all, and now I will carry them into the closet. (She goes out.)

Frank (rising out of breath.)

Bless me! I should never do to live a long time in the country where men go upon allfours like monkies. (He fans himself with his hat.)

Lucy, (re-entering.)

Could you see how neatly I have ranged them on the chimney, you would be charmed! So let me have the rest. (Frank puts the other books and all the paper's in his sisters lap, who says, when she receives them,) Well, every body must acknowledge that girls are cleverer than boys.

Frank.

O yes, and you particularly. Isabella is constantly employed in putting by your shreds and rags.

Lucy.

And if your tutor had not constantly his eye upon you, you would never know where you should find your exercises and translations. (She looks about her.) But I fancy, I have now got them all.

Frank.

Yes, yes; there is nothing left; so get you gone. (Lucy goes out.)

Frank, (putting back the chairs and table in their places.)

There; so that is done, and we shall now have elbow-room enough. I cannot help thinking what fine work we shall be sure to make. However, I am surprised that they are not come yet. For my part, I can say I hardly ever make any one wait for me when a visit is in the case.

Lucy, (entering once again, and looking round about.)

Ay, very well: but brother you must hide this speaking trumpet. If your friends should happen to perceive it, they will be sure to stun us with their noise.

Frank.

Stay, stay; I will put it up behind the door, as perhaps I shall want it. Let your little friends come now and din me with their chattering, as they used to do, and we shall see who will cry out loudest.

Lucy.

Pshaw! we need but join together; we should very shortly get the upper hand of such a little thing as you.

Frank.

O no; for if you ladies have your clappers so well hung, we gentlemen possess a fine clear manly voice, which every one respects: as thus—You hear me?

Lucy, (shrugging up her shoulders.)

Yes; and have so much respect as you say, for you, that I will take myself away. Farewel. I will run and join my friends.

Frank.

And bid the servant send me up my visitors when they arrive.

Lucy.

Yes, yes. (She withdraws.)

Frank, (taking up the speaking trumpet.)

Here is what has often brought me from the furthest corner of the garden, much against my inclination; and, I think, I hear it still.—So ho! there! Frank! Frank!—My young friends live only at the corner of the street. Let me see if I can hurry them. (He puts the trumpet to his mouth, throws up the window, and cries out,)

Girls and boys come out to play,

The moon doth shine as bright as day:

Come with a whoop, and come with a call,

Come with good-will or not at all.

(He leaves the window, and draws near the door.) Well, is not this surprising! It is like Harlequin's enchanted here. I think I hear them talking to each other on the stairs. (He listens.) Yes, yes! I protest the two Danby's (He puts the trumpet by) Suppose I were to jump now on the table, and receive them sitting on my throne? (He runs to fetch a stool that he may put it on the table; and prepares to take a spring, but the arrival of the two Danby's prevents him.)

SCENE II.

Frank, Elder Danby, Younger Danby.

Frank.

Could not you have staid a little at the door till I was mounted on my throne, that I might give you audience, as they say, in all my glory?

Elder Danby.

Good indeed! you have no occasion for a throne to look exactly like a king. And active as you are, the throne might possibly cause your majesty a tumble.

Frank.

Why, to say the truth, I have read of many tumbles of that nature in my ancient history.

Elder Danby.

And in some sort, such an accident has happened to my brother, though he is no great prince. He fell down stairs last week, and hurt his nose considerably.

Younger Danby, (stuttering.)

Yes, indee-deed! It pains me sti-still a little, and that ma-a-aster Roberts is a very nau-au-aughty boy.

Frank.

Does he design to come to-night?

Elder Danby.

I hope not: if we had expected him here, we should not have stirred out.

Younger Danby.

He o-o-only thinks of mis-mischief.

Frank.

What has he done then?

Elder Danby.

We were both going out last Saturday. I stopped to get a handkerchief: my brother went down stairs alone, and, as it happened, Roberts hearing some one, came out slily, jumped at once upon my brother, who was frighted, lost his footing, and rolled down the stairs from top to bottom.

Frank.

Poor Danby! I am sorry for you. Roberts looks for all the world as if he loved such mischief. We shall have his company this evening for the first time in our lives: his father begged papa to let him come and see us.

Elder Danby.

I am sorry for it. For we do not speak to one another.

Frank.

My papa supposed you all good friends, because you lodge together, and considered that you would have the greater pleasure if he came.

Elder Danby.

