The children's friend: Translated from the French of M. Berquin; complete in four volumes. Ornamented with frontispieces. [pt.3] — Ami des enfans. English

Table of contents

- FRONTISPIECE. Vol. III.

- [titlepage]

- CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

- ROBIN.

- AMELIA.

- THE RUFFLES AND GARTERS,

- ABEL.

- VERSES addressed by MAURICE to LADY ABBERVILLE. (See Vol. II. p. 1.)

- THE COMPLIMENT OF THE NEW YEAR.

- THE CHRISTMAS-BOX. A DRAMA, in Two ACTS.

- CHARACTERS.

- ACT I.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- ACT II.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE the last.

- THE COMMODORE's RETURN. A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

- CHARACTERS.

- SCENE I.

- 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.

- SCENE XVII.

- SCENE XVIII.

- WAR AND PEACE.

- EUPHRASIA.

- THE PRUDENT OFFICER.

- THE PRODIGAL DOUBLY PUNISHED.

- THE LITTLE GAMBLERS. A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

- CHARACTERS.

- SCENE I.

- 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 THE LAST.

- THE MONKEY.

- THE ALPS.

- THE BREAKFAST.

- THE THREE CAKES.

- OH THE UGLY BEAUTY! OUT UPON HER!

- BUTTERFLY! PRETTY BUTTERFLY!

- THE SUN AND MOON.

- THE ROSE-BUSH.

- THE NOSEGAYS.

- THE PRESENT.

- THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER.

- THE CHERRIES.

- THE LITTLE PRATER.

- HOT COCKLES.

- GOD's BIRD.

- THE SELF-CORRECTED LIAR.

- RECEIPT TO BE ALWAYS PLEASED.

- THE TULIPS.

- THE STRAWBERRIES AND CURRANTS.

- OBLIGINGNESS AND COMPLAISANCE.

- THE LINNET'S NEST.

- THE LINNETS.

- THE DESERTER. A DRAMA, in Three ACTS.

- CHARACTERS.

- ACT I.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- ACT II.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- SCENE VIII.

- SCENE IX.

- ACT III.

- SCENE I. a prison.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- SCENE VIII.

- THE BED OF DEATH.

- PASCAL.

- THE CONJURING BIRD. A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

- CHARACTERS.

- SCENE I.

- 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.

- SCENE XVII.

- SCENE XVIII.

THE CHILDREN'S FRIEND.

FRONTISPIECE. Vol. III.

Robin with the Pipkin came at last & filling both Porringers▪ approaches his parents, and said, dear Father & dear Mother, there's some breakfast for you.

See page 1.

Publish'd as the Act directs July 25th 1787 by John Stockdale Piccadilly.

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. III.

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.

〈1 page duplicate〉

〈1 page duplicate〉

CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

- ROBIN Page 1

- Amelia Page 4

- The Ruffles and Garters Page 7

- Abel Page 9

- Verses addressed by Maurice to Lady Abberville Page 12

- The Compliment of the New Year Page 13

- The Christmas-Box Page 20

- The Commodore's Return Page 43

- War and Peace Page 64

- Euphrasia Page 74

- The Prudent Officer Page 77

- The Prodigal doubly punished Page 80

- The Little Gamblers Page 81

- The Monkey Page 106

- The Alps Page 107

- The Breakfast Page 115

- The Three Cakes Page 116

- Oh the ugly Beauty! out upon her! Page 120

- Butterfly! pretty Butterfly! Page 122

- The Sun and Moon Page 123

- The Rose-Bush Page 126

- The Nosegays Page 127

- The Present Page 129

- The Chimney-sweeper Page 132

- The Cherries Page 133

- The Little Prater Page 135

- Hot Cockles Page 139

- God's Bird Page 140

- The Self-corrected Liar Page 142

- Receipt to be always pleased Page 145

- The Tulips Page 146

- The Strawberries and Currants Page 148

- Obligingness and Complaisance Page 149

- The Linnet's Nest Page 153

- The Deserter Page 156

- The Bed of Death Page 180

- Pascal Page 190

- The Conjuring Bird Page 198

ROBIN.

ROBIN was about six years of age. He was not wicked, but his mother let him always have his way; and then his father was afraid that the poor child might cry his eyes out, if he wanted any thing, and should not get it. Being thus indulged, his whims grew every day more frequent, and they could not always be gratified; for his parents were extremely poor, and lived, as the expression is, from hand to mouth. He grew at last quite obstinate and quarrelsome, insisted upon having every thing that he saw, and when he could not get it, would grow sulky, tear his cloaths to show his spite, do nothing that he was bid to do, and often quite the contrary.

His parents were much grieved to see this behaviour in him, and judged it to proceed from a heart naturally perverse. Alas! cried his mother, I once hoped that our little Robin would in time console us under all our griefs, be the joy of our old age, and work for our support, when we were past our strength, reflecting that we had done so much to feed and bring him up: but, on the contrary, he is our greatest unhappiness. His principles are quite corrupt, said the father; every one will hate him utterly, and not a soul assist him in his need. He will commit some wicked action, and be punished for it by his country. He will live in shame and misery. God grant I may be dead before this comes to pass.

These mortifying thoughts would constantly be uppermost within them. They were now no longer cheerful at their daily toil, and had no appetite for their meals. Their sorrow had a visible effect upon their health; their strength soon failed them; and one morning, being more depressed than usual, they had not sufficient spirits to get up. Not so the little Robin: he was up as usual, and called for his breakfast. Robin, said his mother, I am very ill, and cannot rise to get it for you. On which he sulked, she wept, and Hutchinson his father sighed. The little urchin waited yet some time; but seeing neither of them stir, resolved instantly what to do. He went to a neighbour's house for a light, as he designed to make a fire. A little girl came down to let him in; and seeing Robin, asked him what he wanted, with a tone of voice that seemed to say he was not welcome; for she did not like him in the least. I want to light my candle, answered Robin, Well, do so, returned the little girl, as I have let you in: but do not come here again. This way of talking Robin did not much like. He was very easily offended; so he went away and did not even light his candle.

After this he visited another neighbour, who came down; but seeing Robin through the casement, he would not so much as ask him what he wanted, but went up again. Refused admittance every where, he came home, put down the candle, and bethought himself of going to a good old woman's, who formerly used to treat him with sweet things. He went and asked her for some breakfast. Breakfast! answered Frances: why has not your mother let you have some? She is a-bed, said Robin. Well, your father then? He likewise is a-bed. They say, they are ill. And would you leave them then, and come to me for victuals? Get you gone! I have nothing for you. Had I more than what I want myself, I would give it to poor children who are fonder of their parents than you are, and make them happy, whereas you every day torment yours.

Robin came away in tears, and walked home very slowly. In the way, he recollected that he himself had frequently shammed illness; and supposed it not impossible that his parents might now be doing the same. For certainty, he got upon a little chair, held back the curtain, and beheld how pale they were. He saw that they had been crying too. This sight affected him. He put the curtains to again, sat down beside the bed, and held his hands up to his face. Unhappy that I am! said he, suppose my parents were to die, what would become of me? I am refused admittance every where, and cannot obtain a bit of bread. I must then have been very wicked! my poor mother! how you have at all times loved me! and how have I grieved you! And my father, my dear father—Who can tell, alas! but they will die?

He sat a little longer thinking; and returning afterwards to the house where he had been refused entrance at first, begged for heaven's sake that they would let him have a little bread and milk, to make a breakfast for his parents. His affliction and the humble tone of voice with which he now addressed them, easily gained him a hearing. Look ye, said the good man of the cottage, since you ask me thus, I will not refuse you. Take the half of this brown loaf, with some of this milk, and warm it for your parents. It is but just that you should prepare their breakfast, while they are both working so hard for you. He durst not mention that they were ill, because he feared the same reproaches which Frances had bestowed upon him, though he merited them now much less: on which account his charitable benefactor did not go himself to see them; as he would have done, had he but known their situation, for he esteemed them greatly.

In the mean time, Robin brought away the bread and milk, came home, made up a fire, and putting on a pipkin, boiled the milk. It was no sooner ready, than he drew a little table towards the bed. His mother heard him move about the chamber. What can Robin be doing? said his mother. Nothing good, I fear, answered Hutchinson. She wished to know, endeavoured to sit up in bed; and looking through the curtains, which were very flimsy, saw the little table with two porringers, and Robin, who was cutting bread into them. Upon this, she jogged her husband. See, said she, I verily believe he is doing this for us; else, why two porringers upon the table? Would to God, said Hutchinson, he were! I am not hungry, but should like to be convinced that he is better than we have thought him.

Robin, with his pipkin came at last; and filling both the porringers approached his parents. Hold, said he, dear father; hold dear mother.—Here's some breakfast for you both.—And is it you that prepared it? said the father. Who could give you all this bread and milk? It was neighbour such-a-one, answered he. The father and the mother bade him put down both the porringers again. Their eyes grew bright with joy. Dear child! come hither, cried they. You are not what we thought you to be; you bring both of us to life again. So saying, they held out their arms: he bent to their embrace; he wept, as they did likewise; he desired forgiveness for the grief which he had occasioned them; and promised that they should henceforth be rejoiced by his behaviour.

He was still in their arms, when Frances entered with her breakfast in her hand; which she brought, in order to share it with her indisposed good neighbours. She was moved at such a piteous sight, shed tears of joy, and blessed the little Robin, who, on-his side, tenderly embraced her also. They all breakfasted together, and had never in their lives before enjoyed so sweet a meal.

The happiness of such a day soon re-established this good father, and this loving mother, in their former state of health. The little boy also became very happy. He acquired the love of every one that knew him, was caressed with justice by his parents and the charitable Frances, who rejoiced to do them all the good in her power.

AMELIA.

AMELIA when scarcely six years old, was very fond of her mamma, and wished continually to be with her. On a certain day, Amelia's mother wished to go to market, and the little girl entreated to accompany her thither. You will only be troublesome to me, child, said she. No, no; I hope, I shall not be troublesome to you, said Amelia; and pressed so much that her mama at last consented to give her leave.

They set out, therefore, both together. As it chanced, their house was in the country, and the paths proved very bad. Amelia frequently was forced to walk behind her mother, when the ruts would not permit them to have hold of one another. They were now come very near the town; and as it chanced, the road was crouded with a multitude of people passing every way. The little girl was often separated from her mother; but this gave her no uneasiness, as after two or three such accidents, she had rejoined her with ease, but the nearer they approached the market, the more she perceived the crowd to augment. This should necessarily have made her watchful of the way that her mother went; and yet, a sort of puppet-show which was exhibiting, had charms sufficient to detain her. She stopped short to gaze at Punchinello. In the midst, however, of her entertainment, she turned round, but could not see her mother; she ran on, called out, and scrambling up a bank, at once looked over all the people's heads: but it was in vain. She could not see her, could not hear her voice; and now the little maiden, being frightened, durst not mix among so great a crowd, that jostled one another. So she got into a corner, called out mammy! mammy! and burst into a flood of tears.

The people that went by, looked at her. There is a little girl, said one among them, in a piteous taking! What is the matter with you? asked another. I have lost my mammy! Oh, never mind it; answered he. You will find her cut again, I warrant you. A third said, Do not cry, my little girl. She will not come to you the sooner for that. Thus said many, and they all went on about their business.

By good luck, at last, however, an old woman who sold eggs and butter, and was lame and therefore could not walk without a crutch, was going by, but seeing her in such distress, stopped short and pitied her. And which way was your mother going, little dear, said the woman, when you lost her? She was going to the market, said Amelia. Well, be comforted, replied the first; and come along with me. I will take you to the market. You will find her there, no doubt. Amelia gave her hand, that moment, to the good old woman, and soon reached the market. As they entered, she perceived her mother, gave a cry of joy, and up her mother came immediately. She took the little girl into her arms, and said, You frightened me exceedingly, my dear, by wandering from me: and the child, that moment, fell a hugging her, and cried.

She told her of the puppet-show, and that she had stopped to look at it; how she called out after her, and how the good old market-woman, and she only, had taken pity of her and brought her through the crowd. Amelia's mother thanked her, bought what eggs and butter she had left, and gave her more than she asked. Amelia kissed her ten times over; and while going home, would talk of nothing but the good old market-woman.

When the first fine weather came, Amelia begged her mother to go see Dame Dunch, which was the market-woman's name: and she consented, took a loaf of bread, and half a pound of tea, with sugar in proportion. Dame Dunch's dwelling was a wooden one: it was not large, but very clean and comfortable. In the front, there was a little grass-plat, shaded on every side by fruit trees; upon which, Amelia danced till evening with a niece of the Dame's who was as kind and good natured as her aunt.

Amelia's mother always bought Dame Dunch's eggs and butter, but complained that she rated them at too low a price; while Dame Dunch would have it that she was paid too much. Amelia and her mother gave the good old woman all the assistance in their power; and when in her turn the old woman could be serviceable to Amelia or her mother, she would put on her cloth apron, take her crutch, and come quite out of breath, but very joyous.

Thus they did each other mutual service: but the good old woman had the greatest reason to rejoice, that she had taken pity on a little girl in trouble. In the act of helping her, she did not think that her good heart would gain her such a world of happy hours.

THE RUFFLES AND GARTERS,

Letitia, Serina.

Letitia.

WHAT a charming day is Christmas Monday, when one has such handsome presents! How I long to see it!

Serina.

O! do not speak about it, sister. The first five and twenty days of this dull gloomy month, appear much longer than the rest all put together. What fine things we are to have! I dream about them every night, and wake a dozen times, when Christmas Monday is the first thing that takes up my thoughts.

Letitia.

Do you recollect, last year, how all mama's acquaintance brought us play-things and sweet-meats. We had really so much, we knew not where to put them.

Serina.

They were spread upon a large square table, and mama came out to call us with her charming voice. Come, come, said she, and take these presents. She embraced us, and shed tears. I never saw her half so happy as that day, when she beheld us jump about the room for joy.

Letitia.

I think, indeed, she seemed much happier than ourselves.

Serina.

One would have thought that she had received the Christmas-boxes.

Letitia.

There must consequently be a pleasure, I suppose, in giving: so I will tell you what we ought to do, Letitia. We are very little, and of course have little that we can give. But still we have it in our power to get this pleasure.

Serina.

How, pray, Letitia?

Letitia.

Why, it wants a fortnight now, you know, of Christmas Monday: and we both have money in our pockets.

Serina.

Yes; I have upwards of a crown. What shall we do then?

Letitia.

You recollect, our fair comes on to-morrow. Well then, we must get up early, and work hard, and study diligently, and do every part of our business well, that in the afternoon we may have leave to go and see the fair. Now I have more a good deal than nine shillings. We will each take half our money, and go buy the prettiest things that we can see. We will bring them home all cleverly wrapped up, and early upon Christmas Monday, give them to our gardener's children.

Serina.

Yes; but then, Letitia, the poor woman's children, who comes here to work occasionally, must have something likewise.

Letitia.

Right; I did not think of them. O, how delighted they will be! I fancy the poor little children, in their joy, will say that they never had a Christmas-box before.

Serina.

In that case, we shall be the first to cause them such a deal of pleasure.—O, my dear, dear sister! I must hug you for that thought!

Letitia.

Yes, but stay a little. I have another in my head. This money which we design to spend—

Serina.

Is ours; and we may lay it out as we think proper.

Letitia.

Yes, that is true. But—

Serina.

Well, but what?

Letitia.

We had it from mama, you know; it was her present to us, as in general all our money is. Now sister, if we lay this money out in presents for the children, it will then be mama that has made these presents, and not we.

Serina.

That is true indeed; and yet we have no other money.

Letitia.

We can, notwithstanding, hit on some expedient for the purpose, I dare say. For in the first place, I can work indifferently at my needle, and you knit with tolerable ease.

Serina.

Of what use will this be?

Letitia.

You will not be long before you have knit a pair of garters for papa; and I have been this fortnight at a pair of ruffles, which he does not know. What then hinders, pray, but we may finish these two articles a day or two on this side Christmas Monday?

Serina.

Well, and if we do, what then?

Letitia.

Why then we can present the garters and the rurfles to papa, who will be glad to buy them of us, and pay thrice as much as they are worth.—

Serina.

Yes; I am sure of that. But still the fair will be to-morrow; and we cannot before then finish what you know is to procure the money that we would lay out at the fair.

Letitia.

Nor is it necessary; for the money that we shall want, to make our purchase at the fair, we may borrow of ourselves; and afterwards repay it upwards of two days before we make our presents. Thus then we shall really have it in our power to say, that we alone gave Christmas-boxes to the poor children.

Serina.

A good scheme indeed! Well, you are always the readiest at these matters, I confess; but then that is because you are the eldest.

Letitia.

Bless me! How we shall both rejoice, in being able to afford them so much pleasure!

Serina.

I could wish that to-morrow were the day.

Letitia.

Never fear, it will soon come now; and we shall be happy even in the expectation of its coming.

ABEL.

LITTLE Abel was scarce turned of eight years old, when he had the misfortune to lose his mother. It afflicted him so much, that nothing could restore him to the gaiety so natural to young children. Mrs. Donaldson, his aunt, was forced to take him to her house, for fear his sadness should still aggravate her brother's inconsolable distress.

They went, however, frequently to see him; and at last, the time was come for going out of mourning. Abel therefore quitted his; and, though his heart was full of sorrow, he endeavoured to assume a lively countenance. His father was affected at this sensibility: but alas! it only occasioned him more sorrow, by causing him to reflect that he had for ever lost the mother of this amiable child; and this reflexion, every one remarked, was bringing him with sorrow to the grave.

It was a fortnight now, since Abel had been to see him as usual. His aunt always urged some pretext or other during that time, as often as he wished to go. The truth is, Mr. Donaldson was dangerously ill. He durst not ask to see his child, from apprehension that the sight of his condition might too much affect him. These paternal struggles, joined with the former depression of his spirits, so exhausted him, that very soon there was no hope remaining of his cure. He died, in fact, upon the day before his birth-day.

On the morrow, Abel, having waked betimes, tormented Mrs. Donaldson so much for leave to go and wish his father joy, that she at last consented; but he saw his mourning was now to go on again.

And why this ugly black, said he, to-day, when we are going to papa?—Who is dead now, aunt?

His aunt was so afflicted, that she could not speak a word.

Well then, said Abel, if you will not tell me, I will enquire of my papa.

At this she could no longer refrain from weeping, but burst out into a flood of tears, and said, It is he, it is he himself that is dead.

What, my papa dead! answered he. O heaven! take pity on me. My mama first dead! and now papa! Unhappy as I am, and parentless! what will become of me? O my papa! mama!

These words were scarcely uttered, when he fell into a swoon; nor could his aunt, without much difficulty, bring him to himself again.

Poor child, said she, do not be thus afflicted. Your parents are still living.

Abel.

Yes; but where?

Mrs. Donaldson.

In heaven, with God. They are both happy in that place; and will at all times have an eye upon their child. If you are prudent, diligent, and upright, they will pray that God may bless you; and God certainly will bless you. This was the last prayer that your father uttered yesterday, when dying.

Abel.

Yesterday! when I was thinking of the pleasure that I should have in seeing him this morning.—Yesterday! Then he is not buried yet? O aunt, pray let me see him! He would not send for me, fearing to afflict me; and perhaps I, on the contrary, should have afflicted him. But now, as I cannot possibly give him any pain, I would once more behold him, for the last, last time! Pray let me go and see him, my dear aunt!

Mrs. Donaldson.

Well then, we will go together, if you promise to be calm. You see my tears, and how much I am grieved for having lost my brother. He was always doing me some good or other: I was poor, and had no maintenance but what his bounty gave me. Notwithstanding which, I yield myself, you see, to Providence that watches over us. Be calm, then, my dear child!

Abel.

Yes, yes; I must indeed be calm. But pray, aunt, carry me to my papa, that I may see at least his coffin.

Mrs. Donaldson then took him by the hand and instantly went out: the day was very dark and even foggy. Abel wept as he went on.

When they were come before the house, the mutes were at the door, and Mr. Donaldson's late friends and neighbours were standing round his coffin. They wept bitterly, and praised the integrity of the deceased. Little Abel rushed into the house, and threw himself upon the coffin. For some time he could not speak a word; but at last raised his head a little, crying out, See how your little Abel weeps for having lost you! When mama died, you consoled me, and yet wept yourself; but now, who will console me for your loss! Oh! my papa! my good papa!

He could utter no more: his sorrow almost strangled him. His mouth was open, and his tongue seemed motionless. His eyes at one time fixed; and at another, rolling in their sockets, had no tears to shed. His aunt had need of all her strength to pluck him from the coffin. She conducted him to a neighbour's house, begging her to keep him till his father's burial was over; for she durst not think of carrying him to see it.

Very soon the bell was set a tolling. Abel heard it; and the woman to whose care he had been trusted having quitted the apartment for a moment, he availed himself of the opportunity, got out, and ran that instant to the church-yard, whither the funeral was gone. The minister had finished, and the grave was filling up;—when, all at once, a cry was heard of, Bury me with my papa! and Abel jumped into the grave.

The mourners were affected at it: Abel was drawn out all pale and speechless, and, in spite of his resistance, carried home.

He was for upwards of three days continually fainting; and his aunt could not bring him to be composed, even at intervals, except by speaking to him of his dear papa. At length his first excess of anguish was allayed: he wept no longer, but was very sorrowful.

A worthy merchant heard of this deplorable affair. He had not been without some knowledge of the father; therefore he repaired to Mrs. Donaldson, that he might see the little orphan. He was very much affected at his sadness, took him home and was a father to him. Abel soon considered himself as really the merchant's son, and every day gained greater ground in his affection. At the age of twenty, he conducted all the business of his benefactor with so much success, that in reality the merchant thought it his duty to assign him half the profits of it for the future; to which recompense he added his beloved daughter.—Abel hitherto had maintained his aunt out of the little perquisites belonging to him; and, by this event, he had the further happiness of making her quite easy for the remnant of her days. But never did his father's birth-day come about, but he was seized in some sort with a fever, on recalling to his memory what he once had suffered at that season; and to those sensations which then affected him did he impute the principles of honour and integrity that he ever afterwards cultivated during the whole of a long life.

VERSES addressed by MAURICE to LADY ABBERVILLE. (See Vol. II. p. 1.)

YOUR kindness, madam, ev'ry day renew'd

With cordial amity and tender grace,

Once made me dread, left feeble gratitude

Should with your friendship hold unequal pace.

But no, dear lady! 'twas a groundless fear:

My heart, a debtor for its happiness,

As reason ripens, each succeeding year

Shall ask her aid its throbbings to express.

The joy which from this grateful task I feel,

If such your gen'rous acts to you convey,

Light shall old age upon your virtues steal,

And all your hours glide happily away!

THE COMPLIMENT OF THE NEW YEAR.

UPON a certain new-year's day, little Peregrine came into the parlour, just before breakfast was ready. He advanced, and with the greatest gravity saluting his papa, began as follows, in a solemn tone of voice:

"As formerly the Romans were accustomed every new-year's day to wish their friends all happiness; so I, thrice honoured father, come—So I, thrice honoured father, come—come—come—"

The little orator at this stopped short. It was in vain; he fretted, rubbed his forehead, and began to fumble in his pocket. The remainder of this excellent harangue was not forth coming. The poor little boy was vexed, and quite in agitation. Mr. Vesey saw and pitied his embarrassment, embraced him tenderly, and said as follows: "Truly a most elegant oration! You yourself, no doubt, composed it?"

Peregrine.

No. papa; you are very good to think so, but I am not half learned enough for such a task. It was my brother that drew it up. You should have heard the whole. He told me that it was in periods; and the periods, he said, were rounded off into the bargain. Look ye, I will but run it over once, and you shall hear it then: or would you rather hear mama's? I have that perfectly, I am sure. It is extracted from the Grecian History.

Mr. Vesey.

No, no, Peregrine, it is not necessary; and your mother and myself, without it, are as much indebted both to your affection and your brother's.

Peregrine.

Oh, he was a fortnight, I assure you, at the work; and I employed a deal of time in learning them. What an unlucky thing that I should now forget, when I most wanted to remember it! No longer ago than last night, believe me, I delivered the whole speech without the least hesitation, in the servant's room, and speaking to your wig-block, if it could but tell you.

Mr. Vesey.

I was then at study in my closet, and to comfort you, must say, I heard it.

Peregrine,

(brighteming up:) Did you?—I am glad of that! and do not you think, papa, that I spoke it very well?

Mr. Vesey.

Surprisingly, I must acknowledge.

Peregrine.

Oh, but it was very fine!

Mr. Vesey.

To say the truth, your brother has quite crammed it full of eloquence. And yet, I should have liked a single word or two much better from yourself.

Peregrine.

But sure, papa, to say that I wish the person to whom I am speaking a happy new year, and nothing else, is far too common to give pleasure.

Mr. Vesey.

Yes: but why then nothing else? as if, instead of offering such a naked compliment, you could not previously have thought within yourself, what I wished most of all to enjoy during the course of this new year.

Peregrine.

Oh, that is not difficult. You wish, no doubt, to have your health, to see your family, your friends and fortune flourish, and to enjoy a deal of pleasure.

Mr. Vesey.

Well; do not you wish me all this?

Reregrine.

Yes, with all my heart.

Mr. Vesey.

What hinders then, but you could have made me up yourself a charming compliment, without requiring the assistance of another?

Peregrine.

Really, I did not think myself so learned; but it is always thus, when you instruct me; since I find out things which I did not think were in me. I can now make compliments to every one that I know. I need say nothing but what I have mentioned just this moment.

Mr. Vesey.

It may suit, I must acknowledge, many people; but should certainly be different with respect to others.

Peregrine.

Yes, I understand you pretty well, papa; but I do not know what the difference should be; so explain it to me, now we are alone.

Mr. Vesey.

With all my heart. There are a multitude of what are called good things, that one may wish any person whatsoever to enjoy; such as what you mentioned just now: there are others, that refer to different individuals according to their situations, age and duties. For example; one may wish to a man who is happy already, the long continuation of his happiness; to an unhappy man, the end of his affliction; to a man in office, that God's providence may bless his labours for the public welfare, give him necessary penetration, with the gift of perseverance to continue in them, and establish the enjoyment of felicity among his countrymen, by way of recompence on his endeavours. To an old man one may wish a length of life exempt from every inconveniency; to children, on the other hand, the preservation of their parents, progress in their studies, with a love of arts; to parents, the completion of their hopes, in bringing up their children; every species of prosperity to such as are our benefactors: and the long continuation of their kindness. It is our duty even to bethink us of our enemies, and to pray that God may show them the injustice of their conduct, and inspire them with a wish of meriting our friendship.

Peregrine.

O papa, how much I thank you! I have now a budget full of compliments for every one. I shall know what sort of wishes they will expect, and have no occasion for my brother's rounded periods, as he calls them: but why, as we should always have these wishes in our heart, pray tell me why the first day of the year, in preference to any other, should be pitched upon to publish them?

Mr. Vesey.

Because our life is, as it were, a ladder, every step of which is represented by a year. It is natural that our friends should flock together, and make merry with us, when our foot has got in safety on the step next to that which we lately trod, and to express their wish that we should climb the rest with equal safety. Do you understand me?

Peregrine.

O papa, quite clearly.

Mr. Vesey.

It is however in my power to make this clearer still, by using what we call another figure.

Peregrine.

Ah, let us have it, pray, papa.

Mr. Vesey.

Do you remember, then, our going to the top of that fine church in London, called St. Paul's?

Peregrine.

Oh! what a charming prospect from the golden gallery there! Why, you remember we could see all London and a great deal of the country from it!

Mr. Vesey.

Greenwich hospital particularly struck your eye; and as you could not then have any notion of the distance, you proposed that we should the following week go there on foot to dinner.

Peregrine.

Well, papa; and did I not, pray, walk the whole long journey like a man?

Mr. Vesey.

Yes, well enough. I had no reason to find fault with your performance; but remember, I took care, at every mile-stone on the road, to make you sit and rest a little.

Peregrine.

So you did indeed; and it was in my opinion, no bad idea at the first, to put up those figured stones beside the road. One knows at any time what distance one has walked, how much is still to come, and so regulates one's pace accordingly.

Mr. Vesey.

In this you have yourself explained the advantages which arise from our dividing life into those equal portions that we call years: for every year is something like a mile-stone in the road of life.

Peregrine

I understand you. And the seasons are, perhaps, so many quarter-miles, which tell us that we shall very soon arrive at the next stone.

Mr. Vesey.

Your observation is extremely just; and I am glad that this little journey is still fresh in your remembrance. If you take it in a proper point of view, it will exhibit a true picture of life. Remember, if you can, the different circumstances that took place while you were posting on to Greenwich; tell them in the order in which they fell out, as well as you are able, and I will make the application.

Peregrine.

I should scarce remember the whole business better, had it happened yesterday. At first, as I was full of spirits and desired to let you see it, I set out upon a trot and made a number of trips; I do not well know how many. You advised me to go slowly, as the journey would be rather long. I followed your advice and had no reason to repent. Upon the way, I asked for information at the sight of every thing of which I did not know the meaning, and you were pleased to tell me. When we happened to go by a bit of grass, we sat down on it, and you read a story-book that you had brought out in your pocket to divert me. Then we got upon our feet again; and as we went along, you told me many other things not only useful but diverting likewise. In this manner, though the weather was not altogether fine, though we had sometimes rain, and once a hail-storm to encounter, we arrived at Greenwich, I remember, very fresh and hearty, and made afterwards a charming dinner.

Mr. Vesey.