The greater pleasure! We should like to have him ten miles off. Since he has been our neighbour, we are continually uneasy. He has frequently amused himself with breaking windows, and then tried to lay the blame on us.

Frank.

Does no one make complaint about him to his father?

Elder Danby.

Oh! I do not know what to make of him; he is such an odd sort of a man! He scolds a little, pays the damage, and that is all.

Frank.

If I were your papa, I would quit my lodgings and live somewhere else.

Elder Danby.

Yes, so he means to do, and therefore yesterday gave warning; and now we are forbidden all manner of connexion with this Roberts, he is so wicked! Would you think it, very few go by the house, without being apprehensive that he will put some trick upon them. Sometimes he diverts himself by squirting puddle water at them, or else pelting them with rotten apples. Nay, he will sometimes fasten rabbits tails or bits of rags behind their backs, at which the people, when they see it, all burst out a laughing. Then too he has what he calls his caxen fishery.

Frank.

Caxen fishery!

Elder Danby.

Yes: he will take the people's wigs off, as they pass him, with a hook, as you would carp. When any poor man stops before his window to converse with an acquaintance, Roberts immediately goes up to the balcony, with a string suspended from a fishing-rod, and at the end of it a hook, with which he jerks the poor man's wig off. Then he runs and ties it to a dog that he has before provided for the purpose, after which he drives the creature out into the street, and off he sets that instant, so that the poor perriwig has frequently been dragged for twenty minutes through the mud, before its owner can lay hold of it again.

Frank.

But this is more than mere amusement!

Elder Danby.

And yet this is nothing to the stories that I could tell you. Why, he lames or bruises all the dogs and cats that come within his reach. Nor is it long ago, when one of his relations broke a leg, by slipping down upon the stairs where Roberts had been scattering peas on purpose. Ay, it is so; or else our name is not Danby. And for the servants, I am sure, his father would not get one to attend him, if he did not pay extraordinary wages.

Frank.

Shall I tell you now? I long to see him. I like boys a little merry.

Elder Danby.

Nothing is more natural: but Roberts's mirth is not like other children's. You, I know, love laughing in your heart; but would not, for the world, hurt any one; whereas this wicked fellow laughs at bumps and bruises.

Frank.

Oh that does not fright me in the least. I shall be much more pleased in paying him as he deserves.

Elder Danby.

If he should come, my brother will not offend you by withdrawing? He would do him some fresh mischief.

Younger Danby.

Ye-ye-yes, I will go.

Frank.

No, no: we are old friends; and positively no new comer shall divide us. I will take care and manage him, I warrant you.—But do not I hear a noise upon the stairs?—It is Roberts.—No, I see my sister and her company.

SCENE III.

Frank, Elder Danby, Younger Danby, Lucy, Isabella, Dorinda, Alice, Laura.

Lucy.

Your humble servant, my good friends! but why not seated, brother? You might easily have got the gentlemen a chair apiece, since they have been with you. Sure there has been time enough.

Frank.

As if we did not know that it is usual to stand up when we receive ladies.

Lucy.

I am charmed to find you know your duty; but where is master Roberts? (to the Danbys.) I did suppose that you would have brought him with you.

Elder Danby.

It is a long time now, thank Heaven, since we have been separated from him.

Dorinda.

Is he then unlu•kier than Lucy's brother?

Laura, (archly)

Certainly he would be unlucky then indeed!

Alice.

Lucy's brother! He is a very lamb to Roberts. We have known him for a long time. Have we not, dear sister?

Laura.

We have, and he has played me many a trick.

Alice.

He was very intimate with Anthony my brother; but he is rid of him entirely now: why, he is the saddest fellow in the world!

Lucy.

Oh, as for that, my brother is even with him there.

Dorinda.

But to do mischief merely for the pleasure of it—there is the villainy!

Lucy.

No, no, my brother is better than that comes to.

Frank, (with an air of irony.)

Do you really think so? I am obliged to you!

Dorinda.

Well, well, my dear Lucy, we will be under your protection, you are the biggest of us; and besides, at present you are mistress of the house, and may command him.

Lucy.

Do not you be afraid. I will keep him perfectly in bounds.

Frank.

Yes, yes, Lucy: you shall take care of the ladies, and for you, (to the Danby's,) I will take you under my protection.

Elder Danby.

Oh! he will hardly think of playing tricks with me. He knows me, I assure you. I only fear for my brother.

Younger Danby.

He makes ga-ga-game of me! yes, alal-always!

Laura.

That is his way; he always attacks the least. He would never vex my sister,—none but me.

Lucy.

I can believe you: such as he are always cowards. I compare him to a puppy following close upon a cat as long as she keeps running: but if once the cat turns round, and shews her whiskers, then the puppy scampers for it.

Frank.

Well then, sister, you shall be the cat.

Laura.

And let him see your whiskers.

Lucy.

But methinks it would not be amiss if we sat down. Though we expect this Mr. Mischief-maker, we have no need, I fancy, to remain standing up till he chuses to appear.

Frank.

Hush! here he is.

SCENE IV.

Frank, Elder Danby, Younger Danby, Lucy, Isabella, Dorinda, Alice, Laura, Roberts.

Roberts, (to Frank and his sister, making them a bow.)

Your servant. Your papa was pleased to let me wait upon you: so I am come to spend the evening with you.

Lucy.

We are glad to see you, and shall have a deal of pleasure in your company; at least my brother.

Isabelia.

Yes, indeed; he wants for good example.

Frank.

Do I? So your good example, you would have the gentleman suppose, is not sufficient.

Lucy.

Well, a truce to compliments. As mistress of the house, it is necessary that I should let you know who is who. This tall young lady, in the first place, is Miss Dorinda Lambton.

Roberts, (with a banter.)

I am charmed to hear it.

Lucy.

And these are the Miss—

Roberts.

O, I know them very well. This here is (pointing to Alice,) my lady—what is her name? Pentweazle, that will take you off the company, as simple as she seems: And there is (pointing to Laura, and limping round the room) Miss Up-and-down, who broke her leg by running from the rod. This gentleman, (Elder Danby) observe him, he is a grave wise Grecian, who looks strait before him when he walks, as if he pitied us poor silly children. And this other good little friend of mine (pointing to younger Danby, and letting fall his hat) is Pepe-peter Grievous, whose dear mama forgot, poor creature! to untie his tongue when he was born. (The children seem surprized, and stare at one another.)

Frank.

And who am I, sir, for methinks you seem quite clever at this sort of portrait painting?

Roberts.

Oh, I am not sufficiently acquainted with you yet, to take your likeness: but I shall let you have it soon.

Lucy.

For you, sir, I could draw you at a glance, and I must tell you, the similitude would not be very pleasing. I could never have supposed it possible that any well bred little gentleman, as I imagine you affect to be, should think of turning natural defects into a theme for banter. If my little friends were not sincerely such, they would have reason to reproach me for exposing them to your indecency. But they can see that I could not have expected half so much myself.

Roberts.

Why, Frank, I protest, your sister is mighty eloquent. You need not go to church on Sundays, having such a charming preacher in the house.

Frank.

She has tolerable skill, when any one is to be told the truth; and therefore both my sister Isabella and I love her sincerely.

Roberts.

Well, well, you see I have tolerable skill likewise in telling truth; and therefore no doubt you will love me, too, sincerely. (He bows to Lucy.) I ask your pardon, miss, for having taken your employment out of your hands, as you are yourself so clever at it.

Lucy.

Your excuses and your bow are both an insult; but an insult, such as I despise. Though, were they on the other hand sincere, they would hardly make atonement for so coarse an incivility. If I had not considered every word that you said as meant in joke, however gross I cannot but suppose it, I should know what suited me to do, and should have done it likewise. Let me therefore beg, sir, that you will indulge in no more freedoms of this nature, if you mean that we should remain together.

Roberts, (somewhat embarrassed.)

Well, but I see, you do not understand a little harmless piece of banter. Let us be friends. (He 〈◊〉 out his hand.)

Lucy, (giving hers.)

With all my heart, sir; but provided—

Roberts, (turning his back suddenly upon Lucy, and addressing young Danby.)

You are an honest little fellow, too, and I will shake hands with you. (He hesitates to give his hand, and therefore Roberts seizing on it, shakes his arm so roughly, that he falls a crying.)

Elder Danby.

Master Roberts!

Frank, (laying hold of Roberts's arm.)

Pray, sir, let this child alone; or—

Roberts.

Well—or what?—my little Jack-a-dandy.

Frank, (•laly.)

I am little, I acknowledge, but yet strong enough; and so you will find me, when my friends require to be defended.

Roberts.

Say you so? in that case I should like to be one of them. But beforehand, if you please, we will have a brush, just to see how you will be able to defend them.