Very faithfully related, Peregrine! but for some few circumstances, which, however, I am glad you have not introduced; as for example, your attention to a poor blind man whom you caught by the arm, if you remember, to prevent him from falling upon a heap of stones that lay before him, and on which he might have broke his legs; the assistance that you afforded a poor washer woman's boy, by picking up a handkerchief of linen which had fallen out of the cart; but particularly the alms that you gave to several people on the road.

Peregrine.

Do you think, then, papa, that I forgot them? I know that we should not boast of any good, that we may have had the opportunity of doing.

Mr. Vesey.

And on that account, I am greatly pleased in dwelling on it, as a recompence for so much modesty. It is just that I should repay you some small portion of the joy which you caused me.

Peregrine.

Oh! I saw tears rolling in your eye, not once alone, nor twice, but often. I was so delighted! if you knew how much that sight made me forget my weariness! I walked much the better for it. But let me have the application that you just mentioned.

Mr. Vesey.

It is as follows, Peregrine. Give me all the attention in your power.

Peregrine.

Fear nothing. I will not lose a syllable, sir, of what you tell me, I assure you.

Mr. Vesey.

The look, then, which you cast round you from the golden gallery, all over London, and a great deal, as you mentioned, of the country, is expressive of the first reflexions of a child upon the multitude about him. The long walk that you chose to Greenwich, is the journey which we propose to ourselves through life. The eagerness with which you wished to hurry on at setting out, without consulting your ability for running, and which cost you such repeated trips, is the natural impetuosity of youth which would excite us to the worst excesses, if a faithful and experienced friend were not to moderate it. The instruction that you derived, as we were walking on, from reading and conversing with me, and the actions of good-will and charity that you performed, took off from the fatigue of such a journey; and you finished it thereby with satisfaction to yourself, though there had fallen a deal of rain, and even hail. These circumstances, too, convey instruction; for in life there are no other means than the performance of our duty, to keep off disquietude and to cherish peace within us, notwithstanding those vicissitudes of fortune which would otherwise, perhaps, go near to overwhelm us: and the comfortable meal that we made at the conclusion of our journey is no other than an emblem of the recompence which God gives us when we die, to crown those virtuous actions that we have laboured to perform while in this world.

Peregrine.

Yes, yes, papa; all this squares wonderfully well, and I shall have a deal of happiness, I see beforehand, in the year that is now begun.

Mr. Vesey.

It rests with yourself alone to make the year quite happy; but once more, let us return to our excursion. Do you recollect when in going round, that we might see a little of the park, we came upon Blackheath? The heavens were then serene, and we could see behind us all the way that we had been walking.

Peregrine.

Yes, indeed, papa! and I was proud of having walked so far!

Mr. Vesey.

By proud, you mean rejoiced. Are you then equally rejoiced at present, while your reason which now dawns within you, pauses and cast back a look upon the way that you have already made in life? You entered it quite weak and naked, without any means of making, in the least degree, provision for your wants. It was your mother who gave you your first food, and it is I that have the forethought to subsist you. How do we desire you to repay us? We want nothing more, than that you should yourself endeavour to be happy, by becoming just and honest; by acquiring a due notion of your several duties; and by seriously intending to discharge them. Have you then fulfilled these few conditions, no less advantageous to yourself than easy? Have you first of all been grateful to God's goodness, who has willed that you should be born of parents possessing wherewithal to bring you up in ease and honour? Have you always shewn those parents the obedience and respect that you owe them? Have you paid attention to the precepts of your teachers? Have you never given occasion for your brothers or your sisters to complain of envy or injustice in you? Have you always treated those who wait upon you, with a proper sort of condescension, and at no time claimed from their inferior situation, what it was their duty to refuse you? In a word, do you possess that love of justice, that equality of conduct, and that moderation which we, by our instruction and example, are at all times doing what we can to set before you?

Peregrine.

Ah, papa, let us not look so much at what is past, but to the future. Every thing that I should have done, I promise by God's blessing to do hereafter.

Mr. Vesey.

That is well said: embrace me, therefore, Peregrine. I accept your promise, and confine to its performance all the wishes that I need make, on my side, for your happiness, on this renewal of the year.

THE CHRISTMAS-BOX.
A DRAMA, in Two ACTS.

CHARACTERS.

- MR. DAMER.

- EDWARD, his Children.

- VERONICA, his Children.

- CHARLES, Edward's Friend.

- ARCHIBALD, an Orphan.

- CLEMENT, a Servant.

SCENE. An apartment in the house of Mr. Damer.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Charles, Archibald.

Archibald.

SO early with us, Master Charles?

Charles.

Yes, Archibald; and what is more, I want to speak with you.

Archibald.

With me, sir? What can occasion me the honour of your visit?

Charles.

What except the pleasure, Archibald, of seeing you? The truth however is, that I am come to know what Christmas-boxes you have had.

Archibald.

What Christmas-boxes, do you ask me? If my mother, sister and myself have but the necessary things of life, we are content.

Charles.

But Mr. Damer, surely, lets you want for nothing.

Archibald.

It is true, indeed, we are his debtors for whatever we possess, and he continues in our favour the respect, as I may call it, that he had for my poor father; and his son, too, has a friendship for us. Do you see, sir, this new suit of clothes upon me? it is Edward's present. It was bought for him, but his papa permitted him to give it me, by way of Christmas-box. He has prevailed too on Miss Veronica to present my sister with a few of her cast clothes; and we were last night very happy in receiving them.

Charles.

I suppose so; but if you talk of Christmasboxes, it is he that has received some fine ones no doubt!

Archibald.

Certainly, his father is so rich! and yet, I know not if his pleasure was as great as ours. Fine things are no novelties to him. And what we may receive, whenever we think proper, never gives us so much joy as what they feel to whom their benefactors unexpectedly make presents.

Charles.

I agree with you in this: but cannot you tell me what Edward has received? No doubt he has shown you all his presents.

Archibald.

Yes, yes, that he has indeed: but how shall I remember the whole catalogue? Let me reflect a little. In the first place, he has had some books, a case of mathematical instruments, a microscope, silk stockings, and a set of silver buttons for a suit of clothes, compleat.

Charles.

But those are not the things that I mean. What I want to know about, friend Archibald, are the sweetmeats and nice things, that generally are presented, at this season of the year, to children of our age.

Archibald.

Oh! his papa has given him no such things: he says that sweetmeats do but rot the teeth; and as for play-things, certainly Edward is too big, to wish for such matters. It is only from his aunt that he received trifles of this sort. She, indeed, has given him some of what you mention.

Charles.

Ay, ay! and what for instance?

Archibald.

How can I remember them? There is in the first place, a great cake; a quantity of candied orange peel; some capillaire; and sweetmeats; half-a-dozen companies of French and English soldiers, cast in lead, and in their uniforms; a draft-board; fish and counters; and about a dozen china figures made in Derbyshire. But rather go and speak to him yourself. He will show you every thing that he has received. Why do you put these several questions to me?

Charles.

Oh! I know what I am doing. I had my reasons for interrogating you, before I went up stairs into Edward's room.

Archibald.

And what, pray, are those reasons? May I know?

Charles.

I had determined never to reveal them: but, provided you will but be secret—

Archibald.

I am no prater.

Charles.

Then give me your promise.

Archibald.

There is my hand.

Charles.

Well then, I will tell you, as a secret that I would have you keep, Edward is finely taken in!

Archibald.

Edward finely taken in! my friend? I cannot endure such language.

Charles.

Then I will tell you nothing. I am still master of my secret; you know that.

Archibald.

How, Charles! And can you wrong, then, my dear friend Edward at this rate?

Charles.

O! be assured, I shall not wrong him personally: but I speak of an affair in which we both have come to an agreement.

Archibald.

But, if taken in, he is deceived.

Charles.

No, no: he has deceived himself entirely.

Archibald.

I do not understand a word of this enigma.

Charles.

I will explain the matter to you. We had previously agreed to go equal sharers in our Christmasboxes, whatsoever they might be, respecting every thing that in its nature was divisible.

Archibald.

Well, pray, and can he lose by such a bargain? His papa is not so rich as yours. Your Christmasboxes therefore must, at least in point of value, equal his, and very probably exceed them.

Charles.

It is true, indeed, I have received a very handsome Christmas-box. This watch, for instance; but a watch, you know, cannot be divided.

Archibald.

On your honour, you have had no other present?

Charles.

Nothing, I assure you, but a cake and two small boxes of preserves. My father says, as Mr. Damer does, that sweetmeats hurt one. While mama was living it was quite another thing, for then I had such delicacies in abundance; and Edward knows as much, who saw my last year's Christmas-boxes. It was this that induced him to make such a bargain with me; and last week too, we confirmed it on our word. You see, then—

Archibald.

Yes, I see too clearly, that Edward is to be your dupe. He will have only half a cake and some preserves for what he is to give you up. It is true, his aunt has sent him more than he can eat. But is it true then, Master Charles, that you had nothing else? I must confess, I find it very difficult to credit your assertion.

Charles.

Difficult to credit my assertion! Shall I swear, then, to the truth of what I say?

Archibald.

Swear! Fye! Should a little gentleman, as you are, think of swearing in this matter? It is entirely your affair; and if you are deceiving my good friend Edward, you will lose much more than he, Charles.

Charles.

But, Archibald, do you know that I do not approve of such remonstrances? It is Edward's business to reflect on the affair. Suppose Edward had received no Christmas-box?

Archibald.

There was no fear of that. His friends are generous, and Edward's conduct pleases them. Your Christmas-box is such a trifle! It would be quite unhandsome in you, to expect that Edward should have all the disadvantage on his side; and therefore we must go and tell him.

Charles.

Oh! that is done already. Late last night I sent him half the cake that I received, and part of my preserves. I have likewise written him a little letter on the subject.

Archibald.

What then, you will persist in your demand upon him?

Charles.

And pray what would you do, in my situation? You that talk so much!

Archibald.

I would have nothing from him, having nothing upon my side to bestow; and therefore quit him of his promise.

Charles.

Oh! your humble servant! Keep your counsel to yourself. Our bargain is a wager; and when people think of laying wagers, it is that they may win. Next year it shall be as he pleases; but at present, if he does not give me half of every thing that he has received, his cake, his orange-peel, his sweetmeats, soldiers, fish and counters, china ware, and any thing else that you may have forgot to mention, I will follow him through all the streets, courts, lanes, and every thoroughfare in London, and proclaim him for a cheat. Yes, tell him that from me, friend Archibald; and, that such as we should keep our promise, after we have sworn to one another.

Archibald.

After you have sworn! Fie, fie upon your oaths! I am very poor; and yet, if you would give me all the Christmas-boxes that ever you received, not excepting even your fine watch, I would not swear in such a trifling matter. It should be a very solemn business only that would make me take an oath.

Charles.

Why, Archibald, you are a downright simpleton. Without this swearing, how should any one be bound to keep his promise?

Archibald.

Do you ask that seriously? His very promise should compel him to observe it, and the word of honest people be as sacred as an oath. If you judge otherwise, I do not know what I am to think of you.

Charles.

It is your idea, then, that Edward will be faithful to his promise?

Archibald.

My idea? Should he break it, insignificant as I must own myself, I would never look upon him as long as I have breath. But no, he will not break it; and to keep his word, will have no manner of occasion for an oath.

Charles.

That we shall see. However, tell him every thing that I have said, that he may act accordingly.

Archibald.

I need tell him nothing. He does not want a monitor to do his duty.

Charles.

And pray add, I wish him joy that he is so finely taken in.

Archibald.

What then, you would insult, as well as—

Charles.

No: but I divert myself at his expence, as he would do at mine. Let him alone! Another time, if he thinks proper, he may be revenged.

Archibald.

No, no; this is the only business of the kind that ever he will tranfact with you.

Charles.

As he pleases. I have wherewithal, by this day's lucky business, to console myself. (He goes out.)

Archibald,

(alone.) I could not have imagined Charles so mercenary. If, in truth, he has no more than what he tells me from his father, why then did he not break off the bargain, when he found it likely to press so hard upon his friend? What avarice! and what meanness likewise! It is Edward's fault, however, and will hardly ruin him. But here he comes.

SCENE III.

Archibald, Edward.

Edward,

(with a paper.) Ah! dear Archibald, I deserve, and richly, to be hooted for my folly!—Read this letter.

Archibald.

I have learned what it contains. But pray how came you to make such a bargain? Certainly you should have first asked leave of your papa and aunt, since what your parents and relations give you should not be disposed of without their consent.

Edward.

That is true; but it is done.

Archibald.

And you must keep your word. But wherefore give it then?

Edward.

Because last year, and the preceding, Charles had better Christmas-boxes than myself; and I supposed—

Archibald.

Ah, ah! I understand the matter. You designed to dupe him then; therefore you are punished with justice.

Edward.

Had I been contented with my own!

Archibald.

Well, no complaints, Edward. Is not your half still sufficient for you?

Edward.

So you fancy—

Archibald.

Do not go on. Edward means to ask me if he ought to keep his word.

Edward.

But are you certain that every thing was fair and open on the part of Charles?

Archibald.

I think him honest, since he told me so himself; and it is my practice to think well of every one, till he has once deceived me.

Edward.

But how happens it that his father should have been so sparing towards him? Every former Christmas he has had a store of presents.

Archibald.

They were his mama's; and now she is dead, his father thinks as yours does, and instead of childish toys, has bought him a fine watch.

Edward.

Yes, yes; I know it. He will conceal what ought to be divided, of his presents, and yet I must give him up half mine.

Archibald.

Should he behave so; he would be a knave.

Edward.

And should I, in that case; be bound to keep my promise with him?

Archibald.

What is this question, my good friend Edward? Just as if you were to ask me, whether, if he proves a cheat, you might not be so likewise.

Edward.

But, unless I tell him, he will never know what I have had.

Archibald.

And can you hide this knowledge from yourself?

Edward.

But I have hardly had, from my papa, more things that can be shared, than he. The rest, you know, were from my aunt.

Archibald.

Did you except what any one but your papa might give you, in your bargain?

Edward.

Oh! no, no.

Archibald.

Then your objection is answered.

Edward,

(vexed.) What shall I do then?

Archibald.

I have told you that, already. You have but one way to take in this affair.

Edward.

If I think fit to take it, to be sure I may; but what can force me, if I do not?

Archibald.

Your honour. Should you be so shameful as to break your word, then Charles will certainly expose your conduct, and with justice.

Edward.

Oh! I do not mind that a rush. I will answer him at any time. But how, pray, will he be convinced that I have broke my word?

Archibald.

He knows, already, every thing that you have received. I told him.

Edward.

What, and can you have betrayed me, Archibald?—I will preserve no future friendship with you.

Archibald.

I should die with grief, if I had willingly betrayed you, dear Edward; I can very easily excuse my conduct, by declaring, that before I knew of your agreement, Charles contrived to take me by surprize. But if it were not so, and he had called upon me to speak truth, I must have done it. To be honest, one should no more lie than break one's word.

Edward.

You take his part against me! and shall I be still your friend? No, no!

Archibald.

As you please. I know what it must cost me if I lose your friendship, which is much more precious to me than even all the gifts that your family have heaped upon me; but at every risque, I have no other counsel for you: and although you should not rest my friend, nothing shall keep me, while I live, from being yours.

Edward.

A good friend, truly, to look on while I am robbed!

Archibald.

And pray who robs you but yourself? Why should you thus have entered into an agreement, at the risque of losing?

Edward.

But I might have gained.

Archibald.

And then would you have claimed your bargain from Charles?

Edward.

Would I?—What a question!

Archibald.

Why then would you not fulfil it on your part, and show that you can be just, when the conditions are so easy?

Edward.

Are so easy? What! the loss of half my property?

Archibald.

Have you not the other half still left? Well then, imagine yourself to have received no more; but think particularly how much reputation such an action will procure you in men's eyes, when they observe that you put no value upon what the generality of children so fondly prize, but can scorn them when your word is to be kept. As many as are told of your fidelity will love you. Granting Charles designs to trick you, I am sure, he will never have the courage afterwards to look you in the face; whereas, upon the other hand, you will walk before him with your head up, sure of the esteem of all good people. Yes, my dear Edward, let us always deal uprightly, whatsoever price it costs us. Ah! if I were rich, you should not have to mourn your loss a moment upon this occasion. I would give you every thing in my possession to make you amends.

Edward,

(embracing him.) Oh! how much, my dearest Archibald, is your behaviour to be praised? while I must hate myself for mine. Yes, I confess it, I was mercenary and unjust, but will be so no longer. I will look with scorn upon the baubles that had charms enough, as I imagined, to corrupt me: so let Charles directly have his share, and you yourself shall halve them; give him what you please. I only desire that you would not scorn me for indulging such mean thoughts: I will be henceforth worthy your esteem and friendship.

Archibald.

And you are so. You were never worthier of it than at present. I was well acquainted with your heart, and knew what measures you would take. This conquest of yourself will cause you much more satisfaction than the trifles that you give up: when some few days are passed, they would have lost their charms, and you would certainly have given the whole away at once, to any child that should have wanted them.

Edward.

Yes, yes: you know me very well. What therefore can I do, to show you my regard and gratitude for having saved my honour?

Archibald,

(embracing him.) Still love me, Edward.

Edward.

Always, always: but it is proper that I should now go fetch my presents, and make haste to share them. I am quite uneasy till they are gone, and fear I shall repent of what I am about to do, if I do not soon dispatch it.

Archibald.

You would soon repent of that repentance, should it happen: I am certain of it. (Edward goes out.)

Archibald,

(alone.) No; were all his presents mine, I should not be so pleased as I am now, in thus saving Edward's reputation. And, in fact, how happy must he be himself, in having kept his word at the expence of what he thought so precious! Doubtless this sacrifice costs him dear: well then, it will be on that account more glorious. I was certain of his principles. He needed nothing but a little explanation of the matter, to behave with honour.

SCENE III.

Archibald, Edward.

Edward,

(bringing in a large two-handled basket.) Come and help me, Archibald, that I may not let the basket fall; for every thing within it, now, I look upon as sacred. I have left the cake in the beaufet, for fear of breaking it: but when it is wanted, I will go fetch it. Here is the candied orange-peel, however: (he opens the parcel and gives it to Archibald) This, I take it, is about the middle. Take this side for Charles, and let me have the other in the box.

Archibald.

No, no; it will be better far to halve it in his presence; he may otherwise imagine that you have eat some of it. So let us see the rest of the confectionary.— First, four bags of sweetmeats.—Two for each.—Two bottles, next, of capillaire.—One Charles's, and the other yours.—How many fish and counters are there here?

Edward.

Two hundred fish, and twenty counters.

Archibald,

(after having counted out half of each.) These are his. The bag cannot be divided. You must therefore take it with the other fish and counters.

Edward.

And these soldiers. How delighted we should both have been, in ranging them against each other, when the winter evenings were come on.

Archibald.

We should, indeed; but I am more delighted as it is. The English soldiers shall be yours. Their uniform is red, and therefore much more lively than the white.—A draft-board, and a microscope.

Edward.

Ah! luckily, they cannot be divided!

Archibald.

In reality they cannot; but together they may make two lots, and each of you take one: for Charles, when he appears, may fall a quibbling with us; and I recommend you to keep clear no less of his suspicions, than his open accusations. Give him up the draft-board, and keep you the microscope. You may employ it, to obtain the knowledge of a thousand beauteous objects, that escape our eye-sight.

Edward.

Ah! here comes what I shall be the most grieved to give up!—These sweet china figures.

Archibald.

You could not have put all together on your chimney-piece. Can you inform me what they represent?

Edward.

The Muses and the Seasons.

Archibald.

Then give him the Seasons. You may justly take the best in your division, and the Muses cannot, with propriety, be parted. But Edward, not to settle things by halves, let me advise you to throw in the other fish and counters with the bag. His Seasons will be taken as valuable as your Muses. (He puts all the fish and counters into Charles's heap.) There they are.

Edward.

You make me do whatever you think fit.

Archibald.

What I would do myself, if I were in your place. But what comes here?—Ha! ha! a set of copperplates!—I did not mention these to Charles.

Edward,

(overjoyed.) You don't say so!

Archibald.

But what of that? It is just the same as if he knew it. Let me count the number: one, two, three; (he counts two dozen, reading over their inscriptions, and dividing them accordingly.) These, (taking up one parcel,) it seems, are the reigning kings of Europe; and these other, (counting,) one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, great men, that flourished once in England.

Edward.

Well, which parcel shall we chuse?

Archibald,

(shewing him two plates, selected from the second parcel.) Here; here is our choice: this portrait is that Howard of whom you have heard your father so often speak with rapture: and here is Gay, whose Fables always give you so much pleasure. Keep, by all means, such a good companion. (He puts the kings into Charles's lot, and Howard, with the other fix, into Edward's) That is the whole.

Edward,

(with a sigh.) Yes, yes.

Archibald.

But why that sigh?

Edward.

Because you make me give him up so many charming things.

Archibald.

Not I, my dear Edward: you make yourself do this. It was your resolution; and is still so, is it not?

Edward.

Yes, yes. I have nothing else to beg, dear Archibald, but that Charles may have his share immediately. The sight of so much that I must give away grieves me.

Archibald.

Think no more about it. You have done your duty. I will go speak to Charles, and bring him hither. If, as you imagine, he has cheated you, I wish— I cannot well tell you, how much harm I wish him. (He goes out.)

Edward,

(alone.) Yes, yes, how much harm you wish him! In addition to my loss of all these charming things, the harm to me is, that he will laugh at my simplicity in making such a bargain. When he sent me, late last night, my miserable portion of his presents, doubtless he began that moment to enjoy his triumph. (He approaches the table, and surveys the things upon it with a look of sorrow.) I must part then with so much! and part with it to one that meant to trick me! I cannot help preferring, now, whatever is not in my share. These bags of sweetmeats seem much bigger than my two. That draft-board likewise, that I thought to play on, when my friends should come and see me, seems much prettier now than before. And those soldiers! they would have made me up an army. All this, but just now, was mine, and I must give it up, and give it up for nothing too!—for nothing! (He reflects within himself a little.) Is my word then nothing? and my honour, is that nothing? If—but don't I hear a step? Yes, yes, it is Charles; or now I look again, not he, but Veronica.

SCENE IV.

Edward, Veronica.

Veronica,

(looking eagerly at every thing upon the table.) What are you about, Edward? What is the meaning of all this? Do you intend me one of these two shares? I can hardly think so; yet I should look upon it as quite loving in you—

Edward.

Ah! my dearest sister, I would give you half my Christmas-box with pleasure; but it is not in my power, as half of what you see, is mine no longer to dispose of as I please.

Veronica.

Is yours no longer?—Why so, Edward?— But oh, now I understand you!—This is some new trick of Archibald's. He is always wheedling you for something, which he tells you others want, and what he can pinch out of you this way, he is sure to keep himself.

Edward.

Do not speak, dear sister, in this manner of that worthy boy. I would give every thing in my possession to have his principles.

Veronica.

Well then, why are you no longer master of your own?

Edward.

You will say, I am justly punished for my gripingness; for I must yield to Charles one part of the presents made me by my aunt and my papa.

Veronica.

Instead of giving me that half! and why!

Edward.

Because we bargained to divide our Christmasboxes. I have had a deal this year, and he unfortunately nothing.

Veronica.

Then I would give him nothing: that is but just.

Edward.

But we have pledged our honour to each other. He has kept his word, and I must keep mine also, or be looked on as a thief.

Veronica.

Ay, ay, you have got this notion from your Archibald. I am mad to think that you let yourself be governed by a chit who lives on our assistance.

Edward.

But pray, sister, though the notion should be Archibald's, is it not a just one?

Veronica.

Is it not a just one! Never. Look ye, I would lay a wager that he is now agreed with Charles to share whatever he can thus persuade you to give up.

Edward.

Do you think so seriously? But no; you do him wrong: he is too generous to do that.

Veronica.

It is you, Edward, that are too weak! or you might think that he would much more naturally take your part than any other's, if he were not interested.

Edward.

I profess myself his friend, and he is interested that I should not be a cheat.

Veronica.

Good!—Ha! ha! ha! And so then, that you may not be a cheat, you will willingly be cheated by another?

Edward.

Better than cheat him myself.

Veronica.

And in a manner so ridiculous!—Ha! ha! How finely they are laughing at you!

Edward.

What, is Archibald laughing at me?

Veronica.

If he helps to cheat you.

Edward.

But I have pledged my word. The shares are made as you may see, and Charles is coming.

Veronica.

Well; and let him go away. I shall be glad to see you catch them, when they think you caught.

Edward.

You would have me then disgrace myself, that I may save these baubles.

Veronica.

But suppose you could save them with honour?

Edward.

Ay, pray how?

Veronica.

Why, papa, or rather aunt, for she may be more easy of persuasion, must be told the whole affair, and they will forbid your parting with their presents.—I myself will take the business on me.

Edward.

No, no, sister; if you love me—

Veronica.

You are determined to be pillaged. Be it so, then. I have no objection in the least, since I shall not be the loser by it: on the other hand, I shall enjoy the opportunity of laughing at your cost. And yet, on second thoughts, I will run and tell papa, if it be only to obtain you a good scolding, since you will not follow my advice.

Edward.

But, sister—hear me!—Pray come back a little!—What! you won't?—You cannot imagine how much you will displease me! (He follows and endeavours to bring her back, but she refuses.)

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Edward,

(returning after a few minutes absence.) I could not possibly prevail upon her to come back; but she would go and tell papa.—In fact, she is in the right.—If my papa and aunt forbid me, I keep every thing, and do not break my word. I wonder that this idea did not sooner strike me. It is indeed unjust in some degree; and there is a voice within me that condemns it. I should not have entered into this agreement, without thinking of each separate circumstance, and guarding properly against them. I wish Archibald were but here, to fix me one way or another. I am at a loss for his counsel. When he comes, I hope it will be alone. Ah! here he is; and as I wished to have it, no one is with him.

SCENE II.

Edward, Archibald.

Archibald.

Charles will very soon be here. He is gone to ask his father's leave for coming. Be of courage, dear Edward; nor let Charles suspect that these play-things are of any value to you. I begin to think he does not deal with you upon the square in this transaction. I spoke to him rather seriously; and by his answers, he appeared embarrassed.

Edward.

Oh, I am sure he means to trick me; notwithstanding which, I must be satisfied.

Archibald.

And have you not great cause for satisfaction? You have done your duty.

Edward.

Well, I will try to conquer my reluctance in this point, and put on a good face before him; but would any one conceive what Veronica told me not ten minutes since? That I should beg papa or aunt to lay their orders on me, who would certainly forbid my giving any thing away; and thus I should preserve my Christmas-box and reputation?

Archibald.

And your peace of mind;—would you preserve that likewise?

Edward.

No, indeed. I even thought, while she was speaking, how disgraceful such an application would be to me.

Archibald.

Why then hesitate a moment longer? O, my dear Edward! let us never stifle those first whisperings of integrity and generosity that may be heard within us. You will soon experience how much inward satisfaction flows from listening to them. Have we any real need of these poor gimcracks here, to make us happy? Oh! when you have parted with them, I will be more industrious to procure you other sources of amusement. If my friendship is of any value to you, be assured I shall esteem you ten times more, if you consult your honour in this matter.

Edward.

Yes. I will do so, dear Archibald, and be proud of yielding to your counsel, as in every other matter, so in this too. I will follow it, however Veronica may persuade me to do otherwise. These gimcracks—as you call them. Out upon such childishnesses! for to prove how truly I despise them, look, I will add my two remaining sweet-meat bags to Charles's.—There—they shall be mine no longer.

Archibald.

Bravely done, Edward! You are like a general who returns in triumph, after having won a battle.

Edward.

Always have an eye upon me; and if you observe—

Archibald.

I know what you would say; but softly, here comes Charles.

SCENE III.

Edward, Archibald, Charles.

Charles,

(somewhat embarrassed.) Good morrow, dear Edward; I am told, you want to speak with me.—It grieves me, notwithstanding—

Edward.

What grieves you, pray?

Charles.

That my Christmas-box has been so trifling; and—

Edward.

Oh, never mind it, if that be all.

Archibald.

Edward is but so much the more pleased, that he can compensate for what you want; and I could wish that you knew with how much pleasure he fulfils his promise now; but he himself can tell you what he thinks on this occasion.

Edward.

Yes. What I am now to do, I do with all my heart. (He takes Charles by the hand, and brings him to the table.) So look ye; here are all my presents: we first halved them pretty nearly; after which I added something to your share, that you might have no reason to complain.

Archibald.

Two articles, the microscope and draft-board could not be divided. By the terms of your agreement, therefore, your friend might have kept them both; but he has honourably chosen to give up the draft-board; and accordingly I put it to your share.

Edward.

I am sorry Charles, that these china figures could not be divided equally. I have kept the Muses: but because the Seasons were less valuable, I have added to them all the fish and counters in this bag, which were my own. You may still, however, make choice of which lot you please.

Charles.

No, no, my friend. I am quite content already.

Edward.

But not I. There is besides all this, a cake below, of which the half is mine. I make a present to you of the whole, and run to fetch it.

Charles,

(calling him back.) No, not now, Edward.

Archibald,

(stopping Charles.) Let him, let him, Charles. — (To Edward.) Yes, go my friend. (Edward goes out.) Well, I am sure, you will own Edward thinks quite nobly, since you see his promise is so sacred to him. Any other in his situation might have been afflicted at the disadvantage of the bargain made between you; but Edward goes beyond the agreement, and is happy in thus exceeding your expectations.