(Roberts on a 〈◊〉 tries to fling him down; but Frank stands his g•nd, and Roberts falls. The company rush in to part them.)

Frank.

But one moment, if you please, young ladies. I will not do him any harm. Well, Mr. Roberts, pray how do you find yourself! I fancy, I am your master.

Roberts, (struggling.)

Take your knee off,—or you will stifle me.

Frank.

No, no; you must not think of getting up, unless you first ask pardon.

Roberts, (furiously.)

Pardon!

Frank.

Yes, sir, and of all the company, as you have certainly offended all the company.

Roberts.

Well, well; I do ask pardon.

Frank.

If you should insult us again, be assured, we will send you down into the cellar till to-morrow morning, which will surely cool your courage. That is much better than to hurt you. We do not think you worth the trouble.—Rise. (He gets from off him, and when both are up, continues,) You have no right to be offended; for remember, it was yourself began the contest. (Roberts seems ashamed.)

Dorinda, (aside to Isabella.)

I could never have supposed your brother half so valiant!

Isabella.

Oh! a lion is hardly bolder; and yet, Dorinda, he never quarrels. He is in short, although I say it, the best tempered little fellow in the world. (To the company.) But what are we doing? We ought to think of some amusement for the evening.

Frank.

Certainly we ought, or why are we all come together? Well, what play shall we chuse? Something funny? what say you, Danby?

Elder Danby.

We will let the ladies chuse.

(Roberts makes mouths at Frank and Danby: the rest pretend as if they did not see him.)

Lucy.

There, Frank; there is a lesson for you: we may chuse. Well then, suppose we play at questions and commands? or possibly you would like a game at cards much better?

Laura.

I should rather play at something with the least Danby. If you have a picture-book, we will turn it over: shall we?

Younger Danby.

O o-o-oh, yes, yes.

Lucy.

With all my heart, sweet dears! I will carry you up stairs. You will neither want for pictures nor playthings there.

(Laura and the younger Danby take hold of one another by the hand, and jump for joy.)

Lucy, (to the ladies.)

My friends, will you go with me for amusement into my apartment? I have a charming bonnet that you will like to see.

All (together.)

Yes, yes, yes; let us go.

Elder Danby.

Will you accept my hand as far as your apartment, Miss Lucy?

Lucy.

Rather let Miss Dorinda or Alice have it, if they please.

(The elder Danby presents his hand to Alice, who happens to stand next him.)

Roberts.

What then, do you mean to leave me by myself here?

Frank.

No, sir; these young ladies will excuse me, so I shall stay: but I am obliged to leave you for a moment.

Roberts.

Are you? but I will follow you. I do not like to be left alone by night, and in a house where I am a stranger.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Frank, Roberts.

Roberts.

The truth is, I was apprehensive lest you might think of playing me some trick; so I accompanied you. But now that we are returned, and all alone, we may devise some mirth between us.

Frank.

Very willingly; I ask no better: so let us think a little.

Roberts.

We must have some fun, I fancy, with the younger Danby.

Frank.

If by fun you mean some trick to hurt him, I say no: I will not be in a joking humour; so pray leave him out, if you are bent on mischief.

Roberts.

They told me that you were always merry, and fond of something funny.

Frank.

And so I am: but, notwithstanding, without hurt to any one. However, let me know what sort of fun you meant.

Roberts.

Look you: here are two large needles. I will stick them both with the points upward in the bottom of two chairs, that common eyes shall not discern them. In the next place you shall offer two of these young ladies the two chairs, for very likely they would suspect that I meant them mischief of some sort or other, and they will naturally both sit down: but figure to yourself what strange grimaces they will both make! Ha! ha! ha! ha! It makes me die a laughing, when I barely think what faces we shall see them put on! Ay, ay! and your prudish sister, too, will find the matter quite diverting.

Frank.

But suppose I were to treat you just in the same manner, would you like it?

Roberts.

Oh! treat me! that is different; but those little idiots—

Frank.

So you call them idiots, do you, since they are not mischievous?

Roberts.

Well, you are mighty formal and precise. Then shall I mention something else?

Frank.

Yes, do.

Roberts.

Then I have some thread as strong as whipcord in my pocket. I will thread one of these great needles with a little of it; and as soon as they are all come down, one of us shall go up politely towards them, make a deal of scraping, and wry faces, while the other, keeping still behind, shall sew their gowns together. They will all want to dance, as you may guess; so up we will come, and take them out.—Ha! ha! you know the rest; ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Frank.

Yes, to tear their gowns, and get them anger when their parents find it out?

Roberts.

Why there is the fun.

Frank.

What! have you no pleasure then in any thing but doing mischief?

Roberts.

But it does not hurt me.

Frank.

O ho! I understand: you think of no one but yourself, and all the world is nothing to you!

Roberts.

Well; but we are come together to divert ourselves, and we must positively have some laughing. So suppose we frighten Laura and the least Danby?

Frank.

But that is quite wrong. Supposing any one should frighten you?

Roberts.

With all my heart, if any one is but able. I am afraid of nothing.

Frank, (aside.)

Say you so?—That we shall see, perhaps.— (Aloud to Roberts.) Well, about this frightening?

Roberts.

I have an ugly mask at home. I will run and fetch it. And do you, when I am gone, contrive to bring the little children down, and you shall see—I will not be absent half a minute.

Frank, (aside.)

Good!—There shall be a better mask ready for you, though!— (To Roberts, calling him back.) But Roberts! Roberts!

Roberts.

What is the matter?

Frank.

It will be better that we should come upon them where we are, if I can bring the others down; for when there are but two or three in this part of the house, there sometimes comes a spirit; and in that case, we ourselves should be but badly off.

Roberts.

What is all this story of a spirit?

Frank.

Nay, it is true. At first one hears a noise, and then a phantom with a lighted torch glides by, and then the room seems all on fire. (He draws back, as if afraid.) Oh! methinks I see it now.

Roberts, (a little frightened.)

See what?—O dear!— And what can bring the phantom here?

Frank, (drawing Roberts towards a corner, and then whispering to him.)

The reason, as we are told, is this: There was a miser who lived here formerly, and he was robbed one night of all his money. In despair he cut his throat, and now from time to time his ghost goes up and down—

Roberts, (in a tremble.)

O ho! I will stay no longer here, unless you get more company.

Frank.

But recollect how brave you were just now.

Roberts.

You must not fancy I am afraid:—but—but— but—but—but I will go and fetch my mask.

Frank.

Do, do: and I will prepare things here.—What pleasure we shall have!

Roberts, (with a grin.)

Oh! enough to make one die with laughing!

Frank.

They will be finely frightened!

Roberts.

That they will! and therefore I will make haste. I am at home and back again—you shall see how soon! (He goes out)

Frank. (alone)

Ah! ah! you want to frighten others, and are not afraid yourself! Well! well! I have thought of something that will frighten you, or I am very much mistaken.

SCENE II.

Frank, Lucy, Isabella, Dorinda, Alice, elder Danby.

Lucy.

We saw Master Roberts run across the street this moment! What is the matter? Have you had a quarrel?

Frank.

On the contrary, he thinks me his best friend. I have seemed willing to go shares with him in a trick that he means to put upon the little ones above; but it is himself that he will trick, and never wish to come here a third time

Lucy.

Well, what is your project?

Frank.

You shall know very soon. At present I have no time to lose, for every thing must be in readiness against his coming back: so, ladies, I request permission to be absent for about five minutes.

Dorinda.

Yes, go, go: but do not stay longer. We are all impatient to be told what you design.

Frank.

I shall consider it my duty to inform you when I have finished my preparations. So once more with your leave. I will come again in less, perhaps, than five minutes. (He goes out.)

Lucy.

Ah! ah! ah!—Two pretty fellows together! We shall see what good comes out between them! They are well matched.

Elder Danby.

Oh! for Heaven's sake, Miss Lucy, do not do such dishonour to my friend, your brother, as to name him and that wicked Roberts together.

Alice.

You are in the right, Dauby. One is nothing but politeness, and the other quite a savage.

Isabella.

Savage as he is, however, I would lay a wager that Frank will be found his master.

Dorinda.

What a piece of service Frank would do us, could he clear the house of such a fellow! We shall have no pleasure all the evening, if he stays among us.

Lucy.

I am afraid, however, Frank will proceed too far, and think himself permitted to do any thing against this Roberts.

Elder Danby.

He can never do enough; and though his scheme should be a little hard on Roberts, there will be instruction in it: it is the greatest service that one can do him: and his father, I am persuaded, will be pleased with Frank, when he hears what pains he has taken to instruct his son. Alas! he would part with half his fortune, to have Roberts like him.