Charles,

(confused.) True: you make me blush, dear Archibald. And I cannot tell how it is—

Archibald.

You have no need to blush, as if it were a fault in you, that you received no greater presents from your father.

Charles,

(turning away.) Poor Edward!

Archibald.

Should you pity him, he would have reason to complain: whereas at present he has none. It would have been the shame of tricking you, and nothing else, that must have rendered him unhappy. Look at what you have, and be rejoiced, as he is.

Edward,

(coming in with the cake.) Hold; here is what I give you: half, as I have already said, is over and above the bargain.

Charles,

(putting back the cake with one hand, and with the other concealing his face.) No, Edward; it is too much.

Edward.

Take it, take it, Charles: but do not imagine that I am doing thus, through shame, for having wished to keep back any of my presents from you. Archibald, I am sure, will witness for me as to that.

Archibald,

(looking stedfastly at Charles.) That I will; and in the face of the whole world. (Charles wipes his eyes.)

Edward.

But sure you are crying, Mr. Charles? What ails you?

Charles.

Nothing, nothing—Only that you see me here, a pitiful, mean, sorry fellow, and that I have cheated you.

Edward.

You cheated me? that cannot be! have we not been acquainted with each other from our infancy? And are we not both children of good friends and neighbours?

Charles.

Yes; and that very circumstance Edward, aggravates my guilt. I do not deserve that you should think so generously of me. (He takes Edward by the hand.) It is however in my power to prove that I am not totally unworthy of your friendship. In reality, I have received no playthings, or the like, this Christmas from my father, but— (searching his pockets) here are three new guineas that I requested him to give me in their stead. You see then, I was only a deceiver, while you acted towards me with such generosity: but I repent, and give you up the half. In fact it is your own, but if you have any pity in you, pardon me my knavery and be still my friend.

Edward,

(embracing him.) Yes, always while I live.— How you rejoice me! Not however with your money, as I shall not take it.

SCENE IV.

Archibald, Charles, Edward, Veronica.

Veronica.

Archibald must come immediately to my papa.

Archibald.

O my dear young lady, cannot he stay a little? I shall lose the pleasure—

Veronica.

Yes—of squeezing something from my brother! but you have heard the message; so come with me. What! you would have papa wait for you! (She gets hold of his hand, and pulls him along.)

Edward.

Sister! sister! only a few minutes.

Veronica,

(mocking him.) Brother! brother! No; I will have him with me. (She goes out with Archibald.)

Edward,

(taking hold of Charles's hand.) O my dear friend Charles, how I rejoice while I am speaking! I could have no right to hope for such sincerity of conduct from you.

Charles.

How! When you bestow upon me half your things, without expecting any in return from me.

Edward.

No; no: you must not thus applaud my generosity. You cannot imagine how reluctantly at first I parted with this half; and had it not been for the exhortation that Archibald gave me to so good a work, I should not have kept my word after all.

Charles.

And to him I am indebted likewise for the satisfaction of not having quite compleated my unworthy tricking scheme. He set the baseness of it in so full a light before me! And when afterward I entered here, and found with how much generosity you had proceeded in your distribution—

Edward.

In my distribution! It is Archibald that has all the merit of it. I cannot tell what happy art he has; but to deprive myself of what I had beforehand so much cherished, was a pleasure to me. Yet there is something in your share that I added of myself.

Charles.

But you shall keep the whole: for I will have nothing of it, and am happy to get rid of such a burthen. I should never have presumed to look you in the face. I could not think how much one suffers by becoming a dishonest man.

Edward.

And how was I tormented also? But at present I experience how much pleasure flows from generosity. All this is due to Archibald. So necessitous, and yet so upright! Sure he could not claim a recompence for telling you my Christmas-boxes?

Charles.

He, my dear Edward! What can cause you such a thought?

Edward.

My sister, in her jealousy, would fain have had me think so.

Charles.

Ah, if you had heard how handsomely he spoke about you, and espoused your interests in our conversation! I had need of all my art and cunning to get from him what you had received. And therefore, henceforth he shall have what he has merited so well, my friendship: and I will give him the remaining half of my three guineas.

Edward.

No, no, Charles; leave me to recompense him as I well know how: and keep your money, with the half that is yours, of my Christmas-boxes.

Charles.

What? I keep it? Never. Look ye; rather let us give him every thing that we should have shared between us. We have well deserved to lose, and he to have it.

Edward.

Yes, with all my heart. And do you know what you must do? We have it in our power to please him very much. I will order all these things upon the table to be carried to his mother's; so that he may see them there, the first time he goes home.

Charles.

Good! good! provided by the bye, he does not return too soon, and interrupt us.

Edward.

I will go fetch the servant. In the mean time pack them up as quick as you are able, in the basket. I shall be back again immediately. (He goes out.)

Charles,

(alone, filling the basket.) Oh, the good, good Archibald! I cannot help thinking with myself how happy we shall make him! and what is more too, I shall have my part therein. I would not give it up for all these pretty things. Who could have persuaded me yesterday, that I should enjoy more satisfaction in bestowing on another what had been so much the object of my wishes than in keeping it myself? I wish I were papa, to recompense him as he merits. Thanks to his persuasion, I am now convinced that to be just gives much more happiness than to possess great riches.

Edward,

(returning with Clement.) Come in, Clement. (He bolts the door.) What we want you for is this; to take the basket here before you on your shoulder, and convey it to where Archibald's mother lives, for Archibald.

Clement.

Oh, with all my heart, sir; we are every one of us fond of that young man!

Edward,

(to Charles.) I hope, you have almost finished.

Charles.

In a moment. I have got in every thing except the china figures, which I will put at top, that they may not be broke.

Edward.

A good thought; but make haste, for fear of his return.

Charles.

There, that is the last.

Edward,

(to Clement.) Now, Clement, you have nothing else to do than carry it this moment where you know. Do not loiter by the way, and take especial care of breaking any thing.

Charles.

Stay: here is the guinea and a half that I said I would give him. I will just wrap them up, and put them with the fish and counters.

Archibald,

(at the door without.) Open, open: it is Archibald.

Edward.

Bless us! what are we to do? (coming towards the door.) A moment, friend, and we'll admit you.

Charles.

Hark ye, Clement, here is the money: slip it some how or other, as you go, into the basket.

Edward,

(to Clement.) He will suspect us; so take up the basket, and withdraw into a corner of the room, here just behind the door, till he has passed you.

Charles.

Yes, close up against the wall; and afterwards slip out without his seeing you.

Clement.

I understand you.

Archibald,

(as before.) Well, Edward, am I not to enter? Your papa is coming.

Edward,

(to Charles.) I may open now?

Charles.

Yes, yes; all is done. (The servant goes behind the door.)

Edward,

(opening to Archibald, who comes in.) I ask your pardon, my good friend, for keeping you so long without: but we were busy. (He takes his hand, and places him in such a manner, that he cannot see the servant without turning round.)

Archibald.

Busy, pray? And at what? (He turns and sees Charles making signs to the servant.) Why all these signs?— (Perceiving the servant with the basket.) Ah, ha! —what has Clement got there in the basket? (He goes up to Clement, and attempts to look into the basket.)

Clement,

(preventing him.) Softly, softly.—It is a secret.

Archibald.

How! a secret?

Clement.

You will know what it is when you get home.

Archibald,

(keeping him from going out.) No: I will know this moment! Is it possible that I can have guessed! and would my dear friends then affront me so?

Edward.

Affront you? It is a poor acknowledgment with which we pay those services that you have so lately done us. (He offers him the basket.) Yes, dear Archibald, all these things are yours.

Charles,

(presenting him the money likewise, which the servant has returned him.) And this gold also. (Archibald puts his hand aside. Charles throws the money, thus refused, into the basket, which Edward still offers to Archibald.)

Archibald.

What are you about? no, never, never.

Edward.

I will have it so.

Charles.

And I entreat it as a favour of you. Be my friend, as you have shown yourself Edward's.

Clement.

If I durst but add my prayer to that of these two gentlemen! You will occasion them more pain than they deserve to suffer, by refusing their request. I wish I had it in my power to offer you my present, as they have. It would indeed be little, but come wholly from my heart; for all the family, and every one that knows us, loves you.

Archibald.

O, my dearest Edward! my kind Charles! (he embraces them.) and you, my good Clement! you draw tears of joy and admiration from me; but your generous bosoms carry you too far. I have not merited what you are doing for me, and shall therefore never take it.

Edward.

You would wish to mortify me then? And cruelly refuse my friendship?

SCENE the last.

Archibald, Charles, Edward, Clement, Mr. Damer.

Mr. Damer,

(having entered some little time before unnoticed, and stood still to be a witness of the conversation; but advancing now, as if he had heard nothing.) Well; shall I always find you sparring thus at one another?

Edward.

O papa, let your authority determine our dispute; for Archibald treats us very harshly. He has made me faithful to my promise—

Charles.

He has brought me to preserve my honour.

Edward.

And now scorns us, when we would be grateful.

Archibald,

(throwing himself into Mr. Damer's arms.) O, my worthy patron! and my second father! save me, save me from their generosity. I was so happy just this moment, as to vindicate my conduct from the accusation thrown thereon, and shall I now belie it? No: I should, in that case, justly be suspected of a mercenary disposition. Let them not corrupt me, I beseech you.

Mr. Damer.

How you charm me, my dear children. No, good Archibald, these their presents, are a very nothing, when compared with so much delicacy and disinterestedness. I will put an end to such an honourable contest. (To Charles and Edward.) Keep you each your own: I will take it on me to evince your grateful natures.

Edward.

O, papa! of how much pleasure you deprive my heart!

Charles.

And how you punish me; as, very likely, my behaviour merits: but you are witness on the other hand to my repentance. Condescend then to prevail on Archibald—

Archibald,

(to Mr. Damer.) No; for heaven's sake, sir, do not listen to him.

Mr. Damer.

I do listen to him; and will have you be compliant upon this occasion. It would look too much like pride, should you refuse him: and besides, it would be cruel to deprive him of the pleasure arising from a generous action. Take this money then, and send it to your mother, who first taught you such a noble way of thinking.

Archibald.

You compel me to accept it, sir, and therefore I obey. Oh, how rejoiced she will be to have it; but at least, sir, let Edward keep his presents.

Mr. Damer.

Well then, let him; but to share them with his friend. I will buy the whole again with these three guineas.

Archibald.

Ah my kind, good benefactor! put some limits to your generosity. I do not know well what I am doing. So much beyond all measure is my joy. My poor dear mother! it is a long while now since she has been so rich as I shall make her!—O, my good, good friends! (He embraces Charles, and afterwards Edward, without power of speaking to them.)

Mr. Damer.

I owe you likewise a reward, Edward, for complying thus with Archibald's noble counsels.

Edward.

How, can you reward me so much to my satisfaction, papa, as by what you have so recently done for him?

Mr. Damer.

That is a very nothing. Hitherto he has been only the companion of your pleasures, but shall henceforth be the partner of your studies: I will make no difference between you in respect to education.

THE COMMODORE's RETURN.
A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

- COMMODORE FREEPORT.

- MRS. FREEPORT.

- MELISSA, their Children.

- CONSTANTINE, their Children.

- ARABELLA, their Children.

- MATILDA, their Children.

- LIEUT. BOARDHAM, betrothed to Melissa.

- MR. ASCHAM, Tutor to the Children.

- THOMAS, the Gardener.

- FANNY, his Wife.

- COLIN, their Son.

- MATTHEWS, an old Farmer, Tenant to the Commodore.

Young Men and Maids of the Village.

SCENE. The garden of Commodore Freeport's country seat, close by the sea side.

SCENE I.

Thomas, Colin.

(While Thomas is raking one of the walks, Colin runs in trembling and out of breath, as in a fright: he throws his arms round his father and clings fast to him.)

Thomas.

WELL, what now, you little blockhead? what now? Where are you running in such a fluster?

Colin.

Ah! father, father, I am frightened out of my wits. I'm dead.

Thomas.

It is very lucky that you are able to tell me so. But what is the matter?

Colin.

A ghost! a ghost!

Thomas.

What in broad day-light? I believe, thou art gibing thy father. Well, what is it like? a beast or a man?

Colin.

It is—it is like a man.

Thomas.

Silly oaf! why then it is a man. Has it a mouth, and eyes, and hands, and feet?

Colin.

Oh, yes, a mouth, and eyes, and hands, and feet, like one of us, and yet it is not like we for all that.

Thomas.

What nonsense is all this?

Colin.

Oh! if you had but seen it! Bless the mask! it is the ghost of a Turk.

Thomas,

(a little frightened.) The ghost of a Turk?

Colin.

Yes, indeed, father. You shewed me some Turks when we were in London, well, it is the same for all the world. A long gown down to his heels, a yellow thing like a lady's muff upon his head, a long carving knife by his side, a great black beard, and a dead man's face over his own. (A noise is heard behind the hedge row.) Oh! there it is father; there is the ghost, the Turk. Help; murder. (He runs out.)

Thomas,

(alarmed.) Colin, Colin! won't you come back. (Colin instead of returning, runs away precipitately. Thomas goes to follow him, but his rake falling trips him up, and while he is entangled with it, Colin escapes.) A little coward, to leave me here all alone! And then, if what he said were true. I do not like meddling with your Turks, not I. By the mass, I will not stay here to meet with him. (While he stoops to take up his rake, Commodore Freeport, dressed in a long red gown with a turban and a mask, comes softly up to him and plucks him by the skirt. Thomas turning about, perceives him, and attempts to run away; but finding himself held fast, he roars out) Help! murder! A ghost! A Turk!

SCENE II.

Commodore Freeport, Thomas.

Com. Fr.

(putting his hand on Thomas's mouth to silence him.) Why, Thomas, do not act the child. Don't you know me?

Thomas,

(without looking at him.) Avaunt! none but Satan knows you. I am none of your acquaintance.

Com. Fr.

Oh! I see what deceives you. (He takes off his mask.) Look at me now.

Thomas,

(hiding his face with his hands.) What, I look at your terrible visage? No, let me go, or I shall cry out ten times louder.

Com. Fr.

(trying to part his hands.) What, are you afraid of me?

Thomas.

Say no more. You want to roast me. Oh! how hot you are!

Com. Fr.

(letting go his hands.) Why, Thomas, are you mad? Do not shake so man. Can't you recollect my voice?

Thomas.

It is a main hollow ghostly voice; that is certain.

Com. Fr.

Only look at me between your fingers.

Thomas.

Well—well—I will—but get a little farther off.

Com. Fr.

(drawing back.) There, now are you satisfied?

Thomas.

(drawing back too.) Are you a good way off? Stop a while. (Separates his hands a little, and looks at him) Eh! what! the Commodore? Is it you, sir?

Com. Fr.

Why yes, Thomas, it is I, your master.

Thomas.

(shewing his face a little more.) Are you sure though that it is not his ghost?

Com. Fr.

Nay, Thomas, I can hardly take you for the same man. I did not think you had been so chickenhearted.

Thomas.

(letting fall his hands, and looking still at the Commodore.) Oh! yes, now I see it is you. (Taking off his hat, and advancing towards him.) Dear master, I beg pardon for not knowing you at first. It was my son, a little blockhead, that put all these frights into my head. (Beginning to swagger.) A ghost, trusy! Aye, just as if I believed in ghosts!—But, after all, your honour has got a huge ugly cap there. For my part, I think, it is dangerous jesting with such outlandish gear. Suppose one was to remain a Turk all one's life. I remember as well as if it was yesterday, my mother's telling me a hundred times how she saw one that had heard of a thing that happened in a family as long ago as any one could—Oh! it is all very true that I am telling you, I assure you.

Com. Fr.

Well, come, you shall tell me your story another time. Is there nobody within hearing?

Thom.

Nobody, sir, for that silly boy of mine will hardly venture back. He is afraid! Ha, ha, ha! Yet only mind, master, if you had been a ghost, he would have let you twist his father's neck off.

Com. Fr.

Are my wife and children all here? Is the Tutor with them?

Thomas.

Oh! certainly, sir. They staid in the country on purpose to prepare a revel against your return, as they knew that you would come strait hither from Portsmouth. How happy they will all be! But what a blockhead am I not to go and tell them the news, and then spread it all through the neighbourhood! (Going.) There will be rare doings!

Com. Fr. (stopping him.)

Avast! avast! it is the very thing that I do not wish you to do at present.

Thomas.

How! Won't your honour make one at the revel? It is all on account of your honour's return, and the whole neighbourhood will take part in the rejoicing.

Com. Fr.

They are very kind.

Thomas.

By the mass, they have good reason. There is not a set of tenants in England happier under their landlord than your honour's are; and they love you accordingly. All the bells should have been ringing before now. I wonder what the ringers are about.

Com. Fr.

Thomas, have a little patience. I shall shew myself in proper time.

Thomas.

Proper time, sir? Alack, it is easy talking; but for my simple part, I shall be out of patience if you are long about it.

Com. Fr.

And I shall be out of patience if you are not a little more discreet. Do not deprive me of the satisfaction that I promised myself at my return! Would you, by way of welcoming me home, oblige me to discharge you?

Thomas.

Nay, that is enough; now I am dumb. Yet I must say, sir, it was ill done of your honour to leave us in uncertainty so long. We thought you were either drowned or taken prisoner. You cannot think, sir, how dull it made us. O, dear master! if we had lost you, and been obliged to put on mourning, instead of keeping a revel! The very thought makes my blood run cold. We would rather the war should have lasted ten years longer.

Com. Fr.

I thank thee, Thomas, for this language of unaffected friendship. It presages, I hope, a reception still more tender from my family.

Thomas.

Then, sir, why do not you come to them directly?

Com. Fr.

No, no. I tell you, my design is to double the pleasure of my return by an agreeable surprize. Only let me speak with my children's tutor.

Thomas.

With Mr. Ascham?

Com. Fr.

Yes, I wrote to him from Portsmouth to prepare him. You and he shall be the only persons in the secret. But hist! I hear somebody coming down this next walk. (He goes to hide himself behind the bedge-row.) Snug's the word, Thomas! Be discreet!

SCENE III.

Thomas, (alone.)

Discreet, quotha? Aye, it is easy to be discreet when one has nothing to talk of; but when one knows as much as I know—This secret, I feel, begins to swell me already. (Turning, he perceives Mr. Ascham.) Thank my stars! they send me at least somebody to talk to.

SCENE IV.

Thomas, Mr. Ascham.

Thomas, (running towards him.)

Joy, joy, Mr. Ascham! The fleet is come; the Commodore is come; you are come; and I am come. (Flings up his hat for joy.)

Mr. Asch.

What, is Mr. Freeport here?

Thomas, (with an air of importance.)

Do you think he is not, sir, when I tell you so? I am in the whole plot, as well as you.

SCENE V.

Commodore Freeport, Mr. Ascham, Thomas.

Com. Fr.

My secret was well trusted. I see, Thomas, I need only depend upon you at all times. (He takes Mr. Ascham's hand.) My dear Ascham, I am glad to see you once more!

Mr. Ascham.

Sir, this will be a day of festivity for us.

Com. Fr.

Provided that Thomas do not disconcert all my plan with his silly joy and his chattering.

Thomas.

Nay, look ye there! did not your honour tell me that Mr. Ascham was in the secret? Did I blab the least word to any body in the world?

Mr. Asch.

True; because you saw nobody but me.

Com. Fr.

Let us not lose a moment. Thomas, you must hide me in the green-house, until the moment of making my appearance.

Thomas.

That I will, and welcome; and you will find it in good order, I'll warrant.

Com. Fr.

That is not all; but you must plant your son on the watch, to let me know when any body approaches.

Thomas.

But if Madam herself should take a walk towards the green-house, or some of the young folks, I could hardly hinder them from going in.

Mr. Ascham.

Pshaw! a man of your sense will easily find an excuse to prevent them.

Thomas.

Why aye, sir, as you say—

Com. Fr.

Do not forget to let us have some good fruit, Thomas.

Thomas.

Oh! sir, never fear! I'll warrant your honour shall shew the finest melons and pine-apples, and every fruit of the season, at your table to-day, that is to be seen in this county.

SCENE VI.

Commodore Freeport, Mr. Ascham.

Com. Fr.

Do you imagine, Ascham, that my wife suspects nothing of our preparations?

Mr. Ascham.

It would have been impossible for me to conceal them from her; I chose therefore to make them in concert with her, while she supposed that she should surprize you agreeably with this revel at your return. I told her that your cruize might perhaps continue longer. She was happy, therefore, to amuse the wearisomeness of your absence, by occupations that would shew you how her mind was employed during that time.

Com. Fr.

Thus I shall be the giver of the entertainment with which she proposes to receive me. My dear Ascham, your contrivance charms me!

Mr. Ascham.

I hope you will be pleased with our performance. Indeed every one was eager to contribute to your pleasure. I have already instructed a few young men and maids amongst your tenants, and they know their parts to admiration.

Com. Fr.

And I have brought my future son in law, Lieut. Boardham, who behaved so gallantly, you remember, during the war. What recommended him to my notice, was his attacking a pirate sloop in the East-Indies with no more than an armed boat, and taking her. These Turkish dresses were part of her spoils, and we put them on for this frolic, the better to disguise ourselves. Oh! I forgot to mention too, that I have brought a band of music from Portsmouth. I left them to refresh themselves at a public house close by our park: here, within a stone's throw of us.

Mr. Ascham.

So much the better; for we were but indifferently provided in that respect.

Com. Fr.

I should be sorry that any thing were wanting to our festivity. I would not have a single tenant of mine unconcerned in it. I hope and flatter myself that they have reason to rejoice in my prosperity. It has always been my endeavour to make those happy whom Providence has placed immediately under me, both on board and ashore; for he but half serves his country, Ascham, who fights her battles with success abroad, but returns to be detested for injustice and oppression by his poor dependants at home.

Mr. Ascham.

Excellent sentiments! Commodore, you are deservedly beloved by your tenants, I can answer for so much without flattery; and that your public service has been approved, your reputation and your Sovereign's favour sufficiently testify.

Com. Fr. (taking him by the hand.)

These, my friend, are the sources from which every man of spirit should seek to derive his happiness and satisfaction. (Colin is seen approaching by the hedge row.)

SCENE VII.

Commodore Freeport, Mr. Ascham, Colin (carrying a basket of flowers on his arm.)

Colin.

This ghost of a Turk cannot be very ill-natured. How friendly he talks with Mr. Ascham. He is shaking hands with him.

Mr. Ascham.

Don't I hear somebody?

Com. Fr.

Yes, I must go and hide. (He turns to go behind the hedge-row, and meets Colin full in the face, who trembles and stares at him awhile, but at length cries out in a transport of joy,) Oh! law: it is his honour; it is the Commodore!

Com. Fr.

Come hither, my little godson! (Colin throws down his basket, and runs eagerly up to him, jumping for joy.) Softly, my man; softly! I do not wish any body to know that I am arrived. Do not you tell, for the world!

Colin.

What, sir, neither to madam, nor the children?

Mr. Ascham.

It is from them particularly that you must conceal it.

SCENE VIII.

Commodore Freeport, Mr. Ascham, Thomas, Colin.

Thomas, (enters without seeing Colin.)

Now every thing is ready for your honour.

Colin.

Well, I am sure! It was not I that told my father, however.

Thomas, (perceiving Colin.)

Plague on it, we are all ruined! This monkey will go and blab. I was thinking of sending him on a message a mile or two off.

Mr. Ascham, (patting Colin on the head.)

Nay, I dare say he will be as discreet as yourself. Won't you, my little friend?

Colin.

Oh! never fear, sir: I can keep a secret as well as another. It won't be the first time, neither.

Thomas.

No! when was the first time, then?

Colin.

I 'fegs, t'other day, when you threshed me to make me tell whether I had stolen the apples off our tree at home. Did I tell you it was I?

Thomas.

It was you then that stole my apples, was it? Stop a moment! (Colin runs behind Commodore Freeport.) Oh! you shall pay for them!

Mr. Ascham.

Agreed, if he says a word about the Commodore.

Com. Fr.

And if he holds his tongue, a guinea for his reward.

Thomas.

Do you hear that, Colin? a guinea!

Colin.

Tut! I would have held my tongue for nothing, out of regard to my godfather.

Com. Fr.

There is a good boy. Well, now for our concealment.

Thomas.

And you, Colin, stand here. If any body comes up this walk, as it leads no where but to the greenhouse, run thither immediately, and let his honour know. But if you open your lips, ware the apples, I'll cut your ears off with the Commodore's cutlass there. (They go out.)

SCENE IX.

Colin, (gathering up his flowers, and making a nosegay.)

If they know nothing, unless from me, they will not know much. But the poor children, Miss Arabella, Master Constantine, and Miss Matilda; it grieves me to think they should not know that their papa is here. Suppose I were just to whisper it to Miss Matilda: she is very fond of me, and though she is the youngest of them all, she is the drollest little body.—Ah, but she would tell it to Miss Arabella, and Miss Arabella to Master Constantine, and Master Constantine to Gatty, and Gatty to Miss Melissa, and Miss Melissa to her mama; and then every body would be in the secret. There would be a guinea lost, and my ears cut off. Oh! it is better pretend to be dumb. In the first place, if I do not speak I shall tell nobody any secrets, that is plain. (Clapping with his hand on his mouth,) There, you are locked up till to-morrow morning!

SCENE X.

Constantine, Arabella, Matilda, Colin.

Constantine, (clapping Colin gently on the shoulder.)

Good morrow, little Colly.

Arabella,

(curtsying to him with affected solemnity.) Mr. Colin's most obedient humble servant!

Matilda, (taking him by the hand in a friendly manner.)

How do you do, my little man? (Colin hows to her, and gives her a nosegay.)

Constantine.

You are all alone? (Colin answers him with a nod.)

Matilda.

Mama wants to speak with your father.— Where is he? (Colin points the way by which Thomas went out.)

Arabella.

Are you making game of us? Have you lost your tongue? (Colin looks about him without answering.)

Constantine.

Well, but speak.

Arabella, (slapping him on the hands.)

Hah! I'll teach you another sort of drollery.

Matilda, (holding Arabella.)

Softly, sister! Do not hurt my little Colin. (Colin looks kindly at Matilda.)

Constantine.

Let him speak, or I'll—What is he dumb?

Arabella.

Or deaf?

Matilda.

Perhaps something may have happened to him. Is any thing the matter, my little man? (Colin makes signs in the negative.)

Upon this the other two children fall upon him, shaking him, pulling him, pinching him and tickling him, crying out all at once,) You must speak! you must speak! you must speak! or we will know the reason why!

Matilda.

Have done, or I shall join him against you.

Arabella.

A fine champion, truly, he would have to defend him!

Matilda, (to Constantine.)

Brother, you are the eldest; make her have done, pray do. I will talk to him gently, and perhaps I may get a word or two from him.

Constantine, (haughtily.)

No, I insist, he shall obey me when I order him.

Matilda.

Let me try what I can do. (To Colin.) Colin, my good little Colin, answer me, if it be only one word. (Colin smiles; but makes signs that he is not to speak.) Do you know now that I shall be angry with you too.—But no. Arabella, go and fetch his father, mama wants him you know.

Arabella.

Yes, yes, I'll tell Thomas of it. He will make him speak, perhaps. (As she is going, Colin stands full in her way to stop her, shaking his head.)

Constantine, (with an air of authority.)

What does he dare to stop my sister? Let me manage him.

Matilda, (holding Constantine.)

Why, you see, he does her no harm—Well, Colin, go yourself and fetch your father; tell him that mama wants him; will you? (Colin nods consent, and goes out. The children follow him with their eyes.)

SCENE XI.

Constantine, Arabella, Matilda.

Arab.

He can hear at least if he cannot speak.

Matilda.

I knew I could make him do whatever I had a mind.

Const.

He did well to get away. But I will make him pay for not obeying me.

Matilda. (seeing Thomas approach.)

Oh! here comes Thomas. We will know what is the matter with my little friend.

SCENE XII.

Constantine, Arabella, Matilda, Thomas.

(All the Children run up to Thomas, and jump about him.)

Thomas.

Good morrow, master Constantine, Good morrow young ladies. How do you do to day?

Matilda.

Oh very well, very well; but tell us what is the matter with your son, poor little Colin?

Thomas.

The matter with him? A good appetite; that is always with him I think.

Matilda.

Then he is not sick?

Thomas.

He sick?

Constantine.

Then he is very obstinate.

Arabella.

The little monkey made game of us.

Matilda.

Ah! how you talk!

Thomas.

What, miss; made game of you?

Matilda.

I was afraid he was struck dumb.

Thomas.

He dumb?

Arabella.

We pinched him, and tickled him, but not a word.

Thomas.

Is it possible? why he bawled loud enough to deafen me here this morning, and frighten me too. I might have been afraid at least, if I had not a good heart.

Constantine.

As for us, he did not vouchsafe to honour us with a single word.

Thomas, (smiling.)

No? a little knave! only mind his cunning! He has ten times more wit than his father.

Matilda.

Wit? how, in not speaking?

Thomas.

Where could he have hit upon such a thought?

Arabella.

What do you mean?

Thomas.

And then, people will talk that the world is growing worse and worse. By the mass, children have at this time of day more sense than all their family.

Arabella.

For my part I believe they are both out of their senses. The one did not speak at all, and the other speaks without answering us.

Thomas.

Oh! he knew very well what he did not say▪ and I know very well what I do say.

Arabella.

That is more than we do.

Thomas.

Well, there is no harm done. But where is Madam? Colin told me that she asked for me.

Constantine.

He told you!

Matilda.