Alice.

So Lucy, do not you go about to thwart your brother's good intentions.

Lucy.

But, my dear Miss Alice, I am in a ticklish situation: I am now instead of my mama, and cannot possibly let any thing go forward that she would not approve.

Alice.

Let him have his way. We will take the blame of what he does upon ourselves.

Isabella.

Yes, let him, sister. War, I say, war; war for ever with the wicked!

Frank, (returning joyfully.)

—I have settled every thing, and Roberts may appear whenever he thinks proper. We will receive him.

Lucy.

But, I hope, you will tell me—

Dorinda.

Yes, we will be in the plot too: and more than that, assist you if we can.

Frank.

No, ladies, that is not necessary. There is a little violence, I must acknowledge, in my plot, and therefore I will not make you parties. I have been settling every thing with Ralph in the stable. He conceives my meaning clearly, and will second it with great dexterity.

Lucy.

But still, you do not acquaint me—

Frank.

This is all of the contrivance that you need know. We will go to Blind-man's Buff, that Roberts may suspect no harm on his return. I will let myself be caught, and he or she that blinds me must take care that I may have an opportunity of seeing through the handkerchief, and fixing upon Roberts. After he is blinded, you shall steal into the closet, take away the lights, and leave us both together. When I want your aid, I will call you.

Elder Danby.

But if Roberts should proceed to thrash you in your tête à tête?

Frank.

Proceed to thrash me! You observed how easily I flung him down. I am not afraid of such a one as he, for I have found him to be nothing but a coward: so that is fixed. But first, we must have both the little ones down stairs, or Roberts might go up and frighten them while we are talking here together. So pray, sister, (to Isabella,) go and bring them down.

Isabella.

Yes, yes. (She goes out.)

Lucy.

But, brother, I am not clear that I should permit you—

Alice.

What is the matter? Let him do, I tell you, as he pleases.

Frank.

Yes, yes, sister; and rely on my discretion. You are sensible, I do not like mischief, for the sake of mischief: therefore he shall not have half the punishment that he merits, but come off when I have frightened him a little; and that is all the harm that I mean to do him.

Lucy.

Well then, Frank, on your promise of discretion—

Frank.

Yes, I promise you no less. So let us make haste, and put the things to rights, that all may be in order here too when he comes.— (They put away the chairs and table. Isabella in the mean time comes down with Laura and younger Danby.)

Frank, (going up to Laura and younger Danby.)

—Come, come, my little friends, into this closet; but take care and do not make any noise, or Roberts very possibly will hear you.

Isabella.

I will conduct them. There is a book of pictures in it; and I will stay to shew them whatever they like.

Laura.

I thought the tea was ready: May we not stay here with you till it comes in?

Frank.

I shall fetch you when the servant brings it: but at present you must go into the closet: Roberts wants to frighten you, and I will not let him.

Younger Danby.

Ye-ye-yes, let us go, my de-de-dear. (Isabella takes up a candle, and goes in with Laura and younger Danby.)

Frank.

We comprehend, I suppose, what we are to do? My eyes not wholly covered, and, whenever I may give the signal, you must take away the light, and get into the closet; but particularly, a perfect silence.

Dorinda.

Yes, we understand you.

Frank.

I believe, I hear a noise? hush! hush! hush! (he listens at the door.)

Yes, yes; it is he! it is he! be quick, let one of you be blinded.

Dorinda.

I will begin. Who takes my handkerchief? (Alice blinds Dorinda, and they begin to run about.)

SCENE III.

Frank, Lucy, Dorinda, Alice, Roberts.

(Roberts, as he enters, pinches Dorinda, on which she throws her hands out, and lays hold of him.)

Dorinda.

It is master Roberts. I well know him by his pinching me.

Frank.

It is master Roberts; but he was not in the play. You must begin again.

Roberts.

Undoubtedly, Frank is right.

Dorinda.

Well, be it so: but if I catch you again, it shall be all fair. Remember, I have warned you.

Roberts.

O yes, yes. (He takes Frank aside, and lets him see a little of the mask.) What think you of it?

Frank, (feigning to be frightened.)

—O how frightful! I should certainly be terrified at seeing it myself. Well, hide it carefully: we will play a little, and then slip away.

Roberts, (whispering Frank.)

—Yes, yes, we will: but I must, first of all, do something to teize the ladies.

Frank, (whispering Roberts.)

—I will go up to Dorinda, and turn her round: if she should catch me, she will suppose it to be you, and must set out again.

Roberts, (whispering Frank.)

—Good! good! I will have a little sun with her too.

Alice.

Well; when will you have told each other all your secrets? Two fine gentlemen! why, do not you see, the game stands still?

Roberts.

You need not stay for us; we are ready.

Frank, (keeping near Miss Dorinda, as if be wished to pull her by the gown, and seeing Roberts go to fetch a chair,) (Aside.)

Now, Miss Dorinda, I will put myself into your way.

Roberts brings a chair, and puts it so that Dorinda may tumble over it: but Frank takes the chair away, and puts himself instead, upon his hands and feet, with so much noise, that Dorinda may hear him. As she slides along her feet, as if at bazard, she encounters Frank, stoops and seizes him.)

Dorinda, (after having felt about his cape and wrists, and seeming doubtful.)

It is Master Frank.

Frank, (in appearance disconcerted.)

—Yes, indeed; I am taken. What ill luck! so soon?

Dorinda. (pulling off the bandage.)

—O, ho! you wanted to throw me down! I thought nobody but master Roberts played such tricks; but it shall not be long before I take revenge. (She covers Frank's eyes, but so that he can see a little; leads him towards the middle of the room, and then, as is the custom of the game, asks him,)

How many horses in your father's stable?

Frank.

Three; black, white and grey.

Dorinda.

Turn about three times, and catch whom you may.

Frank gropes his way from place to place, and lets himself be jostled as they please. Miss Dorinda particularly plagues him; he pretends to follow her, but all at once turns round, and falls on Roberts.)

Frank.

Ah! ha! I have caught you! have I? It is a boy. It is Roberts! pulling off the handkerchief.) Yes, yes; I am not mistaken.

Roberts, (whispering Frank.)

Why lay hold on me?

Frank, (whispering Roberts.)

Do not mind it. You shall catch Danby. I will push him towards you.

Roberts, (whispering Frank.)

Do! and you shall see how I will make him squeak: I will pinch him till the very blood comes.

Frank begins to cover Roberts's eyes, and gives his company a nod, as he had settled it. Elder Danby, assisted by the little ladies, takes away the lights, and all together run into an adjoining closet, without making any noise.)

Elder Danby, (just before he steps into the closet.)

Well: have you finished? Oh make haste. You take a deal of time. What mischief are you whispering to each other?

At this instant the groom presents himself at the door; he has a lighted torch in one hand, and a stick beneath it in the other, with a large fullbottomed wig upon it. He is covered head and all, with Mr. Jephson's gown, which trails along upon the ground behind him. Frank beckons him to stay a little at the entrance, while he is b•ding Roberts.

Frank, (putting Roberts in the middle of the room.)

How many horses in your father's stable?

Roberts.

Three; black, white and grey.

Frank.

Turn about— pretending to be angry with the others.) Be quiet pray, young ladies, and not quit your places till the game is begun.—Turn about three times, and catch whom you may.

The ghost! the ghost! Run, Roberts, for your life.

(He claps the door to violently, hides himself behind the Grown, and speaking through the trumpet, says,) It is you then that come to steal my treasure?

Roberts. (trembling with fear, and not daring to pull off the bandage.)

Fie! fire! Danby! where are you, Frank? murder! murder! Dorinda!

Frank, (speaking through the trumpet.)

I have scared them all away.—Pull off your bandage, and look at me.

Roberts, without pulling off the bandage, puts both hands before his face, retiring as the ghost advances on him.)

Frank.

Pull it off, I say—

Roberts makes shift to pull the bandage down, which falis about his neck. He dares not lift his eyes up; but at last when he chserves the ghost, be screams out, and has not power to move)

Frank.

I know you well, your name is Roberts.

Roberts hearing this, runs up and down to get away: he finds the door shut fast, falls down upon his knees, holds out his hands, and turns away his head)

Frank.

What you think to escape me, do you?

Roberts, (after several efforts)

I have done nothing to you. You were never robbed by me.

Frank.

Never robbed by you? You are capable of any villainy! Who squirts at people in the street? Who fastens rabbits' tails behind their backs? Who fishes for their wigs? Who lames poor dogs and cats? Who sticks up pins in chairs to prick his friends when they sit down! And who has in his pocket even now, a mask to frighten two poor little children?

Roberts.

I have done all this! indeed I own it! but for heaven's sake pardon me, and I will not do so any more.