Then he can speak.

Constantine.

Oh! if he can speak, I'll make him speak.

Arabella.

Let us go and find him.

Thomas.

Aye, aye, go. He has walked into the park. You will hardly come up with him. He has a pair of legs if he has not a tongue. (Constantine and Arabella go out.)

SCENE XIII.

Matilda, Thomas.

Matilda.

O dear Thomas, pray tell Colin to speak a little, if it were only for my sake. I do so like to talk with him!

Thomas.

Yes, yes, let me manage. I'll talk to him, and he shall talk to you, and we'll all talk to one another very soon. Oh! what talk we shall have!

Matilda.

That is charming! I will run after my brother and sister, and hinder them from teazing him.

SCENE XIV.

Thomas, (alone.)

I think I did right to send him a pretty way off. These young ones would have mawled him so, that he must have told his secret at last. But did any one ever see such a cunning fetch? Not to talk for fear of blabbing! One could not have hit upon a more cunning scheme. But here comes Madam with Miss Melissa. Now for it, friend Thomas, take care of yourself. One man against two women; and hampered with a secret besides! It is hard odds.

SCENE XV.

Mrs. Freeport, Melissa, Thomas.

Mrs. Fr.

Well, Thomas, I must come to seek you myself. I sent the children for you an hour ago.

Thomas.

Madam, I was this moment coming to you.

Mrs. Fr.

I wanted to speak with you about this Revel. Mr. Ascham has just now mentioned that it would be proper to have as it were a general rehearsal of it. Perhaps it is to divert my uneasiness, but he assures me that it cannot possibly be long before my husband returns. This idea, which seems to hasten his return, still more—

Thomas.

He is perhaps not so far off as people think. What would you say, Madam— (turning aside.) Hist! what were you going to say, Thomas?

Mrs. Fr.

Have you heard any news of him?

Thomas.

News, Madam? By the mass what I know is truer than news. (aside.) Where the plague is my tongue running?

Mrs. Fr.

What would you say, Thomas? Explain yourself.

Thomas.

The matter is this—Lookye, you understand— When I come from market, I put the best leg foremost to get home; not that I have so fine a woman to my wife, Madam, as you are, neither! nor so fine a daughter as Miss Melissa here. (aside.) Plague on it! I'll turn it off some way. (to them.) Just so for all the world, in a manner, as a body may say, the Commodore is galloping home here as fast as he can. That is a clear case, I defer it to you else.

Mrs. Fr.

Ah! when will that happy moment come, that I may welcome him to my expecting arms?

Thomas.

Who knows how soon? I will bestir myself however, perhaps that will hasten him. I wish every pull of my rake were a lash to his horse's sides. I would not let the young Lieutenant lag behind neither, Miss Melissa. (Melissa smiles.)

Mrs. Fr.

Well, it is very obliging of you Thomas.

Thomas.

Why, Madam, the truth is, I am sorry to see you melancholy. You are like flowers impelled with the dew, as the song says. But hang tears, the sun will come and dry up all sorrow presently. Joy! joy! Madam, here comes Mr. Ascham, he seems full of joy.

SCENE XVI.

Mrs. Freeport, Melissa, Mr. Ascham, Thomas.

Mr. Ascham.

All goes right, Madam. I have sent to assemble the young men and maids of the hamlet, who are to figure in our pageant. We are almost ready to begin. I was very well pleased yesterday to see them all so orderly, and so perfect in their parts, and I hope the general rehearsal to day will amuse you, if you do us the honour to be present at it.

Mrs. F.

I shall certainly not deprive myself of so agreeable an entertainment. I should otherwise pay an ill compliment to the obliging exertions of your zeal and friendship for our family.

Mr. Ascham.

Madam, I could not receive a more flattering reward. But indeed my cares were already repaid, in the thought of seconding your wishes, and anticipating those of your husband.

Mrs. Fr.

How I please myself with the idea of his surprize and satisfaction!

Thomas.

He won't perhaps be the most surprized in the company neither. (Mr. Ascham looks sternly at Thomas.)

Mrs. Fr.

What do you mean by that, Thomas?

Thomas, (embarrassed.)

Why, Madam, with regard—with regard to that there—I think you will be as much surprized to see him return fresh and hearty; full of health, honour and joy. Miss Melissa too, will perhaps be surprized to see her young intended. I'll lay my spade to one of your pins, that she will blush like a rose. Marry, we shall all be surprized, for so good a master as his honour, is not a sight to be seen with indifference.

Mr. Ascham.

I think, Madam, it would affect you in a pleasing manner, to see the impatience with which all the neighbourhood waits his arrival. At every step I meet some one or other who enquires eagerly for him. I figure to myself a numerous family enquiring for their father, their brother, their son, their husband. What will be their joy when they see him returned?

Mrs. Fr.

I can imagine their transports by my own. But when will he return! I shall shudder with apprehension until I behold him safe.

Mr. Ascham.

What can give rise to your terrors? This is not the season when thirst of glory might expose him to danger.

Melissa.

Ah! mama, do you remember those dismal days when we could not take up the newspaper without trembling? when we dreaded to see his name in every list of killed and wounded?

Mr. Ascham.

At present therefore indulge the sweets of hope. The tranquility of peace leaves us no subject of inquietude.

Mrs. Fr.

Ah! sweet Peace, many a mother, many a wife blessed its return.

Thomas.

Aye and many a gardener. Ah! if you had seen a little of the world, Madam, as I have. You would not think that I served during the German war. Yes I served—in a garden. There came some of those cursed Hussars. In an hour's time there was not a single hedge left standing in all that part of the country. Then the statues in our garden, your Apollos, your Jupiters, and your Mercuries, those they soon turned topsy-turvy. I should not have cared a straw for them; but my poor melons! my poor asparagus! it grieved me to the heart to see them demolished. And yet I was not the head gardener neither. Now that I am gardener in chief, only think if that was to happen. I should throw myself head foremost into the draw-well. But come, a fig for those madcaps. It is peace timenow; huzza! Come, Mr. Ascham, we will go and settle this business.

SCENE XVII.

Mrs. Freeport, Melissa.

Mrs. Fr.

Honest Thomas's chearfulness has enlivened me a little. I find myself now much more at ease. I feel nothing now but the pleasing throb of hope. Yes Melissa, my heart tells me, we shall soon see them once more.

Melissa.

Alas, mama, I rise every day to indulge this flattering idea, and every day it vanishes.

Mrs. Fr.

Our murmurs against heaven are always unjust. How did I curse the cruel war, that snatched my husband from me. Well, peace was made, he returned covered with laurels, and admired by his countrymen, whose commerce he protected at sea. Shall we grudge another short absence in the service of his country? He will come home when his presence is most necessary for the education of his children. He will bring with him the person whom your choice and ours has destined to be your husband. Ah! my dear, how many women in the world envy our lot!

Melissa.

True, mama; but for my part, your kindness hitherto has rendered me so happy, that I cannot support the least alteration in my happiness.

Mrs. Fr.

Come to my arms my dear child, and resume y••• natural gaiety, it becomes you so well. Do not let us poison, by an appearance of sorrow, the satisfaction which these good people are going to feel, while they make us the witnesses of their joy.

SCENE XVIII.

Mrs. Freeport, Melissa, Constantine, Arabella, Matilda, Matthews.

Matilda, (running up to her mother.)

Mama, mama! we are bringing you the good farmer Matthews.

Arabella, (following her.)

Here he is, here he is! (Farmer Matthews enters, supporting himself with a stick in one hand, and leaning the other upon Constantine. When he perceives Mrs. Freeport, he endeavours to double his pace and totters. Mrs. Freeport and Melissa advance towards him.

Constantine.

Lean heavier on my shoulder, do; you won't hurt me.

Melissa.

Softly, Mr. Matthews.

Mrs. Fr.

Take care you don't fall.

Matthews.

They came to assemble my children, and all the young people of the hamlet. Is the Commodore returned then? I should never forgive myself if he was.

Mrs. Fr.

No, Mr. Matthews, we are still expecting him.

Matthews.

Ah! so much the better. Which way does he come? tell me. I have a good head still, but my legs fail me. I should set out long before the rest, to be up with them at the same time.

Mrs. Fr.

How, would you go to meet him, weak as you are?

Matthews, (with vivacity.)

Would I? He has all his life-time hastened to meet my necessities, dost think then, madam, that I would sit still and wait his coming? I would sooner be carried by my children.

Melissa.

No, Mr. Matthews. I am sure, my papa would be angry if you exposed yourself to so much fatigue.

Matthews.

Why, madam, it is for my own sake as well as his. The sight of him is necessary to me. He is like the sun that chears my declining life.

Mrs. Fr.

But friend Matthews, at your age—

Matthews.

My age is the cause why I have more obligation to him than the young ones. I know the Commodore, madam, longer than you do. Many a time have I set him a riding upon this very stick. He was not so big as master Constantine here, when he began to be my benefactor. I was poor then, and he had no more than his pocket-money. Well, he found means to relieve me out of many difficulties even with that. It was in vain that I told him only half of my distress. He could guess more than I could hide from him. As soon as he came to his estate, he made me a present of the cottage that I inhabit, and let me some lands which are round about it, but on so favourable a lease that I soon got above the world. Thanks to his friendship, I have been able to bring up all my children, and to settle them easily in the world, which as I have done through his means, I count them as much his family as mine, and love them the better on that score.

Mrs. Fr.

You know his friendship for you continues still. There are few of his letters in which he does not mention you.

Matthews, (overjoyed.)

Is it possible! But I believe it, and it is no more than he ought. For why? he has done good to a great many of his tenants; he has rebuilt their cottages when thrown down by storms, or burnt; he has helped them in bad seasons; he has forgiven them their rent. Let them bless him, let them love him, let them revere him; but I should be main vexed if I thought, that next to his family, any body loved him better than I do. I mean the same to you, madam; and to you also, miss.

The Children, (jumping about him.)

And us too, Mr. Matthews, don't you?

Matthews.

I must needs love you, my dear little ones, that are my benefactor's children. And yet sometimes you make me angry.

Matilda.

We make you angry?

Matthews.

Yes, you make yourselves too uneasy about me sometimes. It looks as if I were so old, so very old.

Matilda.

Oh! no, you are quite hearty still. Hold, I will dress you up like a beau. Here is my nosegay; I will stick it in your button-hole.

Arabella.

I have a fine ribbon here. Give me your hat, and I will fix a cockade in it.

Constantine, (standing on tiptoes to reach his ear.)

The next time you come to the hall, I'll have a glass of our best wine for you.

Matthews.

O, sweet little creatures! you are all heart, like your father. Come and let me kiss you. Madam, will you give me leave—

Mrs. Fr.

Nay, it gives me the highest pleasure. Nothing can be more agreeable to my eyes than to see my children in the arms of an old man. It is the picture of innocence and virtue. (The children throw themselves into Matthews's arms, who embraces and kisses them. Musick is heard.)

Matthews, (starting up briskly.)

What do I hear? Can it be the Commodore?

Melissa.

Ah! would to heaven it were.

Mrs. Fr.

No, farmer, it is the young folks of the hamlet coming to amuse us with a rehearsal of their entertainment.

Matthews.

Oh! then I'll see it. I figured in these merry-makings formerly; but now I could scarcely hobble to keep in sight of them. Give me leave to go and place myself at the foot of this tree. This very tree I planted when I was a child. We were then much about the same age: at present it is a good deal younger than I am.

Mrs. Fr.

No, Mr. Matthews; you shall sit down beside me.

Melissa.

Yes, between us both.

Matthews.

I, madam? it is too great an honour. Before all the folks too!

Mrs. Fr.

I hope the folks will learn by our example to respect age and honesty. Come, farmer. (Mrs. Freeport and Melissa lead him towards a green bank, and make him sit down betwixt them. Arabella and Matilda settle his coat skirts, and Constantine assists him to take a firm hold of his stick in order to support himself.)

Matthews.

I wish my joy may let me live till I see the Commodore. (The young men and maids enter on different sides, and join in the middle. After walking in procession round the stage two and two, they file off before the bank on which Mrs. Freeport is seated with Matthews and the children.)

RECITATIVE, By a young VILLAGER.

LET the soft pipe's melodious swell

In lively notes our jocund purpose tell!

Let the sprightly tabor sound,

To welcome home the brave

From perils of the distant wave,

Safe return'd to English ground.

AIR. FIRST STRAIN, a VILLAGE MAIDEN.

Full long the stern commands of War

Have sent our chiefs and warriors far

From Albion's plenteous shore:

Now white-rob'd Peace hath smooth'd the main,

And homeward led the hardy train,

To taste her joys once more.

SECOND STRAIN, a HUSBANDMAN.

Commerce and Peace, with bloodless toil,

Unite to cull the wealthy spoil

Of Nature's boundless reign:

No more the lily and the rose

Shall marshal hosts of banner'd foes,

By land, or on the main.

THIRD STRAIN, a VILLAGE MAIDEN.

Our ships from port to port shall sail,

(While wealth descends in ev'ry gale,)

And plow the ocean o'er;

And free as air the wave shall be

To waft my Sailor home to me,

With his brave Commodore.

CHORUS.

Welcome, thrice welcome, be the brave,

From perils of the distant wave,

Return'd to British ground!

Let pipe and tabor's mingled swell,

Our brave Commander's welcome tell

To list'ning hills around.

(The Chorus being ended, the young men and maids join two and two, and walk back in procession round Mrs. Freeport, &c. saluting her, and scattering flowers as they pass.)

Mrs. Fr.

My dear friends, how your joy affects me! What would I not give at this moment to share it with my worthy husband!

Matilda.

Ah! mama, if he was here? Eh, Mr. Matthews?

Matthews.

I do believe I should forget my rheumatism, and dance for joy.

(Military music is heard. The curtain rises, and discovers Commodore Freeport and Lieutenant Boardham in Turkish dresses, but unmasked. Beside them stands Mr. Ascham, with Thomas, Fanny, and Colin. The rear of the garden appears illuminated. Groups of peasants are seen mixed with sailors in jackets and trowsers. The children stare as struck with astonishment. Constantine approaches first, looks steadfastly at the Commodore for a while, then knowing him, he cries out,) Oh! it is my papa!

Arabella and Matilda, (following him.)

It is! it is!

(Mrs. Freeport, Melissa and Matthews, rise from the bank, and besitating a moment, run up to Commodore Freeport and Lieutenant Boardham, whose Turkish habits drop off, and shew them in their naval uniform. Commodore Freeport springs forward, and embraces Mrs. Freeport and Melissa by turns.)

Mrs. Fr.

My dear husband!

Melissa.

My father!

The Children, (pulling him by the skirt.)

O papa! O papa! it is our turn now.

Com. Fr.

I would I could embrace you all at once. Dear wife, and my dear little ones!

Mrs. Fr.

We are too good for loving you still, after the trick you have played us. But whence comes this disguise?

Com. Fr. (presenting Lieut. Boardham.)

There, there is the gentleman that you are to scold for this whole adventure. I give him up to your vengeance. (Lieut. Boardham salutes Mrs. Freeport and Melissa.) It was a smart action of his that first put us in possession of these clothes; so that he is the original cause of our frolic. I had a mind to shew him to you in his eastern spoils.

Lieut. Boardham.

I hope, every action of my life will make me still more worthy of this lady's favour. (He kisses Melissa's hand.)

Com. Fr. (turning towards Matthews.)

But don't I see my good old friend here? (He steps up to Matthews, and takes him by the hand.)

Matthews.

I could not speak, I was so intoxicated with joy. Now I have seen you, my noble landlord, I can die content.

Com. Fr.

No, my dear friend! you shall live. This day shall make you younger by ten years. (To Mrs. Freeport,) My dear, I thank you for the distinction that you have shewn him. There is not in all this country an honester man, and our family will never have a more worthy friend.— (He turns towards the other country people.) And you, my friends, my children, how rejoiced I am to see you once more! I am fixed amongst you now, probably, for some years. Let us all study to make each other mutually happy. I shall look upon your happiness as a proof of your gratitude.

All the Country People.

Long live our noble landlord! Long live our brave Commodore!

Com. Fr.

And you too, my friends, long may you live happy, and for that purpose let us be joyous. I have received your entertainment, I will return you mine. We shall not want for refreshment. Every thing is prepared.

Mr. Ascham.

We thought, Madam, to surprize the Commodore, but he is more alert than we are.

Thomas.

I hope you will allow, Sir, that nobody could be more discreet than I was.

Colin.

Then what do you say of me, father?

Matilda.

Ah! you have found your tongue now at last.

Fanny.

You may all say what you will, but I think mine has been the hardest part to-day; for I have only this word to say, and I am the last speaker of all.

(A general dance. Commodore Freeport joins in it with all his family, to the found of military music, which is relieved at intervals by the pipe and taber. After the dance all adjourn to tables, which are spreed with refreshments of all forts, in another part of the garden.)

WAR AND PEACE.

Commodore Freeport, still agitated with the pleasing sensations that he experienced during the course of the day, could not close his eyes till long after midnight, when at length a grateful slumber stole upon him, and soft dreams composed his agitated bosom. In the morning, the first objects that he beheld about him were his children, who had placed themselves around his bed in expectation of his waking. He received their sweet caresses, clasped them tenderly himself, and putting on his clothes as quickly as he could, went down into the garden with them.

The serenity then reigning round about, the pleasure of revisiting those places which his own hands had cultivated in times past, and of being once again restored in safety to his family, when such an interval of separation had elapsed, and even the recollection of the dangers to which he had often been exposed, every thing inspired him with unspeakable affection; and his children, sensible of this, employed the opportunity to ask him question after question.

He gave a relation of every thing worth knowing, that had happened to him in his many and perilous voyages, of the storms that had attacked his ships, and the hazardous expeditions in which he was concerned. He described to them the solitary uninhabited regions visited by his people, and, on the other hand, the populous nations that he had seen, together with their customs, characters, and manners.

During his recital, he was careful to remark what sort of feelings it excited in their hearts, and what was the expression of those feelings on their countenances. At the slightest mention of the dangers that he had encountered, he felt the little girls, by instinct as it were, press tenderly to him: they sighed, and now and then let fall a tear; while Constantine, his son, was animated, and seemed ready, or at least his features spoke him ready, to encounter the same degree of danger. In particular, at the recital of any warlike action, you might see his breast heave, and his eyes sparkle like fire.

Papa, cried he at length, if I were but as big as you, how I should like to go to war, that, in my turn, I might appear as brave a man as you.

Com. Fr.

But, Constantine, you know not what a cruel wish you indulge now.

Constant.

Why, papa! do not you mean me for a soldier?

Com. Fr.

Yes, I do, indeed.

Constant.

And is not the profession of a soldier necessary?

Com. Fr.

Too much so, I must confess. It is with a kingdom just the same as with a human body. Both are subject to interior maladies, and outward accidents. The physician watches the body carefully, to prevent complaints within it, which might happen through the fermentation of sharp humours, or to save it from those ills that it might sustain from hurtful objects. Just so, likewise, does the soldier watch the state, of which he is a member, to suppress seditions that might rise within it, and repel the invasion of ambitious nations dwelling round about it.

Constant.

But, papa, if the profession of a soldier be so necessary, ought not I to wish for opportunities of exercising it?

Com. Fr.

What would you think of that physician, who, impressed with a desire of practising his art, should wish a dangerous malady, a plague for instance, or something like it, to befal his fellow-creatures?

Constant.

O, papa, how wicked!

Com. Fr.

What then must I think of him, who, to gratify a principle of pride, or ambition, should desire to see the greatest scourge that can attend on human nature lay waste his country?

Arabella.

Ah! Constantine, think of that, and let us see what you will answer!

Constant.

And yet war, papa, is quite delightful, and particularly if one were a king.

Com. Fr.

In what, then, do you think it so delightful?

Constant.

In the first place, because then a king may make himself more powerful.

Com. Fr.

Be it granted, kings may have recourse to war with justice. But when they wish to have more power, do you imagine that in prudence they should do so; that is, go to war? Suppose within yourselves, dear children, that the lands about my estate here were as many little empires, and their owners, Mr. Marchmont and the rest, as many kings within them.

Arabella.

Ay, like those of France and England. Do you understand?

Constant.

Don't be uneasy, sister, upon my account. I understand extremely well. Pray, dear papa, go on!

Com. Fr.

If I prevail upon my tenants to take arms, and if they can obtain possession of a field belonging, as I said just now, to Mr. Marchmont, is it not pretty likely that Mr. Marchmont will give his tenants arms, and beg them to defend that field, which they must know is his; and very possibly encourage them to seize on something that belongs to me?

Matilda.

Yes, that is quite natural.

Com. Fr.

If so, then I am plunged into a sea of trouble, and must always be upon the watch, that I may rob my neighbour, or prevent his robbing me. Of which the consequence is this: if I prosper, I must reasonably fear that my neighbours will conspire together to impede my further violences; and divide my spoils, if I am beaten.

Constant.

Ay, papa; but then, the glory that you would gain, by letting all the neighbours see how brave you are!

Com. Fr.

I understand you; and to gain this glory, which at best is but imaginary, I shall go and hazard the repose and life of those whom I ought to regard as my children! But it is very possible that my neighbour may be braver by a deal than I; what then shall I have gained by this fantastic wish of glory?

Constant.

As I take it, you should previously provide yourself with such a force, as to be sure of conquest.

Com. Fr.

I might still reply, by hinting that my neighbour certainly would take the same advantages, might possibly be more successful, and so make my enterprising disposition cost me dear at last. But for the sake of argument, Constantine, I will suppose that fortune favours me, and my estate is much enlarged: alas! this very circumstance, in all probability, may become my ruin.

Constant.

How, papa? Methinks you would become the richer for it. With a greater quantity of land, you would have much more money coming in.

Com. Fr.

Ah, Constantine! it is not on the size of an estate that its worth depends, but on the care which one takes to cultivate it.

Arabella.

Certainly; for only think of Wilsdon-heath, where Mr. Bramble lives. Why, no one in his senses would give up the fourth part of such an orchard as we have for all that heath.

Matilda.

I easily believe you. Wilsdon-heath produces only furze and thorns, while our orchard bears a deal of fruit.

Constant.

But what would hinder you from cultivating all the land that you might have taken from your neighbour?

Com. Fr.

If I have before hand lost in the dispute a number of my tenants, and a portion of the rest are still employed in arms, who then will cultivate my fields? I shall notwithstanding, in the interval, be obliged to feed those men who have forsaken agriculture, and who, instead of following it, are occupied in laying waste the ground on which they tread. Now, to feed them, I must put fresh burdens upon those that still remain employed in cultivating my estate, and make them pay me largerrents. If I impose upon them, they will leave their farms, and chuse more kind and peaceful landlords than myself. Of course, I shall have none about me but armed tenants. who, if ever they conceive themselves ill treated, will be likely to conspire against me.

Constant.

I have read, indeed, such things in history: my tutor very lately, I remember, pointed one out to me.

Com. Fr.

Let us now, on the other hand, suppose, Constantine, that instead of vexing any of the nations round me; for I drop the idea of a landlord and speak as if I were the king of England and alluded to the king of France; suppose, I say, that instead of vexing any of the king of France's subjects, I should do my utmost to attach them to me by a commerce advantageous both to them and my own people, and by being scrupulously careful to prevent whatever might oceasion, for the time to come, division and dispute between us; and should give encouragement, within my own dominions, to the arts of agriculture, so that every one of my subjects might enjoy, if he thought fit, the sweets of peace, and that serenity which always flows from justice; should I not be happier, through the happiness of every one about me, than from any boast of having conquered? And in that case, would not my dominion be established on a much more solid base than if I had enlarged its limits, when the consequence must be, that every part becomes much weaker?

Constant.

But papa, do not you remember that you compared, just now, a kingdom to a human body? If a human body then, like mine, grows stronger every day as it grows bigger, sure a kingdom must become more powerful in proportion as its size increases.

Com. Fr.

So it would do, I confess, if that increase were carried forward, as it is in nature, by a slow and gradual rate, and not in consequence of sudden revolutions.

Constant.

Pray, explain this last particular.

Com. Fr.

I will make it clearly understood, by what I saw take place between a little boy and girl, on board the ship in which I came to England.

Constant.

What you saw take place between a little boy and girl? I cannot conceive how any thing like that can be of use in settling this affair!

Com. Fr.

One evening, their mama gave each of them a piece of cake. The girl was less a great deal than her brother, and had notwithstanding very near as large a piece. The boy remarked that circumstance, and snatched her share away. Now, what do you imagine led him to this action of injustice?

Constant.

I suppose he thought it wrong that his sister, being less than he, should have a piece almost as large.

Matilda.

Oh! what a mighty man!

Com. Fr.

Exactly such is the pretext assigned in general by all conquerors. But what happened to the little boy? When he had finished eating, he grew sick. The aliments that we swallow, being meant to strengthen us, it is very natural to fancy that the more we take the stronger we shall be: so also it is not unnatural for a child to fancy that a prince, whose territories are increased, should find his power increased in proportion. But in reality, it is with a kingdom just as with our stomach. Being overcharged, it must be out of order. If the little boy had been contented with the piece that he had received, (for you must know he was an ailing child, and therefore had not so much as his sister who was very hearty,) it would have digested properly and strengthened him; whereas, by eating more than he could bear, it had the effect upon him which I have just now mentioned. If his sister, following the example that he had set her, had proceeded upon this to take away his bit of cake by force, as little as she was, he would not have had sufficient strength to save it from her.

Constant.

But, perhaps, he would have thought of the injustice that he had done, and yielded it without a struggle?

Com. Fr.

That is a generosity of which the common sort of conquerors are not capable to one another. If they were but so in favour of their subjects only, how could they reflect upon the multitude of victims which they must sacrifice upon the altar of their vengeance or ambition, the first time they combat with the people whom they have made their enemies, and not be struck with horror at the thought? I should imagine it would be well, if kings, upon the point of undertaking any war, should have a picture hung before them, setting forth the horrors of that war, so that their fancies might be incessantly affected with the idea of it; and at midnight, when all nature otherwise is still about them, might hear the groans of wounded men reproaching them as the occasion of those pains which they suffer, the despairing cries of wives and mothers loading them with curses, and the clamours of a people famishing for want of bread. Their souls are sometimes wrought on, by unjust solicitations, to grant criminals their life; and yet they sign, without remorse, what shall condemn to death even thousands of their unoffending subjects. A good king employs whole years in meditating on a project that may finally prove beneficial to some portion of his state, to population, trade, or agriculture. Twenty years shall pass away before the project is perfected; while a warlike, that is, cruel king shall, by the resolution of a moment, half exterminate his people, put a stop to agriculture, tie up the industrious hands of artizans, deprive the poor of their subsistence by depriving them of daily work, reduce whole families to dissolution, and at last entirely overthrow his realm!

Constant.

And yet, papa, I have often heard that great fortunes are made by hundreds, in the time of war.

Com. Fr.

And this is an addition to the evils which it foments; for, not to speak of those antipathies which the inequality of wealth produces in the hearts of such as are each other's neighbours, those enormous fortunes cherish a degree of luxury that cannot but corrupt men's manners to the last excess. The pomp with which it is surrounded, the enjoyment which it procures, the shameful deference or respect which men dare not, if they would, refuse it, stimulate the generality of those who are upon an equal footing in regard to rank with the luxurious, but less wealthy, to affect it with the same indecency, that they may either satisfy their pride or keep up their respectability. They waste their real wealth in keeping up their luxury, that they may gain possession of that shadowy wealth which they fancy they shall get. Intimidated by the dread of their approaching ruin, if they do not hasten to prevent it by unlawful methods, they embark in dangerous enterprises, and expose not only their own property, but whatever may be entrusted in their hands by others whom the hope of a fallacious profit will inveigle to be partners in their schemes. Their ruin is at last announced; but the example will not terrify cupidity which always hopes to prosper more than others, by employing subtler artifices: and as soon as probity is given up, then mutual trust is banished, and a nation's commerce perishes through the excess of that abundance which it created.

Constant.

But if any land grows rich by peace, should we not always have sufficient cause to fear the same misfortune?

Com. Fr.

Not at all. It is only suddenly made fortunes that intoxicate the minds of their possessors, and excite them to abuse their wealth. Fortunes gradually gained, or in the ordinary course of commerce, are in consequence of many years consumed in toil. Men hardly ever dissipate the treasure which they have laboured hard to acquire, but lay it by, to serve them in the wearisome condition of old age: besides, their fortunes are, in that case, much more equable, and every one is rich, while no one overflows with wealth. The country, having far less wants in that serenity with which commerce blesses it, is not under the necessity of grinding the laborious husbandman; but, on the contrary, is able to encourage him in furnishing the trading part of the community with those supplies of corn and other fruits of the earth which it requires.—An empire strengthened thus by trade and agriculture, may give laws to other empires, even on account of its tranquillity. Its neighbours fear it, and instead of making inroads on a people who must be too powerful for them, seek alliance with that people. This alliance draws mankind together, roots out national antipathies, and kindles sentiments of unity and concord in their stead. The prince has only to prevent abuses in the state. A perfect legislation causes justice and strict order to prevail among his people, and they pass from individuals to whole states. Trade, arts, and sciences, may be compared to bridges that extend from one to the other, and on which not only Peace, but Plenty, constantly walk to and fro, that they may keep inviolate the happiness of those whom they have united.

Constant.

I conceive your meaning pretty clearly: yet, in case there be no war, then soldiers are unnecessary, and my regiment must be broke before I join it?

Com. Fr.

Not so fast, Constantine; for an undefended state would be exposed, by reason of its riches, to a multitude of enemies. It should keep up a regulated force in peace, if it would have one in the time of war. But then, instead of looking on an unconcerned spectator, while the military quench their spirit in debauchery and sloth, it should assign them labours to keep up their strength, and make them useful to the state. They should be stationed on the public roads, and such as are employed at present on them never quit the plow and sickle: an additional connexion would, in that case, forcibly unite them to their country, in that natural propensity which men feel to value what their industry in some sort has created, and the pride with which they are at all times ready to defend it. The superior officer, who should direct their labours, would not, we must own, observe his name recorded in the papers of the day, and no where else, for trifling enterprises, such as history descends not to perpetuate; but would himself engrave it on a pillar, raised upon the spot where once ascended a high hill that he should have levelled, on the side of a canal or post that he should have dug, or at the opening of a bridge that he should have built. The traveller then would come from the remotest part of Europe to consider the magnificence and boldness of his toil, his countrymen would bless the benefits accruing from it, and a generation not then born, would in future time rise up, and wonder at its durability. The colour of his coat no longer would excite one thought of bloodshed, but of gratitude, so justly due to benefits, and of respect invariably paid to the ingenious. His leisure moments would be spent in the extension of those sciences which he had formerly studied, and in suggesting plans of policy, resulting from his observations made in different countries. Retiring in the end, to pass away the residue of life on his estate with honour, in the recollection of those benefits which he had communicated to his country, his activity would flourish still in agriculture. I even dare propose myself as an example. I am inclined to think that I have been serviceable to my king in India; but shall much more boast of benefiting for the time to come my native land, by cultivating the inheritance which a father left me, and by giving you, my children, a becoming education. I shall do my utmost to atone for any involuntary violence that I may have done humanity, by being henceforth a protector of the needy round about me; and I hope I shall not die without the conscious satisfaction which a good citizen enjoys, in having carefully discharged his duty.

Constant.

What you say, papa, appears to me quite reasonable. Then why do not all men think as you do?

Com. Fr.

Why, Constantine, but because they have unfortunately been brought up in prejudices, and not had sufficient resolution to correct them? Hitherto, philosophers have spoken to none but those whose understandings could not see the truth and beauty of those principles which I have happily been taught. Nor is there any hope that men, now come to years of reason and reflexion, should be taught to see them! so that those philosophers must get new pupils. In infancy the future man must be prepared. By giving him betimes a tincture of integrity, beneficence and generosity, he will obtain, in his maturity, the habit of displaying them in every action of his life; and place his glory in contributing, as far as he is able, to that general revolution so much to be wished for in behalf of virtue. A young prince possessed of these exalted notions, and persuaded that the rising generation have them too, might rationally hope to govern a new sort of people, who would certainly afford a model to all other lands. Congratulate yourselves, dear children, on the circumstance of being born in those auspicious times, when children are, not only here, but universally throughout all Europe, the peculiar objects whose felicity philosophers are studying to promote; and not they only, but even women—women, notwithstanding narrowmindedness delights at all times to disparage, as it does, their understanding. Perhaps for you, and your contemporaries, is reserved the happiness of seeing the last traces of injustice and barbarity effaced among mankind. Thrice happy I, myself, if giving now these first ideas of a system of morality, so simple but sublime, I take but one step forward in the business of establishing this system in your hearts. You will do all that you can to second my endeavours, by communicating my instruction to your future children.

EUPHRASIA.

Euphrasia,

(to her doll.) WELL, Miss Obstinate! you won't then, I suppose, do what I bid you? you'll be always with your neck as stiff as if you were a sentry in St. James's park. Hold up your head! and look at me! See how I put my neck.—There.—Don't you think that's charming! O, you're mighty dull this morning. Tuke care, Miss, however, and don't put me in a passion; or depend upon it I shall be as angry with you, as mama was yesterday with me, for beating Pompey.

Mrs. Stepney,

(having heard a few of these last words.) Why, you seem quite serious! Has your doll failed in her behaviour towards you?

Euphrasia.

I am showing her what airs and graces would become her; and she wont even hear me.

Mrs. Stepney.

I confess, it cannot but displease one, that such salutary counsel should be thrown away. However, you were speaking, I believe, of being angry.

Euphrasia.

O, no, no, mama: I was only finding fault;—but very likely you heard every thing that I said?

Mrs. Stepney.

Suppose me not to have heard a syllable; now let me know what you were saying to her. Is it possible that you can object to my knowing your little secrets?

Euphrasia.

No, mama, I cannot. On the contrary, I am sensible that young ladies should have no secrets between them and their mama.

Mrs. Stepney.

Well said, my little heart! and therefore tell me word for word, as well as you are able, every thing that you said to your doll.

Euphrasia.

Well then, mama, she would not hold her head a little thus, upon one side, and I was telling her that if she refused to follow my directions, I would be as angry with her, as you were with me last night for beating Pompey.

Mrs. Stepney.

You suppose then that I was angry with you?

Euphrasia.

I imagined, when I saw you looking at me, it was not as you were used to do; and therefore I supposed so.

Mrs. Stepney.

No: it was not anger, it was sadness. In the first place, I was sorry that you could have a heart to hurt your dog; and in the next place, I was apprehensive lest Pompey might avenge himself, if you went on to strike him without mercy: if you recollect. I told you so; and as you seemed to be so much offended at my admonitions, I was fearful that you would show yourself quite disobedient in the end: on which account I was so much afflicted, that I could not but shed tears. You saw me do so; and therefore you supposed me in a passion.—In a passion!—out upon the word! I should have been then as faulty in respect to you, as you were in respect to Pompey.

Euphrasia.

But you are not angry, mama, at what I told my doll?

Mrs. Stepney.

Well; not a word of being angry: but respecting certain airs of coquetry that you wished to teach your doll, and of which you even gave a pattern yourself—I should be glad to touch on that a little.

Euphrusia.

They set me off, as I thought, to advantage; for Miss Humphreville, not long since, told me so.

Mrs. Stepney.

I think, I ought to know better than Miss Humphreville; and I assure you, I am not at all of her opinion.

Euphrasia.

Yet I practised something of that kind, mama, before my looking-glass last night, and thought it became me mightily.

Mrs. Stepney.

You imagine then, that such twists and monkey tricks are worth the native grace of childhood! it is plain, you do not know to what they tend.

Euphrasia.

To what, pray? Tell me.

Mrs. Stepney.

Why to nothing less, Euphrasia, than to make you give into the habit of an odious affectation, and be as hypocritical in heart as in carriage.

Euphrasia.

Bless me! is that true, mama? I am very glad then, that I was drawn into this conversation on the subject; as without it, I should certainly have run the risque of falling into such a vice, without intending it.

Mrs. Stepney.

And I, Euphrasia, full of confidence in your ingenuous candor, should probably not have perceived it, till the malady had made so great a progress, as to render difficult the application of a proper remedy. You see, then, of what consequence it is to pay no manner of attention to the instruction which children, hardly more experienced than yourself, may give; but rather to consult me always, when you want advice.

Euphrasia.

Yes, yes, mama; I promise you, I will, since you will give me good instruction. How should I feel hereafter, were you to charge me with this vice of affectation, as you know you have done with respect to other faults, in company? They have always been trifling faults; and yet, to be reproved in public for them shamed me: but for affectation—Oh, I verily believe, to be accused of that would kill me with confusion.

Mrs. Stepney.

I have sometimes been obliged to take this method of public accusation, that the lesson I designed you, might impress itself more deeply; but-believe me, we may strike a plan out that will save you, for the time to come, all such humiliation.

Euphrasia.

Ah, mama, how good you are! I shall be glad to have it.

Mrs. Stepney.

Then the plan is, to obey me at the slightest nod that I give, when any thing is to be done, or left undone. You will do well to think within yourself, and find out, if you can, the reason of my prohibition or command; but if you cannot find it out, be obedient neverthelesess, and the first time that we are alone, come then and ask me. I shall very willingly explain my reason.

Euphrasia.

Ah, mama, your plan is indeed a very clever one; and I shall save myself a deal of care by following it.

Persuaded of the wisdom of this plan, Euphrasia never ventured for the future upon any the least doubtful action without first consulting her mama. She came at last to understand the slightest token from her, and could tell what was proper for her to do, in circumstances of embarrassment. The tender admonition of the mother, and her own reflexions, gradu•l•y gave her an experience far above her age; and all who knew her were as much surprized as captivated with the prudence of her conduct and the ripeness of her understanding. At the age of twelve she was possessed of all the happiness to be enjoyed on earth, the inward satisfaction of her own approving heart, the attachment of her friends, and the affection of her parents.

THE PRUDENT OFFICER.

COLONEL Ormsby, who by his merit had attained to that high rank, observed with great concern that the officers belonging to his regiment gave their time and faculties entirely up to play. Intent upon their reformation, he invited them one day to dine with him; and having brought the conversation round to such a point that gaming might be naturally introduced, he gave them the subjoined short narrative of his own life.

I was no sooner come from college, than my parents bought me an Ensigney, then vacant in the regiment which I have now the honour to command. The love that I had contracted in my infancy for study, made them hope to see me equally desirous of discharging the duties of my new condition, and of attaining the reputation at which in the confidence of their hope they destined me one day to arrive. For some few months, I acted so as not to disappoint their expectations; but soon after, the pernicious model set before me by my brother officers, together with their persuasions, having drawn me in to make one with them at their meetings, the insatiate demon Play obtained such strong possession of my heart, that every duty which hindered me from gratifying this new passion, soon became int•lerable. I could hardly bring myself to quit the gaming table for an hour, however I might stand in need of rest. In sleep, I dreamed of heaps of good and silver. I was always shuffling cards, and a continual noise of dice was in my ear.

The natural necessity of eating was become my punishment: I swallowed up my meat in haste, that I might be as little absent from my gambling partners as I could.

The beauteous mornings of the spring, the charming evenings of the summer, the voluptuous calmness of Autumnal weather, every thing in short, most capable of pleasing the imagination when it contemplates nature, was to me entirely lost; even friendship had no further place within me. I was only in the company of gamesters. The idea of my parents was grown painful to me; and if ever I reflected upon God, it was in blasphemies poured out against his ho•y name.

At first, I must acknowledge, fortune was particularly favourable to me; which had so bewildered and debased my understanding, as to make me often spread my winnings on the ground and lie upon them, that all those who knew me might assert with truth, and in the litteral sense of the expression, that I was used to roll on gold.

For three whole years my life passed on in these unworthy occupations. It is impossible for me, at present, to remember them without blushing at the stain which they have reflected on my honour: and if possible, I would efface them now, by giving up a half of the remaining days that I have to live. But how shall I presume to mention an excess more frightful still, of which no worthy conduct will remove the blot, even after twenty years all passed in probity and honour? Judge, my friends, how anxious I must be to render my deplorable example useful to you, by the pain which I am content to suffer, when I thus submit to so humiliating a confession.

I was once upon a time commanded to go out with a recruiting party; but, alas! resigned the business of it to my serjeant, while I followed my unhappy passion. Two days afterwards he brought me twenty men to have their bounty money paid them. I had lost the night before, not only every thing that I possessed in the world myself, but likewise the whole sum delivered me for this recruiting service. Think then, gentlemen, what must have been my sorrow and despair in such a situation! I dispatched that moment an express to where our regiment lay in quarters; and ingenuously confessing my misconduct, begged a brother officer to lend me what I wanted.

How! replied that officer, give up so great a sum of money to a professed gambler? No; if I must either lose my property, or give up my connection with a man whose conduct makes his friendship infamous, I chuse to keep my property.

Immediately on reading this insulting answer, I was utterly beside myself; and still remember, as what happened yesterday, the dreadful images which all at once came crowding into my imagination: on the one hand, the distress and indignation of my father, the dishonour that I was fixing on my family, as well as on every one that knew me, and the dread of being broke with infamy; on the other hand, the briliant prospect of that promotion which I might have obtained, by an honourable conduct in my post: nor did I afterwards recover the possession of my understanding, but to think of perpetrating a new crime, that I might be delivered from that ignominy which my first would bring upon me. I was ready to go through with such a desperate resolution, when I saw the very officer come into my apartment, whose reply had hurried me, as I have said just now, into this state of madness.

In the first emotion of my rage, I fell upon him like a fiend; but he disarmed me very quickly; and while I but little thought of what was to ensue, embraced me, and began as follows. "I replied a little harshly to your letter, as I meant, by such an answer, that you should see the horror of that situation into which your rashness has pecipitated you; and I perceive what effect it has upon you. Now therefore that you repent, my property, my life, and every thing that I have, you may command, as you think proper."

"Here," continued he, and threw his purse upon the table, "here is what will serve to pay your new recruits: and the remainder may supply you at the gaming-table, if you mean to return thither."

Return to the gaming-table! Never, never, answered I; and clasped him to my heart.

Since which, I have precisely kept my word. From that day forward I determined to have done with all expensive pleasures, and apply my savings to the purpose of repaying what my generous friend had lent me. I employed my leisure time in study. My attention to the service recommended me to my superiors; and to such a happy lution in the course of my affairs I am indebted for the honour of my present station in the army.

This recital made so powerful an impression on his officers, that every game of hazard ceased among them, and a noble emulation to arrive at useful knowledge quenched that low ambition of winning money which was their ruling passion before. Such was the good consequence resulting from their prudent colonel's lesson.

THE PRODIGAL DOUBLY PUNISHED.

A Worthy private gentleman, observing with concern his only son upon the point of taking to a spendthrift way of living, let him do as he thought proper; and it was not long before the son had run himself behind hand to a great amount. I will pay whatever debt you may contract, said the father to him, as my honour is much dearer to me than my money; but take notice of what follows: You love joyous living, and I love the poor. I have given away in charity a great deal less than I was used to do before I thought of your establishment. I will think no longer of it; a libertine should never marry; so indulge yourself as much as you think proper, but on this condition: I declare, that when, at any time, you spend beyond the money which I allow you to keep yourself as a gentleman, some hospital, or other charitable institution, shall receive from me as much as you require to satisfy your debts; and I will begin this very day. Accordingly the money was that moment ordered to a certain charity; and thus the youth, on being doubly punished for his prodigality, was quickly cured of a disease which otherwise would have insured his ruin.

THE LITTLE GAMBLERS.
A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

- Mr. FLETCHER.

- HONORIA, his Daughter.

- AUGUSTINE, his Son.

- JONATHAN, Augustine's Neighbour.

- ALBERT, his Friend.

- RICH,

- VYSE,

- CRIB,

Gamblers.

The SCENE is in the garden of Mr. Fletcher; during the first act, in one part, after which it changes to another part.

SCENE I.

Jonathan, Albert.

Albert.

WHAT have you to do at Augustine's, then?

Jonathan.

I want to have a little conversation with him, Albert; and you know him likewise.

Albert.

Yes, by sight. You have not always been so intimate, I fancy, as you are at present.

Jonathan.

Not before my father took a lodging here, adjoining his apartments. We see one another often now; and last night were together for an hour or two, at cards.

Albert.

I think, of late, you talk of nothing else but cards; and I have seen you frequently along with Rich and Vyse, of whom I cannot say any good.

Jonathan.

You know them but too well; and would to heaven that I had never seen them!

Albert.

Is it so? But you may break off their acquaintance when you please.

Jonathan.

That is not, at present, in my power. Would you betray me, if I told you something?

Albert.

We have long been friends; and would you fear to trust me, Jonathan?

Jonathan.

O my dear good Albert! they have made me miserable, and engaged me to do things for which my father would renounce me if he knew them. I have not a moment's peace.

Albert.

Alas! what are they?

Jonathan.

Yesterday they got me to go with them to a place where one Crib waited for them. We sat down to play, and I lost all I had.

Albert.

They cheated you, no doubt. But still there is no great mischief done; for never play again, and then your loss will be a gain.

Jonathan.

But this is not the whole. As I had no more money, and still wanted to win back my loss, I still played on, and in the end they got possession of my watch, my coat and waistcoat buttons, buckles, and, in short, of every thing that I had worth selling. I owe Crib a guinea likewise, and he will tell my father, if I cannot find means to pay him to-day.

Albert.

There is but one thing that you can do. Confess the whole directly to your father. I am sure, he will pardon you on your repentance.

Jonathan.

Never! never!

Albert.

What will you do, then?

Jonathan.

I dare not tell you.

Albert.

Let me know it.

Jonathan.

I communicated my distress to Rich and Vyse, and they advised a scheme to extricate me.

Albert.

A fine scheme, no doubt!

Jonathan.

It is not certainly the fairest, as you will say; but what am I at liberty to do▪ I have already introduced them to young Augustine. He has money.

Albert.

Well: you do not intend to rob him, surely?

Jonathan.

Heaven forbid! They only mean to serve him just as Crib served me; and then we are to share the winnings, so that I may pay my debt.

Albert.

And so, because you have been pillaged yourself, you would assist them to defraud your friend too? But how know you that Augustine will not win?

Jonathan.

Oh! no: he plays quite fair.

Albert.

And you like a sharper?

Jonathan.

Like a sharper?

Albert.

No; I am sensible that you play as fair as Augustine, and therefore you lost. Now, as I hope you always mean to play so, how can you be sure of winning?

Jonathan.

I do not know how it is; but they inform me that they have certain ways by which they are sure of winning.

Albert.

Ways! They are knavish tricks, and would you use them? I am not rich, and yet I would not mend my fortune by your certain ways. I am even sorry that you have told me your intention.

Jonathan.

My dear Albert, have compassion on me, and I promise—

Albert.

Promise! What can bring me to assist in your deception?

Jonathan.

No; I mean to say, that if I am but so lucky as to pay this odious Crib, I will break off all connexion with him and his friends; and never touch a card again. If I should break this promise, you shall be at liberty to tell my father every thing. (Albert shakes his head.) Yes, every thing. And then, it will not rest with me to cheat: I cannot if I would, and Crib has taken that upon himself. I shall but play my cards: they have promised that I shall be no loser, but divide the profit with them.

Albert.

Well; I will make a party with you.

Jonathan.

I desire no better, and will instantly invite young Augustine for the afternoon. His father is at present in the country, and will not come back perhaps these three weeks.

Albert.

Quite convenient! But take notice, if yourself should cheat him—

Jonathan.

Do not talk so. I wish I had not told youthe affair.

Albert.

And so do I. I should not then be answerable for it.

Jonathan.

Answerable?

Albert.

To my conscience, surely. I can see a worthy youth on the point of being cheated.

Jonathan.

But you will not cheat him.

Albert.

Jonathan, if you saw a thief pick even a stranger's pocket, ought you to keep silence?

Jonathan.

Augustine will but lose two, three, or possibly four guineas, and be cured of playing.

Albert.

Just as you are cured. But here comes Augustine, I see.

SCENE II.

Jonathan, Albert, Augustine.

Augustine.

Good morrow to you both.

Albert.

Good morrow, Augustine.

Jonathan.

What, you have not been down yet into the garden, when it is such fine weather?

Albert.

Mr. Augustine does not like to run about as you do, and can entertain himself in his apartment.

Augustine.

Yes; but I have been already walking in the garden, and even breakfasted with Honoria and my father in the grove.

Jonathan.

(surprized.) Is he returned so soon? I fancy, you are not well pleased at that.

Augustine.

Not well pleased! when he has been three weeks away?

Jonathan.

I love my parents well enough; and yet, if they should take it in their heads to travel, it would not vex me.

Augustine.

And, for my part, I could wish my father never out of fight, he is so extremely kind!

Jonathan.

And mine so harsh, I must not think of pleasure when he is near me.

Albert.

Who can tell what pleasures you expect!

Augustine.

I thought you were in want of nothing on that head. Since we have lodged together, I have almost every day observed you at the door; and when I have met you in the garden, never could I see you under any thing appearing like restraint.

Jonathan.

No, no; I have always met you on days when my father dined abroad, and that is the only time that I have to use as I think proper; therefore I do turn it to account. But now your father is come home, I take it, we shall not see you quite so often in an evening?

Augustine.

Why not, Jonathan? He refuses me no pleasure that I can ask. However, I must say, I find no company like his; and he, too, has frequently said that he thinks my company and Honoria's quite delightful.

Jonathan.

What a charming father! So then he permits you to go out both when and where you like?

Augustine.

He does, because I always tell him where I am going.

Albert.

And because he knows that you never go but where you tell him?

Jonathan.

What then do you do for entertainment, when you are both together?

Augustine.

In the summer evenings, frequently we take a walk.

Jonathan.

In winter?

Augustine.

We sit down before the fire, and talk of fifty curious matters; or I study geography, and take a lesson in the mathematics. Sometimes too, with Honoria and a friend or two, we act a little drama of some kind or other. You cannot think how that amuses us!

Jonathan.

But sure such different studies are enough to crack your brain!

Augustine.

On the contrary, they come of course, as if they were an amusement.

Jonathan.

A game at cards I should suppose much more amusing. Do you ever play?

Augustine.

Yes, truly; and my father frequently makes one.

Jonathan.

And do you play for money?

Augustine.

Doubtless; but a trifle, just enough to interest one in the game; and particularly, as by that, my father says, one learns to lose with temper.

Albert.

That is quite right; one ought to husband, as they say, one's purse,

Augustine.

Oh! do not imagine that I want money. I have more than I can use.

Jonathan.

How much?

Augustine.

A crown a week.

Jonathan.

A good allowance, truly! And all that to purchase trifles?

Augustine.

Yes, such trifles as my father would not like to have me trouble him about; and that, I must acknowledge, makes me much more careful.

Albert.

I believe so. One can hardly chuse but know the worth of things, when one must pay for them one's self.

Augustine.

True, Albert. And besides, one naturally saves in that case, as I myself have found it; so that what with presents and some other matters, I have now five guineas in my pocket, without reckoning silver.

Jonathan.

Such a deal! And how can you employ it?

Augustine.

Have I nothing then to buy? However, I can dispose of it otherwise. I pay to have our footman's daughter put to school; and every Monday morning send a trifle to a writing-master that I had once, and who is now grown blind: these, both together, make up something; and I keep the rest for ordinary uses, and among them, for play.

Jonathan.

At which you are tolerably lucky. You remember, you won half a crown of me the other night, at One-and-thirty.

Augustine.

I was sorry, as I always am, to win of friends.

Jonathan.

Then you shall have an opportunity at night of losing, if you think fit. Are you engaged?

Augustine.

No; I shall stay at home. My father is to draw out a petition for a widow woman, who would get into an alms-house.

Jonathan.

That is well: and mine goes out at five. Come then to me, and I will endeavour to amuse you. We shall have Rich, Vyse, and Crib.

Augustine.

I will run and ask my father's leave. Shall you be here when I return?

Jonathan.

No, I must go and give them notice of the party; but your answer Mr. Albert will bring to me.

SCENE III.

Albert, Augustine.

Augustine.

Will you go in with me, Mr. Albert? I am sure, my father will be very glad to see you: he has often told me what a great esteem he has conceived this long while for you.

Albert.

I am very happy in his partiality. The esteem of such a gentleman is highly honourable; but at present I am rather indisposed, and shall remain, with your permission, in the garden.

Augustine.

Do; a turn or two will settle you, and I shall not be absent long.

SCENE IV.

Albert, (musing.)

I do not know what to do in this affair! Poor Jonathan is afflicted! I should like to extricate him; but then to let the worthy Augustine be cheated! No, the accomplice is not better than the robber; and to favour roguery is just as bad as doing it. I will go therefore and tell the whole. But, softly! here comes Honoria. Let me first of all do every thing in my power to assist her in preserving Augustine from the danger, and yet not betray my friend.

SCENE V.

Albert, Honoria.

Honoria.

What, you here, Mr. Albert, and alone? I thought I saw my brother talking with you.

Albert.

He has just now left me.

Honoria.

I should wish him never to leave you, if his company were but agreeable to you: I should not be uneasy then.

Albert.

You do me honour, miss; but surely Mr. Augustine is too sensible to give you any pain.

Honoria.

I have no pain while he keeps company with such as you: but shall I come directly to the point? I do not think any good of those companions of Jonathan's; and he wants by all means to mix with them.

Albert.

I have not yet perceived that their company has hurt him.

Honoria.

True; but my poor brother, I must say, is innocent, and somewhat credulous: he judges every one to be like himself. What would become of him, if those whom he thinks his friends were what they should not be? I have remarked, that you do not much approve of Jonathan's intimates.

Albert.

To say the truth, my dear young lady, I should rather wish that Jonathan would be satisfied with Augustine's friendship. There is one advantage, notwithstanding, that his father watches over him, as yours does over Augustine, and instructs him what to do.

Honoria.

The mischief often is remarked too late; it is easier to prevent than cure it.

Albert.

I am sure, you love your brother tenderly, and therefore hear me; but tell nobody that I mentioned what I am going now to say. Young Jonathan has prevailed upon him, just before you entered, to make one with him and his three intimates. They mean to play, no doubt; but do your utmost to divert your brother from partaking with them. I designed to wait here for his answer, but do not think it proper that I should carry it. I make no doubt but he will bring it presently. Pray do not judge amiss of me that I retire; and think of the advice which my duty, as a friend to Augustine, bade me give you.

SCENE VI.

Honoria, (alone.)

As a friend! This looks a little serious! Ah, my poor dear brother! should it chance that you, who are at present all the joy and consolation of my father, were to change, and be the cause of his affliction for the time to come!

SCENE VII.

Augustine, Honoria.

Augustine.

My father's friends are willing, I can see, to take the earliest opportunity of paying him their compliments on his arrival, just as if he had been absent for a twelvemonth. I could hardly thrust a word in.

Honoria.

You had something then of consequence to tell him.

Augustine.

Of the greatest consequence to me. I want to pass the evening with my friends.

Honoria.

With Mr. Jonathan, no doubt?

Augustine.

Yes.

Honoria.

I thought so. You might easily have guessed, however, that such a friend as Jonathan does not please me.

Augustine.

Truly, Jonathan is greatly to be pitied, being so unfortunate as not to have a place in your good graces! And what should he be, to merit such an honour?

Honoria.

He should be—just such a one as you are.

Augustine.

Do you mean to joke?

Honoria.

No: I am very serious, I assure you; and consider you a very amiable young man without a fault, unless indeed it be the want of due politeness to your sister.

Augustine.

And why so? because that sister is a little critic, and pretends to greater understanding than her brother.

Honoria.

Truly, I had quite forgot to mention modesty, when I was drawing up your panegyric.

Augustine.

But what means this prating? and pray tell me, why these intimations with regard to Jonathan! Do you know him?

Honoria.

I would know him by his actions.

Augustine.

Are you always with him, to remark them?

Honoria.

I can guess them from the company that he keeps.

Augustine.

I understand you perfectly: his company displeases you, because I am one of his acquaintance.

Honoria.

Surely, brother, he must have acquaintances of longer standing than yourself; and I speak of them as I would of good for nothing fellows.

Augustine.

Good for nothing fellows?

Honoria.

Yes, that play, and practise each dishonourable trick to win their adversary's money, and then spend it more dishonourably still.

Augustine.

Oh! what two great crimes! they play when they are together; and they spend their winnings as they please. We do the same, I fancy. And besides, you say, they play to win; but they have often lost to me.

Honoria.

Yes, yes; they have lost their copper, and have won your silver.

Augustine.

Well, and if they have, the loss was mine, not yours. But this is just like what my sister is. She would be sorry if she could not vex me in my pleasures, notwithstanding I do every thing to heighten hers.

Honoria,

(taking him by the hand.) No, brother; every pleasure that you can have, is also mine; but for the world, I would not have your pleasures hurt you, and deprive me of the satisfaction which I receive from loving you.

Augustine.

I know indeed that you love me; but am hurt to find you fancy me incapable to guide myself.

Honoria.

And yet you would not be the first that—but here comes my father.

SCENE VIII.

Honoria, Augustine, Mr. Fletcher.

Mr. Fletcher.

My dear children, I have just now been enjoying a delightful satisfaction!

Honoria.

That of being visited on your return by your acquaintance, I suppose you mean? But certainly your friends must cherish you, when we who are restrained by your authority, rejoice as much as they can do.

Augustine.

Yes, truly; for without you we can find no pleasure.

Mr. Fletcher.

And yet you must learn to do without me; since, according to the ordinary course of nature, I shall certainly go first.

Honoria.

O sir, would you afflict us at a time when we thought of nothing but rejoicing?

Augustine.

Yes, sir, you will live, and long we hope, for our advantage. But let us talk no more on such a gloomy subject.—I have a little favour to request.

Mr. Fletcher.

Well, come, let us hear it.

Augustine.

Master Jonathan—you are acquainted with his father—Well, he has invited me to spend the evening with him.

Mr. Fletcher.

You have a new acquaintance then. I am glad that you pick up such good company so near you.

Honoria.

You hear that? good company!

Augustine.

I think him so; I have already sat down with him several times, and he has introduced me also to some friends of his.

Honoria.

Good company, too, I suppose.

Augustine.

Yes, for sure I must know them better than you.

Mr. Fletcher.

When I used the words good company, I meant discreet and well bred.

Augustine.

Yes, sir, extremely so.

Honoria.

And how are you to know that they are such, as you have only seen them once or twice?

Augustine.

But have I not been hours together with them?

Mr. Fletcher.

How did your acquaintance begin?

Honoria.

At play.

Augustine.

And why not so? My father lets me play.

Mr. Fletcher.

It is true, for recreation, and for such a sum as being gained will not induce the immoderate love of money, or if lost, not put one out of temper; and this likewise at a time when nothing can be done more profitable.

Honoria.

But I thought, sir, something might be always done more profitable?