Frank.

Who will answer for you?

Roberts.

Those that you have frightened away, if you will but call them.

Frank.

Do you promise me yourself?

Roberts.

Yes, yes; upon my honour.

Frank.

Well then, I take pity on you: but remember, had it been my pleasure, I might easily fly away with you through the window.

Here the phantom shakes his torch, which gives a glare like lightning, and then goes out. Roberts almost swooning with terror, falls down on his face.)

SCENE the last.

Roberts, Frank, the Groom, Mr. Jephson.

Mr. Jephson, (entering with a candle in his hand.)

What is all this disturbance?

Roberts, (without looking up.)

It is not I that make it. Pray, pray, do not come near me!

Mr. Jephson, (perceiving Roberts on the ground.)

Who can this be on the ground?

Roberts.

You know me well enough, and have already taken pity on me.

Mr. Jephson.

I already taken pity on you!

Roberts.

It was not I that robbed you.

Mr. Jephson.

Robbed me! what does all this mean? do not I know you, master Roberts?—

Roberts.

Yes, yes; that is my name, good ghost: so pray do not hurt me.

Mr. Jephson.

I am astonished! why in such a posture? He puts down the light, holds out his hand and lifts him up.)

Roberts, (struggling first of all, but knowing Mr. Jephson afterwards.)

Mr. Jephson, is it you? his features brighten) He is gone then! is he? he looks round about him, sees the ghost and turns away again.) There, there he stands! —the phantom!—don't you see him?

Frank brings the children from the closet. Laura and younger Danby are frightened at the groom's appearance; but the rest burst out a laughing.)

Mr. Jephson.

Well! what signifies all this?

Frank, (coming forward.)

Let me explain the whole, papa. This phantom is your groom; and we have put on him your wig and gown.

The Groom, (letting fall his disguise.)

Yes, sir, it is I.

Mr. Jephson.

An odd sort of sport this, Frank!

Frank.

True; but ask the company if master Roberts has not well deserved to be thus frightened. He designed to frighten Laura and Danby: I only wished to hinder him. Let him but shew the frightful mask that he has about him.

Mr. Jephson, (to Roberts.)

Is this true?

Roberts, (giving him the mask.)

I cannot deny it: here it is, sir.

Mr. Jephson.

You have met with nothing, then, but what you deserve.

Dorinda.

We persuaded Miss Lucy to permit her brother to make use of this device in order to punish Roberts.

Alice.

If you knew besides, sir, all the other tricks that he meant to play us—

Mr. Jephson.

What, sir, is this the sample that you give us of your behaviour, the first time you set foot withinmy doors? You have been disrespectful to me in the person of my children, who were pleased with the expectation of having you as their guest. You have been disrespectful to these ladies, whom I need not say you should have honoured and regarded. So be gone! Your father, when he comes to know that you have been thus turned out of doors, will see how necessary it is to correct the vices of your heart. I will not permit your detestable example to corrupt my children. Go, and never let me see you here again! Roberts is confounded, and withdraws.) And you, my friends, although the circumstances of the case may very possibly excuse what you have done, yet never, for the time to come, indulge yourselves in such a sport. The fears which have power to affect children at a tender age, may possibly be followed by the worst consequences during their whole life. Avenge yourselves upon the wicked only by behaving better; and remember after the example which master Roberts has afforded you, that by intending harm to others, you will oftenest bring it down upon yourselves.

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Title statement

The children's friend: Translated from the French of M. Berquin; complete in four volumes. Ornamented with frontispieces. [pt.2]

Ami des enfans. English

Berquin, M. (Arnaud), 1747-1791.

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http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4732

ID [isbn10]

1106017315

ID [isbn13]

9781106017314

ID [TCP]

K072460.002

ID [BIBNO]

CW3311823789

ID [ECLL]

0360400702

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— The children's friend: Translated from the French of M. Berquin; complete in four volumes. Ornamented with frontispieces., Ami des enfans. English, Berquin, M. (Arnaud), 1747-1791.. A new corrected edition; with additions.. 4v.,plates ; 12⁰. London :: printed for J. Stockdale; J. Rivington and sons; B. Law; J. Johnson; C. Dilly; J. Murray; J. Sewell; and W. Creech, Edinburgh,. 1788.. [Translated by J. Cooper.] [The plates are dated 1787.] [With a final leaf of advertisements in vol.2.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT89228.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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Editorial practices

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