Augustine.

Yes, (I speak of myself, for instance,) if I could but nail my thoughts continually to some book or other.

Mr. Fletcher.

Honoria's remark is not amiss. One may employ a leisure evening better than at play, no doubt, if people would be always rational, or even innocently mirthful; but as scandal sometimes will go round, or folly; in such case, you know, I bid you play, and often take a part myself.

Honoria.

And these I doubt not, brother, are the reasons why you play?

Augustine.

I do not see any right that you have to catechize me.

Mr. Fletcher.

But why take offence at what she says through friendship?

Augustine.

Rather, sir, from a desire to hurt me in your thoughts.

Mr. Fletcher.

Can you conceive such notions of your sister?

Honoria,

(with a tone of tenderness.) Brother!

Augustine,

(with the same tone.) Honoria, pardon me: I am in the wrong to tax you thus: but grant, however, your insinuations unavoidably must hurt me.

Mr. Fletcher.

Her suspicions may have some foundation that does not reflect upon you: we need not fear, I think, our dispositions towards each other, so united as we are. (Honoria and Augustine take their father by the hand.)

Honoria.

O sir, how good you are!

Augustine.

You lay by all a father's rights, and are our friend.

Mr. Fletcher.

If I were any other than your friend, I should not be compleatly qualified to bring you up. I might perhaps connive at your neglecting outward ceremonies of respect; but not your failure in that confidence which I expect from your affection. You should not have a secret that you would keep hid from me, as whenever you may chance to be in danger, my experience may preserve you from it. Let me therefore ask you, Honoria, what are the objections that you have formed against your brother's new acquaintances?

Honoria.

They are always taken up with cards.

Augustine.

Who told you so?

Honoria.

No matter from whom I have my information: the thing is, whether it be true?

Mr. Fletcher.

I have already told you what I think of playing: every thing depends upon the game that you play.

Augustine.

Oh! it needs no great attention: it is the game of one and thirty.

Mr. Fletcher.

I confess, I do not approve it much.

Augustine.

Why not? There can be nothing in the world so innocent. Whoever is one and thirty, or the nearest to it, wins.

Mr. Fletcher.

And do you know that it is what we call a game of chance?

Augustine.

Because one has a chance to win or lose? and must not this be said of every game?

Mr. Fletcher.

With this material difference, that at one and thirty, chance alone decides; whereas, in many others, skill is to be shown. In short, one wants but fingers, and no head for games of chance: and in my thought, such games are utterly unworthy of a thinking man.

Honoria.

They cannot even amuse one.

Augustine.

Do not say so, dear sister. There is a deal of pleasure in expecting such or such a card as one may want.

Mr. Fletcher.

Because the love of money makes it so. And as this love of money operates very powerfully, it is a strong temptation for ten thousand rogues to follow gaming as a trade; and therefore unsuspecting people generally are their dupes.

Augustine.

Do you believe so, sir? but how?

Honoria.

I fancy, they must have some art or other, to arrange the pack in such a way, as to obtain what cards they want.

Mr. Fletcher.

Yes, that is in reality their secret. I cannot tell their method; but am certain, that they do employ some method, and have seen deplorable examples of it in my travels.

Augustine.

Oh! pray tell us what examples?

Mr. Fletcher.

With a deal of pleasure. When at Spa, I was acquainted with a young gentleman, who lost one night above twelve thousand pounds, which was his all.

Honoria.

His all! poor youth! and what did he do to live?

Augustine.

He must have been beside himself.

Mr. Fletcher.

Despair obtained possession of his features, when he saw his fortune thus irretrievably lost. He looked so frightful, that I was forced to turn away my sight; he gnashed his teeth, plucked up his hair by handfuls, and beat violently on his breast: he gasped and panted like a dying man, and left the room quite mad.

Augustine.

And pray, sir, among those who won his money, was there no one who would give it back, as I should certainly have done?

Mr. Fletcher.

They kept their seats; and still continued playing on: or if they turned off their attention from the cards, it was to look upon him with contempt.

Honoria.

The wicked wretches!

Mr. Fletcher.

But the worst part of the story is as follows: That this poor young man destroyed himself before the morning.

Honoria.

Oh! how shocking!

Augustine.

Dreadful! and from henceforth, sir, I will never touch a card, I promise you. I'll run and tell this Jonathan.

Mr. Fletcher.

Softly, softly: you are always much too hasty in your resolutions. One should never wholly give a pleasure up, because, when carried to excess, it may be hurtful. I have often told you, that a game at cards, when friends are met together, is amusing, innocent, and even useful.

Honoria.

Useful, sir?

Mr. Fletcher.

Yes, useful; as it teaches us to bear our fortune; and not to triumph when we win, or be dejected at our little losses.

Augustine.

Heaven be praised, I am not so fond of money as to hurt another by my insults in good fortune; or to shew that I am hurt myself, by being vexed when I am unlucky; but to shun what possibly might happen, it will be better for me not to visit either Jonathan or his friends.

Mr. Fletcher.

You would only prove your weakness, if this should be your final resolution: for at least you have it in your power, when with them, to refrain from playing.

Augustine.

Oh, I know them: they would absolutely make me play.

Mr. Fletcher.

Well, play as much as they would have you, since by that means you will gain a better knowledge of them. But instead of going to this Jonathan, or his friends, invite them hither. You may also tell them that Honoria perhaps will make one.

Honoria.

But, sir—

Mr. Fletcher.

Yes, yes; I have a reason.

Honoria.

But suppose they win my money?

Mr. Fletcher.

You shall have it all from me again. And tell them, Augustine, that you expect a friend, whom you will prevail on to sit down and play amongst them.

Augustine.

But you know, sir, I expect no friend.

Mr. Fletcher.

When I inform you of a friend that you have at home, who will be with you, cannot you guess what friend I mean?

Honoria.

Sly! Why sure you understand papa? he means himself.

Mr. Fletcher.

Yes, Augustine; for you recollect, just now you said that I was your friend.

Augustine.

Oh yes; they will play indeed, if you are of the party!

Mr. Fletcher.

Therefore you shall not inform them who the friend is that you expect. As soon as I have finished my petition, I will return and join you. I shall see what is proper to be done. 'Till then, play with them, and at any game they chuse.

Augustine.

So then you would have me run to Jonathan and his friends?

Mr. Fletcher.

Yes, yes: and do not forget to desire Albert's company. I shall be glad to see him. All his masters praise him wonderfully, and you yourself have frequently been lavish in his commendations.

Honoria.

He merits every tittle of it.

Augustine.

One word more, sir; shall we meet here in the garden?

Mr. Fletcher.

As your please. The weather is so fine, you may step here into the summer-house, it will hold all your company.

SCENE IX.

Mr. Fletcher, Honoria.

Honoria.

I fear, sir, your presence will be much more necessary here than mine.

Mr. Fletcher.

You fear?

Honoria.

Yes, sir; for I have told you, Master Albert was not long since with me. From some words which he dropped, I have reason to believe that my brother's company have laid a plot to cheat him of his money.

Mr. Fletcher.

All the better, if he finds himself their victim. I will hide myself behind the summer-house there, just by that partition, and hear every word of their discourse. They will enter here, and cannot possibly discover me: but in the interim take you care; and if you see their roguery, seem as if you did not.

Honoria.

I shall find it hard, sir, to dissemble. It will be painful to me, should I see my brother prove the object of their ridicule, and fall a victim to his open nature.

Mr. Fletcher.

By himself alone can he be fully undeceived; and in that case I shall with less difficulty persuade him to be attentive for the future in the choice of his connexions, and so cure him likewise of his love for gaming, which, I must acknowledge, he seems ready to adopt as a habit.

Honoria.

How, sir, can he have a thought of going thus to cards? He ought to know himself. He is so credulous, that every sharper must suppose him proper for his purpose! and so warm, that at the first ill luck he falls into a passion!

Mr. Fletcher.

Yes, that is just his character. I did not think you so observant, Honoria.

Honoria.

One should be in truth observant of another's conduct, if one means to serve him. And—

Mr. Fletcher.

A knock; it must be Jonathan's friends: they do not desire to lose a moment. I now leave you. I will go round about and gain my station. (He goes out.)

SCENE X.

Honoria,

(alone.) How I long to know the issue of all this! Alas! dear brother! who can tell but your future happiness in life depends on the decision of the present afternoon.

SCENE XI.

Honoria, Augustine, Jonathan, Albert, Rich, Vyse, Crib.

Jonathan,

(to Honoria.) I was afraid, Miss Honoria, as I mentioned to your brother, that our company might incommode you: but he would not—

Augustine.

Incommode her! I am in hopes that she will keep us company.

Honoria.

With all my heart, if you think proper, gentlemen.

Vyse,

(with constraint.) You do us honour, madam.

Crib,

(whispering Jonathan.) This is quite unlucky! In politeness we must play whatever game she likes. You should not have consented to come here.

Augustine.

Perhaps I shall be able, gentlemen, to introduce a friend of mine to your acquaintance likewise.

Rich.

Shall you?

Augustine.

Yes, and not without a pocket full of gold.

Jonathan,

(aside.) That is well.

Honoria.

We will stay here in the garden, if you please.

Albert.

We cannot do better. We shall have the pleasure of a charming walk.

Rich.

Do you design to walk?

Albert.

What else?

Vyse.

Why, play.

Albert.

But I do not understand your play; and if I did, I shall not wish to lose my money.

Crib.

Wish to lose it! just as if it were certain that you would lose it!

Albert.

Sir, with you particularly. You are too skilful by a deal for me.

Augustine.

If I should win, I promise, I will return you every farthing.

Jonathan.

And I too.

Rich and Vyse.

And we.

Albert.

You would make a fool of me. To lose my money, and receive it back, or on the other hand, win yours, and keep it, is not what I do: so do not concern yourselves on my account. I will see you play, or else walk up and down the garden hereabouts.

Honoria.

My father, gentlemen, cannot have the honour to receive you, (Rich and his company seem rejoiced,) but has bid me entertain you. Augustine will get ready some refreshments, and I will run and fetch the cards.

Crib.

That is needless: I have a pack about me.

Augustine.

How! about you?

Crib.

Yes: I study them.

Honoria.

And have you fish too?

Crib.

I shall beg you to get us them, unless we are to stake our money.

Jonathan,

(aside to Crib.) You remember, I have no money?— (aloud.) No, no: we shall hardly know what we are about. And so, miss, if you will be so kind—

Monoria.

Enough, I will bring the bag. Come, brother.

SCENE XII.

Jonathan, Albert, Rich, Vyse, Crib.

Vyse,

(going into the summer-house with Jonathan, Rich, and Crib, while Albert walks about.) I am sorry we are here.

Rich.

What matters, since the father is not here?

Crib.

You should not have consented to the place of meeting, Jonathan.

Jonathan.

Here, or in my room, what difference does that make?

Rich.

Well then, when Augustine has lost every thing, we will carry off his money, and go play where we think proper.

Vyse.

We shall empty, very likely, the young lady's pocket also.

Crib.

Yes; that is what I look for: let us take care, however. We will put in our fish at two-pence each, for half a dozen deals or so; and when the game grows warm, and they have won a little, we will then make them double.

Jonathan.

You remember your promise, Crib?

Crib.

Do not you be uneasy. We know one another. All our loss shall be in counters, and we will have no reckoning when the game is over. I will dispose the cards in such a way, that we must lose at first, and that will draw them on.

Jonathan.

But, Crib, you know, you fleeced me quite the other day; and I have now but sixpence in my pocket. How am I to pay my loss?

Crib.

Your loss! we shall be sure to win, if we attend to what we do.

Vyse.

I should be glad if Augustine's friend would come: he will be another pigeon that we shall pluck.

Rich.

Yes, yes! I know of none so easy to be duped as these same bookish fellows.

Crib.

We had best begin, that they may find us busy when they come. (He takes his cards out.) Stay; I will put them so that you may lose. (He shuffles them.) Now you shall see. (He gives three cards to Jonathan, Rich, and Vyse; lays down as many for himself, and then addresses Jonathan.) Do you stand?

Jonathan.

No: beg.

Crib.

There.

Jonathan,

(looking at the cards.) Out!

Crib,

(to Vyse.) And you?

Vyse.

One card, but not a high one.

Crib.

Much good may it do you!—there.

Vyse.

Out too!

Crib,

(to Rich.) Now you are to be out. You beg, I suppose?

Rich.

No; as Vyse and Jonathan are both out, I stand.

Crib.

And so will I. How many are you?

Vyse.

Twenty-five.

Crib.

And I just thirty. I have won: And yet I might have lost by doing the reverse of what I did; as you shall see the two first games that we play, when Augustine and the lady comes, who having won, will then have no objection to play higher.

Jonathan.

But how can you be sure of winning when you please?

Crib.

You have already paid for your instruction, and I will let you know the secret. I tell every thing to friends, when I have pocketed their money. With my art you will win of others what you have lost of me, and so be quits.

Jonathan.

Well, let me know.

Crib.

You see, (shewing the cards,) the ten and court cards are a very little longer than the rest, and all the smaller ones, as high as five, not reckoning in the aces, somewhat broader; by which means I can at pleasure bring the picture cards, &c. to the top in shuffling, and the five, and those below it, to the bottom. I contrive to give you two of those on the top; and afterward, the other from the bottom: so that at the most you have but five and twenty, and will therefore generally beg. Well then, you have it from the top, and must infallibly be out.

Jonathan.

I understand you.

Crib.

This is all my lesson, and you have it upon easy terms; ask Rich and Vyse else, who so profitably follow my instructions. But I see the lady coming in, so push about the deal.

SCENE XIII.

Jonathan, Rich, Vyse, Crib, Honoria.

Honoria,

(putting down a box upon the table, with a pack of cards and fish and counters in it.) You do not lose any time, I see.

Crib.

I was but showing Mr. Jonathan a new game.

Jonathan.

You will sit down with us? We shall have that honour?

Honoria.

If I knew the game that you play—

Vyse.

It is a very easy game. It is only One and thirty.

Rich.

Had you never seen it played, you will know enough to beat us at it by the second deal.

Honoria.

I know a little of it. It would perhaps be better for me not to play with those that know it so completely as you gentlemen; however, if it gives you pleasure—

Jonathan.

Oh yes, miss, the greatest in the world.

Vyse.

And even should you win, too, all our money.

Honoria,

(with a smile.) Yes, that is my intention.

Rich.

You will be scarce the richer for it in the end; we play but for a trifle.

Jonathan,

(with impatience.) Well! and what are we about? We pass away the time in talking.

Crib.

We must wait for Master Augustine: it is but just that we should amuse him; we are his guests.

SCENE XIV.

Jonathan, Rich, Vyse, Crib, Honoria, Augustine.

Augustine.

Here, here I am. The servant will be with us very shortly. I have ordered some refreshment.

Jonathan.

Come, sir, we are waiting for you.

Augustine.

Thank you.

Vyse.

Let us give out the fish.

Rich.

There are six of us: to every one two dozen, and ten counters; that is, ten dozen more.

Jonathan.

But how much every fish?

Crib.

Just what the lady pleases.

Honoria.

Oh, it is rather as you like.

Augustine.

Our fish were two-pence each, when last we played together; five staked every deal by each, and half a dozen the bon-ace.

Honoria.

Well, be it so.

Crib.

Then here goes to begin. (Crib takes the cards and deals. The lady and her brother win by (rib's contrivance three times running.)

Honoria.

Hey! hey! if we go on in this way, I think, I shall soon fulfil my prophecy.

Crib.

While we play so low as two-pence, we shall never ruin one another.

Vyse.

Well then, shall we make it four-pence?

Augustine.

Oh, with all my heart. I have so much money, you cannot break me easily. (He shakes his purse, at which Crib and his companions look with pleasure.)

Honoria.

And I can risque as much, I fancy, as my brother.

Crib.

We must first then pay our debts, that we may have our full account of fish and counters.—Let me see, (after having counted.) I have lost one counter, and six fish; that is, eighteen fish; and eighteen twice is six and thirty —just three shillings: there they are.

Rich.

I have all my counters, but am master of no more than two poor fish; that is two and twenty lost, or three and eight-pence. There.

Vyse.

I am come off much the worst. Two counters gone, and twice as many fish; which come to four and eight-pence.—I put down a crown, and take up fourpence.

Augustine.

Well, and you, Master Jonathan?

Jonathan.

I have lost least. No more than fifteen fish, or half a-crown. I will change a guinea, when we rise, to pay it.

Honoria.

Good! So now I will see my winnings. One, two, three—Three counters, and three fish. That is six and six-pence just: of which I take four shillings, and the two and six-pence, Master Jonathan, you shall owe me.

Augustine.

So that all the rest is to pay my four and forty fish.—It is comical enough, however, that we should be the only winners!

Rich.

Oh, I always lose, for my part.

Jonathan.

So now the fish are four-pence?

Augustine.

Yes, that is settled.

Crib.

(shuffling the cards.) Come, I will deal.

SCENE THE LAST.

Jonathan, Rich, Vyse, Crib, Honoria, Augustine, Albert, (who came in a little while before,) Mr. Fletcher.

Mr. Fletcher,

(to Jonathan and his friends, who seem confounded.) Pray do not disturb yourselves.

Augustine.

Sit down: my father does not come to interrupt us, I informed you that I might have a friend to introduce, and he will play with us. Won't you, sir?

Honoria.

O yes: pray play; we shall be very glad to get your money, and these gentlemen, I know, will like to share it too.

Mr. Fletcher.

With all my heart. So every one fit down. (To Jonathan and his friends, who seem quite overwhelmed.) But what is the matter, gentlemen? Are you afraid to play with me? I can assure you, I am no sharper. (They sit down at last.) You (to Crib) were dealing when I entered; so continue pray; but first let us see, have you a pack complete? (Crib wants to drop the cards, but Mr. Fletcher secures, and looks them over.) It is droll enough to have the court-cards all together thus! but, Honoria, why not give us cleaner cards? Pray hand me over those—

Honoria.

It was not my fault, sir, as this gentleman (pointing to Crib) had brought them in his pocket; and the play was going on when I came in with ours.

Mr. Fletcher,

(to Albert.) What, you here, Master Albert! I am very glad to see you; but pray, do not you play?

Albert.

I would rather be a looker on: you know I have nothing, sir, to throw away.

Mr. Fletcher.

You are in the right to think so, and your prudence merits praise. (To Crib.) But come, sir; here are better cards, (Crib takes them with a trembling band,) at least a little cleaner: what is your game? Pray tell me.

Augustine.

One and thirty.

Mr. Fletcher.

And for what?

Honoria.

No more than four-pence a fish. I have won all this! four shillings; and two and six-pence owing me by Mr. Jonathan, who wants change.

Mr. Fletcher,

(aside.) Wants change! I smell a rat! (to Honoria.) So much as four-pence! that is a little too much; but no matter, if we have all of us enough to pay our losings. So let us see your money. Mr. Jonathan, I begin with you; (Jonathan is confused.) What ails you? Are you taken ill?

Jonathan.

Ye-e-es, sir—Let me—

Mr. Fletcher.

What is all this? one stammers, and the other seems confounded! (to Crib.) You, sir, too, are disconcerted?

Augustine.

What is the matter with them?

Mr. Fletcher.

It is high time that I should explain the reason of this strange behaviour. Augustine, you observe the effects of a guilty conscience. Happily they are not yet so totally abandoned as to hide their villainy beneath a brazen front, and bully in their own defence.

Augustine.

What say you, sir? Sure you are mistaken: It is my sister, as she told you, and myself, that are the only winners.

Crib,

(taking courage.) Have we failed to pay our losings, every one, but Master Jonathan?

Jonathan.

No: but why? because you have cheated me already out of all my money.

Mr. Fletcher.

I was right in thinking that they would unmask themselves: And, Augustine, you may see what villains you have chosen for your companions.

Augustine.

Oh, I cannot think so, sir.

Mr. Fletcher.

Well then, Mr. Jonathan, do you speak; you seem least hardened. Tell me, was there not a plot among you to defraud my children?

Jonathan.

Yes indeed, sir; but for my part, I assure you, I was forced into it. All my wish was to get back a part of what I had lost before. If you but knew how much this wicked fellow has squeezed from me, for the other two are nothing to him, you would say that he should be sent to prison.

Mr. Fletcher.

You have well deserved your loss, by mixing with such company: but tell me how much you have lost?

Jonathan.

Two guineas, and a few odd shillings with them all together; and my watch, coat buttons, buckles, and a guinea more in money afterwards, in private with the tallest: but the guinea I still owe him; and he threatened, if I did not prevail on Master Augustine to fit down and play this evening, that he would tell my father.

Albert.

This, sir, I can say in Jonathan's favour, that he gave me just the same account this morning, and was grieved at what he thought himself compelled to do. The grand criminal is Crib, the tallest; the two others in comparison—

Mr. Fletcher.

I comprehend what you would say; and therefore, (to Rich and Vyse,) little rascals, get you gone this instant. Perhaps it is not as yet too late that I should think of rescuing you from infamy; and therefore I will inform your parents of your conduct.

Rich and Vyse,

(dropping on their knees.) Pardon us this once, sir, we beseech you; and we will never come within your doors again.

Mr. Fletcher.

No; I shall take care that you never do; but then it is not enough that my children should be safe in future from your roguery, I owe the same good service to all fathers. What perversity! at such an age not only to be gamblers, but vile cheats! the hatefullest of human beings! However, out of pity to your youth, and from the hope which I have of your amendment, I will do no more than tell your parents; but if ever I am told that you still continue your detestable employment, I will make known your infamy to every one about us. So be gone, and never let me see you here again. Be gone, I say. (Rich and Vyse withdraw in silence and confusion.) And you, sir, is it true that you have got these things from Jonathan?

Crib,

(with hesitation.) Yes, sir.

Mr. Fletcher.

You have cheated him, but that is no matter. Jonathan lost them, and has merited his fortune. We will put a value on them.

Jonathan.

I could wish, indeed, that I had sufficient to redeem my loss.

Augustine.

O sir, if all that I have in my pocket be sufficient, Jonathan may command it. I have full five guineas, take them for the service of my friend.

Mr. Fletcher.

Augustine, this is very generous.

Jonathan.

What, to me such friendship!

Augustine.

We are neighbours both, and you may pay me weekly, or in any way you please. (Crib gives Jonathan his things.)

Mr. Fletcher,

(to Jonathan.) Is every thing returned you?

Jonathan.

Yes, sir; and I am saved by your generosity and Augustine's from the resentment of my father. Oh, I will never risque his gifts again in such a manner.

Mr. Fletcher,

(offering Crib the money.) Here is the value of your theft, for such it must be called; and you shall have it to subsist upon in prison till you are called to an••er for your crime, as possibly you may not have the means without it. Nay, expect not by solicitation to divert the rigour of my justice. Your seduction of two youths, your felony upon the property of this young man, and your attempt to make him instrumental in the robbery of another, well deserve that rigour. This must be your sentence; so withdraw a little for the present. (Crib withdraws, and weeps for very rage)

Jonathan,

(falling on his knees to Mr. Fletcher.) O dear Sir! from what a gulph of ruin you preserve me! And without you what would have been my evil fortune, when thrust out from home, and perhaps stigmatized in public for my vices? I am then indebted to your pity for my reputation, my repose, and my existence. (He rises and embraces Augustine.) And my generous Augustine, you whom I was going to—

Augustine.

Never think more of it; I do not; and for the time to come be happy.

Mr. Fletcher.

Master Albert's testimony of your grief at being forced into this plot, alleviates your offence; and therefore you may still continue to visit my son; but after what he has just done in your behalf, I shall account you the most profligate of youths, unless you study to deserve his friendship.

Jonathan.

Oh, I will do so. Rely upon me, sir.

Mr. Fletcher.

And as for you, dear Albert, I have reason to be charmed with what so many tongues have told me of your modesty and virtue. By your laudable example, you may very much contribute to the happiness of Augustine.—I request you to be often with him; and if I can shew my gratitude by being serviceable to your happiness, I shall promote it with as much affection as your parents would do.

Albert.

Your esteem, dear sir, is happiness sufficient for me.

Mr. Fletcher.

You observe, my dear children, the unhappy consequences that result from gaming?

Augustine.

Yes, sir, and shall shudder all my life at the idea of them.

Mr. Fletcher.

You observe too, Augustine, with what care and circumspection one should chuse a friend?

Augustine.

Yes, that too, sir; and am convinced how happy it is for me to have a friend, as I have said already, in my father.

THE MONKEY.

FRANCIS, and his play-mate Lorenzo, were at the window. As it chanced, they heard a pipe and tabor. Looking up the street, they saw a bear approaching sternly, and a man conducting him by a chain to which the creature was fastened at the other end. I should be afraid, said Lozenzo, to stand too near that animal; for do but listen, Francis: Did you ever hear such growling? I should quake if I were by him. Oh, he could not hurt you, answered Francis; you may see, he has a muzzle to prevent his biting.

They were talking thus, when Bruin was come exactly opposite their window, in his progress down the street. Two monkies now took up the little gentlemen's attention. One was light and nimble, but the other not so active. Both were jumping to and fro on Bruin's back, who suffered them to play their tricks as if he did not care about it. They had fruit in plenty thrown them by the mob, which they caught in their paws as soon as it was flung to them, and swallowed almost instantly. But what delighted them particularly, were the nuts which the people threw them. Seated on their breech, and holding them between their two fore-paws, they broke the shells, and picked the kernels out with something of an air.

It chanced that a very large one came among the rest. The heavy monkey raised himself upon his long hind-legs to get it; but the little one darting forward, seized it in the air before it could have time to reach him. Cheated of his prey in this manner by the little one, he gnashed his teeth with rage. His front grew wrinkled, and his eyes flashed fire: he thrust his claws out, fell upon the little one, and seemed upon the point of tearing him to bits. The bear found it very difficult to save him.

Do you see, said Francis to his little friend, how frightful that same monkey is become since first he fell into a rage, and how he shews his teeth? Oh no, I should not like to be within his reach! How terrible! I should be scared to death!

Indeed? said Lorenzo. Well then, can you imagine it; but yesterday, when you were in a passion, you were like him. Look ye, you had all his wrinkles; you even grinned as he does now; your eyes shewed what a passion you were in, and like the monkey, you seemed ready to devour poor little Harry, who had notwithstanding done you no great harm. I only wished that I could have got a looking-glass. Your face was in reality so ugly, it would have frightened you.

Indeed! said Francis. Is it possible that I resembled such an odious beast? I could not but have been extremely frightful if I did, and must endeavour for the future to be never in a passion. When I find myself growing angry, I will then bethink me of the monkey, recollect the malice in his countenance, and that will make me shudder at the thought of being like him. Do you too, my good friend Lorenzo, if I forget this resolution, like a friend remind me of it.

Lorenzo assured him that he would do so, and was faithful to his promise. Francis by degrees got rid entirely of his wrathful habit, or was very rarely in a passion. He enjoyed the greater happiness, and his indulgent parents were not less transported at his reformation.

THE ALPS.

THE sun was rising in the heavens. The dew drops which are seen on every leaf so early in the morning, glittered with the colours of the rainbow; and the shadows of the trees were shortening on the ground, when Damon, holding his son, a grown-up lad, by the hand, came out, and sat down on his garden terrace, to enjoy the freshness of the morning.

Dearest father, said the son, pray wake me always at this hour; for I am charmed with contemplating such a scene as I now see all round me! How delightful the whole prospect! But perhaps it would be more so, were it not confined by younder mountains, which lift up their snowy tops so high that any one would suppose them to prop the clouds above them.

I do not think as you do, said the father. Those same mountains leave us space enough, and that made up of fields and meadows, to contemplate; and by thus consining, as you say, the prospect, help to vary it; and more particularly so at evening, when the sun still tips them with a thousand streaks of gold, even after the whole level plain is dark.

When we shall once have visited those mountains, and considered its inhabitants, you will be pleased with contemplating on them, I am certain, since they cannot but suggest agreeable sensations.

How can men, said the youth, be fond of living on such mountains, covered as they are with snow?

They do not live there, said Damon; you will seek in vain to find inhabitants upon the heights: it is at the bottom of the mountains that they are situated. There are charming vallies stretched among them; but before the traveller can obtain them, he discerns no prospect save that of barren rocks. This prospect being passed, he comes to wide extended carpets of the greenest sod; he breathes an air embalmed on all sides by ten thousand odoriferous flowers that grow there; and his ear is pleasingly affected by the murmurs of as many streams descending from the summit of the hills. The sun, by shining on them with his noon day radiance, makes them put on the appearance of the b•ightest silver. And amongst them, some, precipitated from a rock, re-echo when they reach the bottom, and there rise in clouds, as one may say, of dust, that yield a trembling kind of light. Their passage is distinguished by a multitude of charming flowers which blossom on the margin; and the flowers, whose stalks wave to and fro, obedient to the breeze that agitates them, and the waters that flow in among them, heighten the delightful prospect.

Spring is very late, and harvest very early, in this region; whence it happens that the ground brings forth no other sort of grain than what is sowed some little while before the summer, and grows ripe betimes in autumn: hence, too, it comes that the fields are shaded by no other trees than those producing cherries, plums, and other early fruit. Here and there the traveller meets with •am•ets; and the houses being made of wood, are so much blackened by the sun, as to afford a very striking contrast with the smiling verdure of the little orchards that surround them.

In those hamlets live many innocent and happy families, which for the space of five or six long months are almost buried under snow. As long as that sad season lasts, they take the greatest care imaginable of their little flocks; at times they visit one another, spin the flax which they have gathered before hand, and make different articles of furniture in wood, which they either use themselves, or are sure to fell for money to their neighbours.

As soon towards summer as the sun has melted that vast heap of snow which covered all their fields and habitations, and the river that flows through their vallies has completely carried off the water with which their lands were overflowed, all the men begin to cultivate their fields or meadows, and the women labour in their gardens. During summer, the industrious father of his family repairs to other districts with the produce of his labours, and brings back, in barter for them, those conveniencies of life which are not to be had for money even in his hamlet.

Many travel upon mules, and cross their craggy hills along such paths as have been cut through rocks, and those, too, over frightful precipices. They transport to very distant parts the honey which they have stored in autumn, which is universally acknowledged to be excellent. They likewise traffic in the skins of goats, which they entrap while climbing up the rocks, or find among them dead. Another article of merchandize for which they are distinguished, is the dormouse. This animal, benumbed by the excessive cold, retains in holes and cavities, which she digs for herself to serve by way of habitation, and in which she lies rolled up almost like a ball and on a bed of hay, that heat and life which, with returning spring, the sun expands; and a fourth great object of their commerce is the crystal, which they contrive to quarry in the gaps or chasms of their highest rocks. And many, on the other hand, are guides to foreigners who have the curiosity to travel over, and inspect their frozen mountains.

I myself have been upon them, like many others, guided in my way by one of those good men.—I call them good, in opposition to the multitudes that live in towns and civilized society.—But yet they have lost a great deal of their natural simplicity by frequent converse with such foreigners as have employed them for guides. I admired the people, and their way of living; therefore, having satisfied my curiosity upon the mountains, I determined to remain among them some few days, that I might gain a better knowledge of their manners.

I must let you know what conversation I heard pass between the wife and child of my conductor while I lived among them. I was sitting on the grass, beneath a pinetree: Julian, my conductor, had that day set out before the dawn, to guide two English gentlemen who came on the preceding evening to inspect the mountains. It was still broad day-light, but the sun was rapidly descending towards the west. The mother ascended upon a rising ground; the son came after her. They fixed their eyes upon the icy masses which advanced their cloggy cliffs on the other side of the valley, and the wife began as follows:

The Mother.

I am looking to no purpose. I discover nothing. I do not see him yet.

The Son.

Let us go to yonder rock before us, shaded by those trees, and we shall see much better thence. There we shall be able to discern more plainly all that quarter of the mountain where my father, I suppose, must be.

The Mother.

Well, we are now got to it; notwithstanding which, I can distinguish nothing more than from the spot that we have left. It is all lost labour: he does not appear. And yet the sun is nearly setting, and the day will soon close in.

The Son.

O! mother, we shall yet have two full hours of day-light.

The Mother.

And perhaps he may be four or five leagues distant. Who can tell exactly where he is? I wish he would give over wandering thus among the mountains. Never does he set out on his journies, but I tremble lest unfortunately he should not return alive: or else come back with broken limbs by falling down upon the ice, or while he scales the rocks.

The Son.

I need not tell you that he has promised to drive this trade no longer, when the profits which he has made shall be enough to buy the little field between our cottage and the Arva.—We shall then live comfortably, with our flock, our honey, fruits, and field of barley.

The Mother.

Ah! dear son, I should much rather wish to live in less abundance, so that I might only have more peace of mind. The happy days which we are to have when he has obtained this field, will have been bought too dearly, at the price of that distress and trouble which these his journies cost. But do not I see him? No, not yet. If he should be obliged to stay all night upon the ice!— If it—but you have got, I see, that spying-glass which a traveller lately left behind him in our hut, and that brings objects fifty furlongs off as near as if they were but ten. Look therefore if there is nothing to be seen. You know the use of it extremely well; but I, for my part, not at all.

The Son.

I will rest the end of it on this old trunk. I think, I see—yes, mother—something, and it moves.— It is he, I verily believe!—Yes, yes, it is he indeed!— He is walking on the broken flakes of ice that lie near yon big rock, and which last month, you know, were separated from it.

The Mother.

Let me have the spying-glass. Quick! quick! perhaps, too, I may see him.—I must shut one eye, you say?—I have;—but I distinguish nothing. Every thing is black.—Stay, stay. O now I see the rock!—and likewise men! and Julian is among them! But I have lost them now: they are out of sight: I cannot recover them again. Hold you the glass; I shall perhaps discern them with my naked eye.—Yes, yes, I see them. They are coming on, and in the middle of the valley. Julian, I can see, comes first.

The Son.

They stop: my father sticks his pole into the ice before him, and prepares to take a spring. There, there! he is up, and down again. No doubt but there was one of those large gaps before him in the ice, of which he has so often told us. What can cause them?

The Mother.

I do not know exactly; but have heard that when the ice below is melted, that above it, having no support, gives way, and opens with a noise which one may hear a great way off. You have observed the great round table in our curate's kitchen? Well, the leg which supported it in the middle was much higher than the others, and one day the sides had many heavy things laid on them. Unexpectedly it split exactly in the middle, and the crack grew wider, till the sides could rest upon the shorter legs. And now I suppose these gaps are so occasioned likewise. But look once again, and see what they are doing. They seem standing still. The gap sure does not prevent them from advancing?

The Son.

I can see their countenances very plainly. They seem asking one another what they ought to do. Ah! now my father takes a second spring; and now he is got safe over one more gap.

The Mother.

Yes, yes; I see him too. What rashness! He might slip in springing, or when over; or he might not possibly spring far enough, and drop into the gap. He does not take a single step but what he knows, as well as I do, makes my heart sink within me. He should think that it is not impossible but I may see him; he should argue within himself, and say, My wife does see me, and my danger frights her.

The Son.

He is very far, perhaps, from guessing what we are about now.

The Mother.

He knows that, while he is absent on this dangerous business, I send forth my eyes to seek him. Would to heaven I could but shut them.

The Son.

Yes, let us do so, mother. Let us put our hands before them, and not look again till he has cleared the valley, and is safe.

The Mother.

I cannot. I had rather tremble every moment for his safety, than lose sight of him, though for a moment only. But where is he? I can see him now no longer.

The Son.

Nor I either.—They have disappeared. Ah, mother!

The Mother.

My poor child! embrace me. We are now left to ourselves, and I have nothing in the world to comfort me but you. Yes, they have disappeared indeed; and in a moment too! I did but turn away my eyes to fix them upon you, and in that instant they are vanished! An abyss perhaps has opened under them as they were going on: perhaps they may be tossing in it, not yet dead, but making unavailing efforts to get out, and calling for assistance with a voice which no one, to their cost, is nigh enough to hear. I will hasten to the spot: come, follow me, my child! My knees knock one against another, and will hardly bear my body up; but I shall soon find strength sufficient to go forward. Come; but stay a little! —Do not you, dear child, see something there in motion? There, just where I point to; at the bottom of you rock?

The Son.

Yes, yes; I think I do.—It is one of them. —It is one of them, indeed; and now I can discern the other. I can see his hat; but still I look in vain to find out my poor father.

The Mother.

He will come, and I dare hope to see him very soon. The gentlemen must first have got out of the frozen valley, and they hide him from us. Doubtless it will not be long before we see him. Look again, my child.

The Son.

I can see only the two gentlemen; my father is not with them.

The Mother.

And the gentlemen, do they seem waiting for him then? Have they their faces turned towards the place from which they come?

The Son.

No; they walk strait forward.

The Mother.

Then so much the better. If your father were not following them, or could not, they would hardly do so: they would try whatever they were able to assist him in his danger.

The Son.

Yes, yes; we should do as much; but they, on the other hand, seem rich; and I have often heard that such despise the poor.

The Mother.

Not all; and then, too, they are men, and must be sensible of people's misery like others. Would not you stretch forth a hand to help your little dog, were he in danger? Would you leave him unassisited?

The Son.

No indeed: but why? because I love him: and do rich men love the poor? I have had money given me by one rich man to fight my play-mate.—Ah! I think I see my father now; yes, there he is! yes, yes, indeed; and, as you said, behind the gentlemen.

The Mother.

Yes, yes; I see him too. Thank God! But still my heart beats grievously. I am in a tremble: So let us both sit down; we will have our eyes fixed on them till they are safe on this side of the valley; and by that time, as I hope, my agitation will be calmed. Methinks they come on very quick. No doubt they wish to end their journey before day shuts in. Look, son: I fancy they are drawing nigh a precipice before them; and my fears again came on me.

The Son.

It is a mass of ice that forms a hollow underneath. It looks as if it were suspended in the air, and they do not seem to know their danger; for they stop.

The Mother.

They stop! and may, perhaps, without expecting it, be swallowed up, or buried in the ruins, should the ice fall down! It will fall down, and I shall see—oh heavens! fly for your life, my Julian! my dear Julian! fly! see what a mass of ice may overwhelm you! Fly!—My voice, alas! at such a distance, is not to be heard. My cries are useless. I am distracted!

The Son.

Mother, I can see no longer through the spying-glass, because I cry; and yet I cannot take away my eyes. But now I see again. Yes, there they are, and they have cleared the precipice, quite cleared it. They are out of danger now: I see them: they turn back to view the rock under which they have passed, perhaps, without knowing at the time what peril they encountered. They lift their arms up; they are talking to each other; they are looking at some object that astounds them.

The Mother.

They are out of danger; that is enough for me. I see them: they have nothing now but level ground remaining. Kiss me, my dear child! and let us both pass on to meet your father. But at no time in my life shall I forget what I have felt this afternoon. Let us make all possible haste, and beg that he would no more thus venture into danger. We shall have the little field, in that case, somewhat later; or it may be not at all; and it is no matter. We have lived till now without it: our enjoyments have not been on that account the less; we have in short been happy, and what more can we desire? I shall not for the future know that he is returning to those frozen regions, without fearing every danger that I know, and such as I can but guess. He may, perhaps, be safe feated at his ease beneath a tree; but I shall fancy that I behold him struggling in a gap, and striving to get out. Whatever money he receives from those whom he may conduct,—if he but loves us, he should think that he buys it at a price too dear.

The mother and the son upon this went forward, and I followed them till they had gained the valley. They pressed on to meet a husband, and a father; and at last, when they observed him with the Englishmen draw near, they durst not note him. They sat down together, let him pass, and then got up and followed slowly after. It was not before they reached their cottage, that the wife and son ran both to Julian, and together sunk into his arms. The son related every thing which they had both seen and feared. The mother did not speak at first; but when she saw her husband touched by the affectionate behaviour of his son, she once again embraced him and shed tears. He promised that he would never more affright her by returning to the ice, but cultivate his field in peace.

THE BREAKFAST.

COME, said Mr. Glassington to Percival his son, one beauteous summer morning, here is a basket with some cake and currants in it. Let us go and breakfast by the river's side.

With all my heart, papa, said Percival, and jumped about for joy. He took the basket in one hand, and with the other in his father's, hastened towards the river. Having reached it, they walked on a little way to chuse a proper place; when Mr. Glassington arriving at a very pleasant spot, cried out, Let us stop here, Percival; for this methinks will yield us a delightful prospect, while we sit and eat.

Percival.

But how are we to eat without a table?

Mr. Glassington.

Fortunately, here is the trunk of an old tree, which would serve by way of table very well, if we had need of one; but you may eat your currants as they lie together in the basket.

Percival.

So I can: but how shall we supply the want of chairs?

Mr. Glassington.

And do you reckon this soft grass then nothing? See how thick it is set with flowers. We will take our seat upon it: or perhaps you would rather chuse the carpet?

Percival.

Chuse the carpet! Why you know, papa, the carpet is fast nailed down upon the parlour floor.

Mr. Glassington.

It is true, there is a carpet there; but there is one here also.

Percival.

I do not see it, if there is.

Mr. Glassington.

Why, what is the grass then, but a carpet for the fields? And what a charming one too! It is of a fresher colour, and much downier than any one that we have. Then how spacious! it covers every hill, and all the level plain. The lambs repose upon it at their ease. Think, Percival, what they would have to suffer, on a bare or stony piece of ground! Their limbs are so extremely delicate, they could not but be very quickly injured. They have mothers, but those mothers cannot make them up soft feather-beds. God therefore has provided for them better than the poor sheep can, and made them this soft couch, where they may roll about, or sleep entirely at their ease.

Percival.

And then, papa, there is one good thing befides, that they may eat it when they like.

Mr. Glassington.

Oho! I understand your meaning: so here take your cake and currants.

Percival,

(biting off a bit.) Oh! how good! There is nothing wanting but a story while I am eating. Will you tell me one, papa; the prettiest that you know?

Mr. Glassington.

With all my heart. Your cake reminds me of a story that I can tell about three cakes.

Percival.

One, two, three cakes! Oh, what a charming story that must be! So quick, papa, and tell it me.

Mr. Glassington.

Come then first, and sit beside me. Be wholly at your ease, and then you will hear the better.

Percival.

I am quite ready; so begin, papa.

THE THREE CAKES.

Mr. Glassington.

THERE was a little boy named Henry, about your age. His parents had but lately fixed him at a boarding-school. He was a special boy, for ever at his book, and happened once to get the highest place at exercises. His mama was told it. She could no how keep from dreaming of the pleasure; and when morning came, she got up early, sent to speak with the cook, and said as follows: Cook, you are to make a cake for Henry, who yesterday was very good at school. With all my heart, replied the cook, and set immediately about it. It was as big as—let me see,—as big as—as a hat when flapped. The cook had stuffed it with nice almonds, large Pistachio nuts, and candied lemon-peel, and iced it over with a coat of sugar, so that it was very smooth, and of a perfect white. The cake no sooner was come home from baking, than the cook put on her things, and carried it to school. When Henry first saw it, he jumped up and down like any Merry Andrew. He was not so patient as to wait 'till they could let him have a knife, but fell upon it tooth and nail.— He ate and ate 'till school began, and after school was over he ate again: at night too it was the same thing 'till bed-time. Nay, a little fellow that Henry had for a playmate, told me that he put the cake upon his bolster when he went to bed, and waked and waked a dozen times, that he might take a bit. I cannot so easily believe this last particular; but then it is very true, at least, that on the morrow, when the day was hardly broke, he set about his favourite business once again, continuing at it all the morning, and by noon had ate it up. The dinner bell now rung, but Henry, as one may fancy, had no stomach, and was vexed to see how heartily the other children ate. It was, however, worse than this at five o'clock, when school was over. His companions asked him if he would not play at cricket, taw, or kites. Alas! he could not; so they played without him. In the mean time Henry could hardly stand upon his legs; he went and sat down in a corner very gloomy, while the children said one to another, What is the matter with poor Henry, who used to skip about, and be so merry? See how pale and sorrowful he is! The master came himself, and seeing him, was quite alarmed. It was all lost labour to interrogate him. Henry could not be brought to speak a single word. By great good luck, a boy at length came forward in the secret; and his information was, that Henry's mama had sent him a great cake the day before, which he had swallowed in an instant as it were, and that his present sickness was occasioned only by his gluttony. On this, the master sent for an apothecary, who soon ordered him a quantity of physic, phial after phial. Henry, as one would fancy, found it very nauseous, but was forced to take the whole for fear of dying; which, had he omitted it, would certainly have been the case. When some few days of physic and strict regimen had passed, his health was re-established as before; but his mama protested that she would never let him have another cake.

Percival.

He did not merit so much as the smell of such a thing. But this is but one cake, papa; and you informed me that there were three, if you remember, in your story.

Mr. Glassington.

Patience! patience! here is another cake in what I am now going to tell.

Henry's master had another scholar whose name was Francis. He had written his mama a very pretty letter, and it had not so much as a blotted stroke; in recompence for which she sent him likewise a great cake, and Francis thus addressed himself: I will not, like that glutton Henry, eat up my cake at once, and so be fick as he was: no, I will make my pleasure last a great deal longer. So he took the cake, which he could hardly lift by reason of its weight, and watched the opportunity of slipping up into his chamber with it, where his box was, and in which he put it under lock and key. At play-time every day he slipped away from his companions, went up stairs a tip-toe, cut a tolerable slice off, swallowed it, put by the rest, and then came down and mixed again with his companions. He continued this clandestine business all the week; and even then the cake was hardly half consumed. But what ensued? At last the cake grew dry, and quickly after mouldy; nay, the very maggots got into it, and by that means had their share; on which account it was not then worth eating, and our young curmudgeon was compelled to fling the rest away with great reluctance. However, no one grieved for him.

Percival.

No indeed; nor I, papa. What, keep a cake locked up seven days together, and not give one's friend a bit! That is monstrous! But let us have the other now.

Mr. Glassington.

There was another little gentleman who went to school with Henry and Francis likewise, and his name was Gratian. His mama sent him a cake one day, because she loved him, and indeed he loved her also very much. It was no sooner come, than Gratian thus addressed his young companions: Come and look at what mama has sent me; you must every one eat with me. They scarce needed such a welcome piece of information twice, but all got round the cake, as you have doubtless seen the bees resorting to a flower just blow. As Gratian was provided with a knife, he cut a great piece off, and then divided it into as many shares as he had brought boys together by such a courteous invitation. Upon this he ranged them in a circle, and beginning with the boy who then stood next him, he went round, distributing to each his portion, 'till the shares were all disposed of in this manner. Gratian then took up the rest, and told them that he would eat his piece next day; on which he put it up, and went to play with his companions who were all solicitous to have him chuse whatever game he thought might entertain him most.

A quarter of an hour had scarcely past as they were playing, when a poor old man, who had a fiddle, came into the yard. He had a very long white beard, and being blind, was guided by a little dog who went before him with a collar round his neck. To this a cord was fastened, which the poor blind man held in his hand. It was noticed with how much dexterity the little dog conducted him, and how he shook a bell which, I forgot to say, hung underneath his collar, when he came near any one, as if he had designed to say by such an action, Do not throw down or run against my master. Being come into the yard, he sat him down upon a stone, and hearing several children talking round him, May dear little gentlemen, said he, I will play you all the pretty tunes that I know, if you will give me leave. The children wished for nothing half so much. He put his violin in tune, and then thrummed over several jigs, and other scraps of music, which it was easy to conjecture had been new in former times. Little Gratian saw that while he played his merriest airs, a tear would now and then roll down his cheeks, on which he stooped to ask him why he wept? Because, said the musician, I am very hungry. I have no one in the world that will give my dog or me a bit of any thing to eat. I wish I could but work, and get for both of us a morsel of something, but I have lost my strength and sight. Alas! I laboured hard till I was old, and now I want bread. The generous Gratian hearing this, wept too. He did not say a word; but ran to fetch the cake which he had designed to eat himself. He brought it out with joy, and as he ran along, began. Here, good old man, here is some cake for you. Where? replied the poor musician, feeling with his hands; where is it! for I am blind, and cannot see you. Gratian put the cake into his hand, when laying down his fiddle on the ground, he wiped his eyes, and then began to eat. At every piece he put into his mouth, he gave his faithful little dog a bit, who came and ate out of his hand; and Gratian, standing by him, smiled with pleasure at the thought of having fed the poor old man when he was hungry.

Percival.

Oh the good, good Gratian!—Let me have your knife, papa.

Mr. Glassington.

Here, Percival; but why my knife?

Percival.

I will tell you. I have only nibbled here a little of my cake, so pleased I was in listening to you! So I will cut it smooth.—There—See how well I have ordered it!—These scraps, together with the currants, will be more than I shall want for breakfast: and the first poor man that I meet going home, shall have the rest, even though he should not play upon the violin.

OH THE UGLY BEAUTY! OUT UPON HER!

Claudia, Lucy.

Claudia.

LUCY, have you seen my sister's new dog?

Lucy.

Not yet, dear cousin.

Claudia.

You have then a pleasure still to come: Why she is the drollest little creature in the world!

Lucy.

Indeed? and what is her name?

Claudia.

Would you believe it?—BEAUTY.

Lucy.

That is a pretty name indeed!

Claudia.

O cousin, she is much prettier than her name.

Lucy.

And how is she so very pretty?

Claudia.

First, she is hardly bigger—see (closing her hand) than this.

Lucy.

I love a little dog.

Claudia.

And then one does not know what to take her for—a greyhound or a spaniel.

Lucy.

That is quite funny, I protest!

Claudia.

If you could only see her tail; it is like a bowpot; and her ears that sweep the ground; and then her long, long hair, as soft as silk, curling about her eyes and muzzle; and the whee whee little tiny face that peeps out underneath it; O, she is quite a picture!

Lucy.

Is she black or white?

Claudia.

She is neither black nor white, but something of a coffee colour.

Lucy.

Ah! that makes me think of what I like for breakfast. I do not get it frequently.—They hardly ever give me any thing but milk.

Claudia.

What milk, and nothing else?

Lucy.

And bread: that is all. But let us return to Beauty.

Claudia.

Why, she knows more tricks than any Scaramouch: They have taught her to hold out her paw; and she distinguishes the right hand from the left. If any one throws down a glove, she will run and bring it to the owner, without ever being wrong.

Lucy.

You don't say so?

Claudia.

And then she makes believe that she is dead: she lies down on her side, and does not get up again without a signal from my sister. If you put a garden stick between her paws, she will be a sentry, and mount guard: but what is still best of all, she will dance a minuet as well as Madame Simonet!

Lucy.

Well now, that is wonderful, and she must sure have had a charming education! but pray Claudia tell me, is she gentle and good-natured?

Claudia.

Why, I cannot say much as to that; for when she sees a stranger in the house, she will bark and snarl like mad: and one can hardly hinder her from running in between his legs to bite him.

Lucy.

That would be the very thing at night, if she were to keep the house!

Claudia.

And sometimes too, she will take it in her head to go and teaze papa's great dog without occasion: and she never sees him eating any thing, but instantly she will run and snatch it from him if she can: but Jowler, by good luck, is exceedingly good-natured!

Lucy.

How! and does she do all this?

Claudia.

Yes, truly.

Lucy.

And you call her Beauty?

Claudia.

She is so funny and comical!

Lucy.

Go, Claudy—I should never fancy her, however fanny and comical she may be; for papa has often told me that a bad heart makes every body frightful—Oh the ugly BEAUTY! Out upon her!

BUTTERFLY! PRETTY BUTTERFLY!

BUTTERFLY! O pretty butterfly! come here, and rest upon this flower that I hold out in my hand.

Where would you wish to go, you little gad-about? Do not you discern you hungry bird upon the watch to seize you? he has whetted his sharp beak, and holds it open to devour you. Come hither then; he will be afraid of me, and not approach you.

Butterfly! O pretty butterfly! come here, and rest upon this flower that I hold out in my hand.

I will not pull off your poor wings, or give you any pain. No, no; I know you are both weak and little as I am myself. All my wish is, to see you nearer. I should like to view your little head, taper body, and long wings spotted with a thousand colours.

Butterfly! O pretty butterfly! come here, and rest upon this flower that I hold out in my hand.

I will not keep you long. I know, you have not many weeks to live. When summer is once over, you will die, while I shall be but six years old.

So butterfly! sweet pretty butterfly! come here, and rest upon this flower that I hold out in my hand.

You should not lose a moment of the day, but give your whole life up to pleasure. It is your business to be sipping constantly the fragrance of some flower or other, which you may do without danger on my hand.

THE SUN AND MOON.

WHAT a charming evening! Come, Alexis, said Mr. Wilmot to his little boy; the sun is just ready to go down. How glorious he appears! We may behold him now. He does not dazzle us so much at present as he did at noon, when he was up so very high. How beautiful, too, the clouds seem round about him! They are of a purple, gold and scarlet colour! But behold how swiftly he descends! Already only half his orb is visible. And now he is wholly vanished. Rarewell sun; you have left us for the present till to-morrow morning.

Look, Alexis, towards that quarter of the heavens just opposite to where the sun descended. What may that be shining so behind the trees? a fire? No, nothing like it, but the moon. How large and red it is! One would suppose it full of blood! This evening it is quite round, on as they say, full moon. It will not be quite so round tomorrow evening; less so the next evening; less the evening after; and so on, decreasing something every evening, till at last it will be in some sort like a wire bent round into a semicircle, when a fortnight is gone.

It will then be new moon, and from day to day you will observe it afterward grow bigger, and seem rounder, till in fourteen days more it will be again full moon, and rise as it does now behind the trees.

But pray, papa, inform me, how do both the sun and moon preserve their situations unsupported in the air? I always fear they cannot but fall down upon my head.

Fear nothing, dear Alexis: there is no danger. I will explain the reason why, when you can understand the matter; so at present only listen while I mention how the sun and moon address you.

To begin then with the sun: He says as follows: I am King of day. I rise, or make my first appearance in the East; and what they call Aurora, or the dawn, precedes me, that mankind may know of my approach. I tap soon after at your window with a golden beam of light, to warn you of my presence. Rise, I say, rise lazy-boots. I never shine, that men may lie a bed and snore. I shine that they may wake, get up, aad go to work.

I am the mighty traveller; and I run rejoicing like a giant, quite across the heavens, without ever stopping; for at no time am I weary.

I have a crown of glorious radiance on my head. I shed this radiance round about me to a vast extent, and even over half the universe. Wherever I am present, all things are beautiful and bright.

I give heat too, as well as light. It is I who ripen with my beams the fruit in gardens, and the corn that grows in fields. If I should cease a moment to assist the course of nature, nothing then could grow, and famished men would die of despair, in all the horrors of that darkness which you yourself dread so much.

I am higher than the hills and clouds. I should but need to come down a little towards the earth, and my devouring flame would burn it up as soon as you have seen the straw consumed which men toss in bundles into a furnace.

What a length of time has passed since first I gladdened the whole universe! Alexis, you were hardly in the world six years ago, but I was. I was in it when your dear papa was born, and many thousand years before; and I am not grown old yet.

At times I lay aside my crown of radiance, and surround my head with silver clouds. It is not so difficult to view me then; but when I dissipate those clouds about me, and burst forth in all my noon-day splendor, you could never bear the blaze: should you attempt to bear it, I should blind you. There is but one living creature that can look at me, and that living creature is the eagle, whom the birds confess their monarch. He can contemplate my glory with a steady eye wide open, while he views me.

This same eagle, darting from the summit of some elevated mountain, shapes his progress towards me with a towering wing, and soon is lost amid my beams, through which he darts to pay me homage every minute of the day. The lark, suspended in the air a great deal lower, sings, while I am rising, his best song, and wakes the other bird, that slumber in ten thousand trees. The cork, remaining on the ground, proclaims the time of my return to mortals with a piercing voice. But, on the other hand, the bat and owl avoid my presence: they fly from me with a plaintive cry, and hasten to take refuge in the ruins of those towers which I once saw proudly rising, domineering afterward for many ages over spacious countries, and then finking with the burthen of old age.

My empire is not limited, like that of earthly monarchs, to a corner of the world. The universe at large is my dominion; and besides, I am the most illustrious object that was ever gazed at.

But the moon says, in the next place, with a voice not half so much exalted as the sun's, I am the queen of night. I send my silver beams to give you light, as often as the sun withdraws at evening from the world.

You may keep looking at me without danger; for I am never so resplendent as to dazzle the spectator, much less do I burn. I am so good natured that I let poor glowworms blaze among the hedges, which the sun, unpitying as he is, will not.

The stars shine round about me; but I myself am far more luminous than any star: nay, all the stars together give not so much light as I do: and I seem among their multitude as if I were a fair round pearl, surrounded by ten thousand little diamonds.

When you lie asleep, I dart a beam of silver brightness through your curtains; and my words are, Sleep on, little friend, in safety. You are tired. I will not disturb your slumber.

You have heard the nightingale. She sings for me, who sings much better than all other birds. She perches on a spray, and fills the forest with her music, no less sweet and gentle than my brightness, while the dew descends on every flower, and all is calm and silent in my empire.

THE ROSE-BUSH.

WHO will give me some nice tree or other for my garden? said little Frederic one day to his brothers Augustus and Jasper, and his sister Jemima.

(Their papa had given them each a little bit of ground to sew or plant, as they thought proper.)

Oh not I, said Augustus; not I, said Jasper.

Well then, I will, answered Jemima. Let me know what fort of trees you would like?

A rose-bush, cried Frederic. Do but look at mine: it is the only one now left me; and the leaves, as you may see, are turned quite yellow.

Come then, said the lively Jemima, come and chuse one for yourself. On which she led him to a little spot of ground that she cultivated; and the moment they had entered, pointing with her finger to a charming rose-bush, told him he had nothing else to do, than take it up immediately.

Frederic.

How, sister! you have only two, and wish besides to give me up the finest! No, no; here is the least, and just such as I want.

Jemima.

You do not know how much pleasure I shall feel, if you will but take the other, Frederic. This may scarce produce you any flowers next summer; but the other will, I am certain: and you know, I shall be pleased as much with looking at it elsewhere, when full blown, as if it had continued in my garden.

Frederic overjoyed, approached the rose-bush, took it up; and Jemima, much more pleased, assisted in the transplantation.

It appears that the gardener noticed this surprising piece of kindness in the little girl. Away he ran, selected from a number of young Windsor pear-trees, one which he thought the finest, and immediately conveyed it into Jemima's garden, planting it exactly in the spot which the rose-bush had possessed before.

Those who have a churlish nature hardly ever are assiduous: therefore when the summer months were come, Jasper and his brother having never attended their rose plants, they promised no great quantity of flowers; and to increase their disappointment, the chief part of those which they thought were coming, perished in the bud; while on the contrary Frederic's rose-bush, in consequence of great attention paid it by himself and Jemima, bore the finest centfoil roses that the whole county could boast; and as long as it remained in flower, the happy Frederic always had a rose to stick in Jemima's bosom, and another for himself to smell.

Likewise did the Windsor pear-tree thrive surprisingly: it scattered a delicious perfume over all the garden, and soon grew so thick and lofty as to yield a tolerable umbrage. Jemima used to come and take her seat beneath it, when the sun was hottest; as her father also did, when he would tell her charming stories, some of which would make her all at once burst out a laughing till her sides even ached again; and others produced such agreeable melancholy in her, that soon after she would smile with pleasure at the recollection of her sorrow.

Here is one that he told her for her generosity towards Frederic; by which story she was thoroughly convinced that such as we oblige can recompence our generosity; which circumstance, he said, without adverting to the satisfaction of our hearts, must be a strong incentive to kind actions.

THE NOSEGAYS.

LITTLE Gerald went out one morning with his neighbour Eugene, to divert themselves by gathering flowers. Their eagerness would not allow them to dispatch their breakfast in the house: they took it with them in their hands.

They met a beggar-woman in the way, who had a child apparently expiring, as it were, with hunger.

My dear little master, said the woman, looking upon Gerald, who happened to be first, for heaven's sake give my child a morsel of your bread. He has not had a bit of any thing to eat since yesterday.

It may be so, said Gerald; but I am very hungry likewise, and went forward, munching all the way.

Now what was Eugene's conduct? He was no less hungry, we must think, than his companion; but beholding how the poor child cried, he gave up his bread and butter; and received a hundred blessings which God heard in heaven.

But this is not the whole. The little boy, revived by what the charitable Eugene had bestowed upon him, instantly began to run before his benefactor, brought him to a meadow, where he knew there was a multitude of flowers, and helped to make up so magnificent a bow-pot, that the pleasant smell proceeding from it made him quite forget his trouble.

Eugene, after this, went home and shewed it with a deal of pleasure; for not only was the sweetness of it very grateful, but its size was such that he might easily have hid his face behind it.

Next day likewise they went out, and then another little boy, whose name was Watty, met them.

After having taken half a dozen turns with Gerald and Eugene in the meadow, Watty, looking down, perceived his buckle lost, and begged them both to assist him in searching for it. Oh, says Gerald, I cannot spare time enough for that at present, and went on; but Eugene stopped immediately, that he might be of service to his little friend.

He walked a long while up and down, both stooping all the way, and patting with his hand, to try if he could feel it in the grass: and had at last the happiness to find it.

Watty too was happy; and they set about the business which had brought them thither.

Watty, out of gratitude, bestowed the finest flowers of those which he had gathered, upon Eugene; but paid no regard to Gerald, who had refused to help him; so that Eugene had that day also, a finer bow-pot than Gerald, and came back as satisfied as he was discontented.

Gerald supposed the third day he might prove more lucky: He preceded Eugene, and defied him to collect a finer bow-pot than he should. But hardly were they come into the meadow, when behold the little boy who had been fed by Eugene, came to meet him with a basket full of flowers which, it seems, he had gathered that morning.

Gerald would have begun to gather for himself; but how was he to find the flowers? The little boy had got up earlier by a deal than he; and therefore he had still less flowers that day than either of the two preceding.

They were going home, but met little Watty.

My dear friend, said he to Eugene, I have not forgot the service that you did me yesterday, and have taken such a liking to you, that I could wish to be at all times in your company. Papa too, though he never saw you, has the same ideas in your favour, and has bid me come and fetch you to his house this morning: He designs to tell us merry stories, and afterwards will play with us.

I will take you to a garden here hard by us, where we are allowed to walk, and there you will find four or five companions of my age to welcome you; when we are all together we will play at whatever game you like.

Eugene instantly laid hold of Watty's hand, and flew like lightning with him towards the garden. As for Gerald, poor fellow! he went home quite melancholy. Watty had not once invited him.

He learned by these three days adventures, but particularly by the last, how much one gains by kindness and assistance granted to others. He reformed his churlish temper; and would certainly, in time, have shown himself as courteous to the full as Eugene, if this last, by having exercised a friendly disposition from his cradle, had not conferred his favours with a greater grace.

THE PRESENT.

Mrs. Maddison, Viola, her daughter.

Viola.

MAMA, you know that my brother's birthday will come very soon, and I do not know what present to make him. I hope you will give me something to bestow upon him as a present on the occasion.

Mrs. Maddison.

Doubtless I might easily do so, but I should like much rather to present him with that something on my own account. Do you imagine that I enjoy less pleasure than yourself in making presents? And besides, reflect that if I give you any thing, in order that you may afterwards give it to your brother, it is my gift, not yours.

Viola.

That is true indeed, mama: and yet I should be very glad if I had any thing to give him.

Mrs. Maddison.

Well then, let us reflect a little. How shall we proceed? You cannot surely but have something by you! as for instance, your little orange-tree?

Viola.

My little orange-tree, mama, that bears such fine blossoms to ornament all my nosegays!

Mrs. Maddison.

Well, what think you of your lamb?

Viola.

O dear mama! my lamb, that loves and follows me so prettily!

Mrs. Maddison.

Your doves, then?

Viola.

I resolved, you know, to bring them up before they well had broken the shell; so they are my children, and I cannot part with them.

Mrs. Maddison.

I see then that you have nothing to give your brother!

Viola.

Now I recollect, I have.

Mrs. Maddison.

And what?

Viola.

You know that purse, which my aunt Teresa gave me for a Christmas-box last year: you must own it is very pretty!

Mrs. Maddison.

True, my dear: but do you think that your brother will be pleased with such a gift? for not to mention that he can never wear it long, I fancy you remember, when you had it first, you did not like it much yourself, and put it carelessly into a drawer, as what you had no wish to see again; and this your brother knew, and cannot but remember when you bring it out.

Viola.

But notwithstanding that, mama, it is still a very pretty present.

Mrs. Maddison.

No, my dear: that only can be called a pretty present, which we should be glad to keep, and which they party so obliged would equally be glad to have.

Viola.

And must I give my brother every thing that I should be glad to keep?

Mrs. Maddison.

No: just as much, or just as little, as you please; provided what you give appears to be a token of your friendship.

Viola,

(after a little reflexion.) Well, well, I will make up a nosegay of my finest orange blossoms, and present it to Henry, with my lamb.

Mrs. Maddison.

Well fancied! such a gift will shew him your affection, since he knows that you would be very desirous to keep the lamb yourself.

Viola.

Nor yet, mama, is this the whole; for every day I will take a walk out with my brother, that the lamb may use itself to follow him, as well as me. The little creature in this manner will be quite familiar with my brother, when I give him away; and my brother will love him the better.

Mrs. Maddison.

Come my dearest, and embrace me. Be assured, this delicate attention will encrease the value of your present. Thus the merest trifle may become a valuable object, when bestowed with such a grace. You could not give your brother, or even me, such joy with any other present.

Nor myself, mama, replied Viola, with vivacity.

You will be happier still, continued Mrs. Maddison, when once the birth-day comes; because, as I must contribute something, I intend that you shall perform the honours, for me, of a little cold collation to be served up in the garden, for your brother, and such friends as he may wish to have invited.

Hearing this, the little lady kissed her mother's hand with ardour, and immediately ran off to make up half a dozen artificial roses, with a crimson ribbon which she had by her. And with those roses she intended to dress out the lamb on her brother's birth-day, when she made him so affectionate a present.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER.

A Silly servant maid had possessed the imagination of her master's children with a hundred foolish tales of spirits, and particularly of a black-faced goblin, as she called it.

Antonia, one of these poor children, for the first time in her life, beheld a chimney-sweeper knocking at her father's door. She made a lamentable outcry, and betook herself for refuge to the first apartment that she found open, which apartment was the kitchen.

Hardly had she hid herself behind a table, when the black-faced man came in, as if, in her imagination, he had meant to follow her.

This frightened her a second time; and up she ran into a pantry, higher than the kitchen floor by half a dozen steps, and not a great way from the fire place: where she thought she should be safe from danger, in a corner.

She had hardly come, however, to herself, when suddenly she heard the frightful fellow singing in the chimney; and, with brush and scraper, making all the while a rattling noise against the bricks about him.

Being seized with terror, she jumped up, and leaping through a window, which was rather low, into the garden, ran quite breathless towards an arbour at the bottom of it, where she fell half dead, and almost void of motion, close beside a tree.

Though she had changed her situation by so great a distance, yet hardly did she venture to look about her; when by chance she saw the black-faced man appear again, and wave his brush about him, at the chimney-top.

On this, Antonia almost split her throat with crying out, Help! help!

Her father heard the cry, and running towards the arbour, asked what ailed her, that she cried out so! Antonia had not strength sufficient to articulate a single word, and therefore, keeping silence, pointed to the place where Grim was then sitting astride, and flourishing his brush.

Her father smiled; and to convince her what small cause she had for terror, waited till the chimney-sweeper was come down. He then bade him be called, and cleaned a little in Antonia's presence; after which, without explaining matters any further, he sent up into the house to fetch his barber, who, it happened, was then waiting for him, and who consequently had his face all over white with powder.

She was heartily ashamed of having feared so much, without occasion; and her father took this opportunity of giving her to understand, that there were whole nations, in a certain quarter of the globe, all over black by nature, but not therefore to be dreaded by white children; since these last were, in another country, generally nursed by women purchased of those nations, without losing any of their whiteness.

Ever afterwards, Antonia was the first to laugh at silly stories, told by silly people, of hobgoblins and the like, to fright her.

THE CHERRIES.

JOHANNA and Felix one day got permission, from their dear mama, to take a turn or two about the garden, by themselves: they had deserved this confidence placed in them, by their past discretion.

They amused themselves, by playing for a time together, with that decent gaiety by which it is easy to distinguish young children who have been well brought up.

Against the garden wall grew many fruit-trees, and among them a young cherry-tree, which had no earlier than the year before been grafted, and was now in fruit. Its fruit indeed was very little; but on that account, perhaps much the finer.

Mrs. Dutton, their mother, did not want to gather them, though ripe. She kept them for her husband's eating, who that very day was to return from York where business had a long time kept him.

As the children were accustomed to obedience, and forbidden once for all to gather any kind of fruit, or pick up even such as they might find upon the ground, to eat it, without asking leave, she thought it useless to say any thing about this cherry-tree.

When Johanna and Felix were fatigued with running up and down the terrace, Come, said Felix, let us do something else now; upon which they joined their hands, and walked sedately towards the bottom of the garden, casting every now and then a look of appetite upon the fruit with which the espaliers were loaded.

They were soon come up to this late grafted tree. A little blast of wind had shook the finest cherries from it, and they lay upon the ground close by. Young Felix was the first to see them. He advanced his foot, stooped down, and picked them up, ate some, and gave Johanna some, who are them likewise.

They had not yet flung the stones away, when as it chanced, Johanna recollected her mama's command to eat no fruit but what she might think fit to give her.

Ah! said she to Felix, we have disobeyed mama by eating any of these cherries, and shall make her angry with us, when she comes to know it. What had we best do?

Felix.

Why need mama know any thing about it? We may hold our tongues.

Johanna.

No, no; she needs must know it, brother. She frequently forgives us the greatest faults that we can commit, when we confess them of ourselves.

Felix.

Yes, yes; but in this instance we have disobeyed her, and she never yet forgave us disobedience.

Johanna.

When she punishes our faults, I need not tell you, brother, it is because she loves us; and in consequence of being punished, we are not so very likely to forget, as otherwise we should, what we may do, and what we may not.

Felix.

True, but she is always sorry when she punishes our faults, and being sorry, she is unhappy: so I should not like to see mama unhappy, which would be the case did she but know what we have done.

Johanna.

Neither should I wish to see my mama unhappy; but would she not be much more so, upon discovering that we had wished to bide our faults? Should we be bold enough to look her in the sate while we were secretly reproached by our own hearts? or rather, should we not be quite ashamed to hear her call us her dear children, knowing as we must, how little we deserve it?

Felix.

Ah, my dearest sister! you have quite convinced me; and indeed we should, in that case, be two little monsters: therefore let us go to her, and acknowledge what we have done.

They kissed each other, and went hand in hand to their mama's apartment.

Dear mama, began Johanna, we have disobeyed you, and not remembered what you forbade us. Punish me and Felix as we merit, but pray do not be angry with us; we should both be quite uneasy were our fault to make you sorry or unhappy.

She related, in the next place, what her brother and herself had done, without endeavouring to excuse the action.

Mrs. Dutton was so affected with the openness of Felix and Johanna, that a tear of tenderness and love escaped her. She could not resolve on punishing their fault, but generously overlooked it. She well knew that children of a happy disposition are more powerfully wrought on by the recollection of a mother's kindness, than by that of her severity.

THE LITTLE PRATER.

LEONORA was endued with spirit and vivacity. When scarcely six years old, she was exceedingly well practised in the art of managing her needle, and could very cleverly employ her scissars. All the garters that her papa and brothers wore were of her making. She could read with ease in any book that she happened to take up; her writing was also extremely neat and fair. She did not huddle great and little letters in one word together, neither did they lean some this and others that way; and her lines went strait along, not dancing up and down from one side of her paper to the other, as I have too often seen in many children's writing-books, even older by a year or two than Leonora.

Her papa too, and mama, were no less satisfied with her obedience, than her masters with her diligence and study. She kept up a perfect union with her sisters, treated every servant with the greatest affability, and her companions with regard and condescension. All her parents' friends, and every stranger that came there a visiting, were equally enchanted with her company and conversation.

Who would think, that with so many recommendatory qualities, and so much understanding, any little girl could possibly be so unfortunate that none, when they grew acquainted at the house, could bear her? Such was Leonora, notwithstanding; for a single fault which she had unhappily contracted, was so great as to destroy the effect of all her juvenile accomplishments. The intemperance of her tongue made every one forget the graces of her understanding, and the goodness of her heart. In short, our Leonora was the greatest prater living.

When, for instance, she was sitting down to work, one might have heard her say, Oho! I fancy, it is high time that I should be doing something! What would my mama say, should she find me sitting with my arms across, a lolling on my elbows?—O my stars! how much I have got to hem here? all this apron! But at worst, I never let the grass grow under me when I set out, and I shall soon have done. Ah! there the clock strikes: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—Yes, positively nine o'clock! Well then, I have but two poor hours before I go to music; yet a deal of business may be done in such a length of time. Mamma, when she observes how diligent I have been, will be sure to give me sweetmeats.—Oh! what pleasure I shall have in looking at them! Nothing do I love like nice crisped almonds. Not that I do not like egg plumbs preserved: they are very good too, for papa popped one into my mouth last Thursday, and then gave me a whole bagfull; but I think crisped almonds better.—I should like to see Miss Dolly this morning: I would shew her the fine petticoat that mama has bought me. Dolly is a funny little girl enough! I like her vastly. Oh! but she loves talking, and I do not know how it happens, but one cannot thrust a word in when her clapper is set a going. Where has my thimble hid itself? Sister, have you seen my thimble? Patty must have surely lost it for me, when she came to sweep the parlour.—It is so like her! she is always such a hairbrained creature! Who can work without a thimble? at least I never take a stitch, if I mislay it; for the needle pricks one's finger, and one's finger bleeds of course; and then, besides the pain it gives one, how one's work looks when it is spotted with red marks! Why, Patty! Patty! where can you be! Have you seen my thimble? Oh, no! here it is; and, just as if the matter were contrived on purpose, at the bottom of my work-bag.

Thus the little creature would be always dinning people's ears who happened to be near her. When her parents were engaged in any interesting conversation with each other, she would come and mix in their discourse, by prating upon twenty different subjects. And at dinner, she had hardly ever ended with her meat, before the pie or pudding was on the table. She would really forget to eat and drink, while everlastingly employed in prating.

Her papa would frequently reprove her twenty times a day for this defect; but all reproof was lost upon her, neither would the greatest punishment produce a reformation in her conduct. As it was not possible for any one to hear himself when she was by, Miss Chatterbox was often sent to pass the morning all alone in her apartment. During dinner, they would put her at a little table by herself, as distant from the company as they could place her. Leonora seemed afflicted at this separation, but was not a whit the more silent on that account. She had always some subject of discourse, were it even addressed only to herself, and, nevertheless, she talked so loud every word that she said was heard; for, it was the same to her if any body was or was not by her: and I verily believe, that, rather than be mute, she would have entered into conversation with her knife and fork.

From such a foolish habit, what advantage did she obtain? The story tells us, only punishment and hatred. If you should not be convinced of this by what I have already mentioned, you will certainly be so when you read what follows:

Once upon a time, her parents were invited to go down into the country for a week or fortnight, by a friend. It was in autumn, the weather was extremely fine, and it is not easy to conceive what great abundance there was then of every kind of fruit, pears, apples, nectarines and peaches.

Leonora thought it was designed to make her of the party, but stood very much surprised when her papa, directing both her sisters to get ready for the journey, told her that she must stay at home. She fell a crying, ran to her mama, and said, My dear mama, what fault have I committed, that papa should be so angry with me?— Your papa, she answered, is not angry with you; but believe me it is impossible for any one to bear your constant chatter. You would certainly interrupt our pleasure, and the pleasure of the family that we are now going to visit; and therefore for the future, whenever we go abroad, we must always leave you behind us.

Must I never speak, then? answered Leonora.

That, said her mama, would be no less a fault than what we wish to see you cured of. You are not to be entirely mute; but then you ought to wait 'till you perceive that your turn for speaking is come round, and not incessantly prevent your parents, and as many as have more experience than yourself, from talking. You should also take care how you say whatever comes into your head. When you desire to be informed of any thing which it is not improper you should know, you ought to ask in as few words as possible, and having any thing to tell, you should, in that case, first of all reflect within yourself, if those about you would or would not like to hear it.

Leonora, thought she could not reasonably call in question this advice, would not have wanted words to justify her prating, if she had not heard that moment her papa call out that every thing was ready; and, in fact, the coach was off that very instant.

Leonora fell a sighing, and with tears pursued the carriage 'till her eye no longer could discern it. When it was wholly out of sight, she went into a corner, and began to weep most bitterly. Ah, babbling gossip! said she, (now speaking to herself,) it is all owing to my long tongue that I have been thus punished. I will take care, that for the future it shall never speak a word more than it ought.

Some few days afterwards they returned. Leonora's sisters brought home with them baskets full of pears and apples. They were both exceedingly well tempered; therefore Leonora would on no account have gone without her share, but then the tears that she had been shedding so completely took away her appetite, that it is not to be wondered if she did not wish for any. She that moment ran to her papa, imploring his pardon for her fault in having forced him, (as she knew,) much against his will, to punish her. We have been both unhappy, added she; but for the future I shall take care, and never speak too much.

Her father tenderly embraced and kissed her.

On the morrow, Leonora was permitted to sit down and take her dinner with the rest. She spoke very little, but whatever she did say was full of grace and modesty. It is true, it cost her very much to check her tongue, which, through impatience and the itch of talking, rolled, if I may say so, this and that way in her mouth; but on the following day, this work of checking her propensity towards talking was less painful, and the next day still less so. At length the difficulty, by a gradual diminution, was completely done away. At present she has totally got rid of her bad habit, and she figures in society with credit to herself, and pleasure to her friends, who are no longer vexed with what they were accustomed to entitle, in derision, her incessant clack.

HOT COCKLES.

The Elder and Younger.

The Younger.

BROTHER, all our friends have left us, and yet still I am in a playing humour. What game shall we chuse?

The Elder.

There are only two of us, and I am afraid, we should not be much diverted.

The Younger.

Let us play at something, however.

The Elder.

But at what?

The Younger.

At blindman's buff, for instance.

The Elder.

That is a game that would never end. It would not be as if there were a dozen, of which number some are generally off their guard; but where there are only two, I should not find it difficult to shun you, or you me: and then when we had caught each other, we should know for certain who it was.

The Younger.

That is true, indeed. Well then, what think you of Hot Cockles?

The Elder.

That would be the same, you know. We could not possibly guess wrong.

The Younger.

Perhaps we might. However, let us try.

The Elder.

With all my heart, if it will please you. Look ye, if you like it, I will be the hot cockles first.

The Younger.

Do, brother. Put your right hand on the bottom of this chair: now stoop down and lay your face quite close upon it that you may not see. That is well: and now, your left hand on your back. Well, master! but I hope your eyes are shut?

The Elder.

Yes, yes: do not be afraid.

The Younger.

Well, master, what have you to sell?

The Elder.

Hot cockles! hot!

The Younger,

(slapping him.) Who struck?

The Elder,

(getting up.) Why who, you little goose! but you?

The Younger.

Yes, yes; but with which hand?

The eldest did not dream of such a question: he was taken by surprize, and said the right, at hazard.—It was with the left however that he had been struck; and thus the youngest outwitted him.

GOD's BIRD.

Mrs. Mortimer, Paul and Edward, her sons.

Mrs. Mortimer.

MY dearest Edward, what have you done with all your money?

Edward.

Given it away.

Mrs. Mortimer.

Away, my little fellow! to whom?

Edward.

A very wicked boy.

Mrs. Mortimer.

No doubt, to make him better?

Edward.

Yes, mama. Pray don't the birds that fly about, belong to God?

Mrs. Mortimer.

They do; as well as we ourselves, and every other creature.

Edward.

Well, mama; this wicked boy had stolen a bird from God and carried it about to sell. The little bird cried out with all its strength; and he was pinching the beak close, to hinder it from crying. He was certainly afraid, mama, that God would hear it cry, and punish him for so much naughtiness.

Mrs. Mortimer.

And you, my little man—

Edward.

And I—I gave the wicked boy my money, purse and all, that he might give God back again his bird—I fancy, God was very glad, (He jumps about for joy.)

Mrs. Mortimer.

He was, no doubt, to find my little fellow have so good a heart.

Edward.

The boy perhaps was wicked, dear mama, because he wanted money?

Mrs. Mortimer.

Yery likely.

Edward.

Therefore I am glad that I gave him mine; because, mama, you know, that I don't want money.

Paul.

We have had a sort of difference with each other upon this affair. My brother gave his money without counting what it was, though certainly it would have bought ten birds. I told him that he should first have asked the boy how much would satisfy him.

Edward.

Which of us was in the right, mama?

Mrs. Mortimer.

Not you, my heart.

Edward.

But have not you, if you remember, often said, dear Edward, do whatever good you can, and ask no questions.

Mrs. Mortimer.

I have often told you so, indeed; but then you should consider how to do it the best way you can. To day, for instance, since you had more money than was necessary to deliver the poor little bird, you should have kept the rest for such another purpose; for if other wicked boys had come into your way, as well as he did, with God's birds, and you had no more money, tell me what you would have done?

Edward.

Why then, mama, I would have come to you for what I wanted.

Mrs. Mortimer.

But if I had happened to have none?

Edward.

Ah!—then so much the worse!

Mrs. Mortimer.

You see, then, Paul gave you good advice. You are to save your money, and not only for yourself, but for others, so that you may do all the good in your power with it. Do you suppose, my dear, that there was no other bird than this in all the world, to which you might have given assistance?

Edward.

I was thinking of no other then—I wish, mama, you had but seen how much he seemed at first to suffer, and how glad he was afterwards when I let him fly away. He was quite giddy with his joy, he knew not where to go that he might clap his wings. However, dear mama, the boy assured me, for I made him promise, that he would never try to catch it a second time.

Mrs. Mortimer.

My little fellow, you have notwithstanding done quite well; and to reward you, here is more money.

Edward.

More!—oh thank you.

Mrs. Mortimer.

And a kiss into the bargain. How rejoiced I am in being your mama! With such an inclination as you have for doing good, you need but study how to do it in a proper manner, and you will prove the happiest creature in the world.

THE SELF-CORRECTED LIAR.

LITTLE Griffith was now six years old, and had never yet told a falsity. He never had committed any fault, and therefore had no need to hide the truth. When any accident befel him, as to break a pane of glass, or spot his cloaths, he went immediately and told his father, who would be always so good as to forgive him, with a caution that in future he should be more careful.

Griffith had a cousin, but a very naughty boy, whose name was Robert. Robert came one day to see him; and Griffith, by way of shewing his attention to his visitor, made proposals for a game at drafts. His cousin eagerly accepted the proposal, on condition that they should play for something. Griffith for a little time refused, but in the end was wrought upon by Robert, and in hardly more than thirty minutes, all the money which he had been laying up many weeks from his allowance was compleatly gone. Affected with his loss, poor Griffith got into a corner, and began to cry, while Robert fell a laughing, and went home in triumph with his spoil.

It was not long before poor Griffith's father, who had been from home, returned. He loved the child, and therefore sent to see him in the parlour. But what ails you? said he. And what has happened? Sure you have been crying?

Griffith.

Yes, papa, because my cousin has been here, and made me play with him at drafts.

The Father.

And what of that? I see no harm done yet; for drafts are a diversion that I have given you leave to take. But possibly you played for money?

Griffith.

O! no, no, papa.

The Father.

Then why do you cry?

Griffith.

Because I wished to show my cousin how much money I had saved to buy myself a book. Now I had hid it all behind the great stone post without, and when I put my hand into the hole, it was gone. Some person, passing by the gate, has stolen it.

Griffith's father, some how or another, fancied this recital to be false: but did not mention his suspicions then. He went that moment to his brother's, and as soon as he saw little Robert, he forced a smile, and began in this manner:

Well, my child, you have been lucky, have not you, to-day?

Oh! yes, said Robert, very lucky, sir!

And what did you win?

A shilling, said the nephew.

What, so much? And did he pay you, Robert?

Doubtless, uncle. I have it in my pocket.

Notwithstanding Griffith had deserved a grievous punishment, his father thought it not amiss to pardon this, as being his first falsehood; and therefore only told him, with a scornful tone of voice, that since he knew that he had a liar in his house, he would tell all the servants never to believe him, whatsoever he should say.

Some few days after, Griffith went in turn to visit Robert, and pulled out a handsome pencil-case which his sister had bestowed him at Christmas. Robert wished to have it, and in exchange would have been glad to give him every one of his playthings, his ball, his top, and rackets; but as Griffith, he observed, would not part with it, he began to play the bully, put his arms akimbo, and advanced towards him, said, "The pencil case is mine: I lost it at your house, or else you stole it." Griffith, to no purpose, earnestly protested that it was his sister's present. Robert quickly let him see that he meant to force it from him; and as Griffith grasped it with both hands, he closed upon him, threw him down, got over him, and with his double fist so pomelled Griffith in the face that he was forced to yield the case.

Poor Griffith, being treated in this manner, posted home, his nose all over blood, and half his hair pulled off — "Papa, papa, (said he, as soon as he was come within his father's hearing,) look how I have been used! The naughty Robert has this moment robbed me of my pencil-case, and handled me as you see."

But far from pitying him, his father answered, "Go, you liar; you have lost your pencil-case at drafts, and to deceive me, smeared your nose with mulberry juice, and put your hair into disorder." Griffith solemnly protested, to no purpose, that he spoke only the truth." I cannot credit (said the father) one who has already proved himself a liar."

Griffith, quite confounded, went away into his chamber, and bewailed most bitterly the consequences of his first untruth. Next day he begged permission to appear before his father, and implored forgiveness. "I acknowledge (said he) how wicked I have been in seeking to deceive you with a falshood once; but, dear papa, let me entreat you to give up your resolutions of believing me no longer when I even speak the truth!

His father told me the other day that from that moment Griffith had not let the least untruth escape him, and that therefore he had recompenced his son's veracity by trusting him implicitly. He never looked for protestations from him: it was sufficient Griffith barely told him any thing, that he should take it for as great a certainty as if himself had seen it.

What a satisfaction this to be experienced by a tender father, and a son so worthy of him!

RECEIPT TO BE ALWAYS PLEASED.

I Should be very glad to play, mama, all day, said Laura.

Mrs. Delwin.

What, all day?

Laura.

Oh! yes, mama.

Mrs. Delwin.

I shall be very glad to give you any pleasure in my power, my little Laura; but I fear, you will very soon be tired.

Laura.

Of playing! Never. You shall see that, mama.

And saying so, the little Laura ran to fetch her playthings. She had got them all together, but was quite alone; for both her sisters were that day to be employed with different masters, till the afternoon.

At first, she played as she thought proper, and was very happy for an hour or thereabout; but, by degrees, the pleasure which she enjoyed began to lose a little of its power to please her.

She had now handled her play-things twenty times, or oftener, and could tell no longer what to do. Her favourite doll was grown quite troublesome and tedious to her.

She desired her dear mama to shew her some new method of diversion, and to play with her; but unfortunately her mama had very pressing business, and could not attend to her, however she might wish to do so.

Laura, after this, sat moping in a corner, till her sisters, had quite finished with their masters, and were now about to take a little recreation. She ran to them in a melancholy mood, which was as much as mentioning how long their time of study had seemed to her, and with what impatience she had wished to see them.

They proposed immediately such games as they supposed most entertaining, for they loved her greatly: but, alas! all their solicitude was useless. Laura could not but complain that every game which they mentioned had already tired her; nay, in her impatience, she even ventured to accuse them of conspiring with each other to afford her such diversion only as they knew would not amuse her. Upon which Miss Amelia, her eldest sister, an extremely sensible young lady ten years old, took Laura by the hand, and with a smile began as follows:

Look at us, dear Laura, and I will tell you which person in the room occasions your dissatisfaction.

Laura.

And who is it, sister? For my part, I don't know.

Amelia.

The reason is, you do not look at yourself. Yes, Laura, you yourself occasion your dissatisfaction; for you see these games amuse us still, though we have played them over, you may easily imagine, before you were born: but then we have been both at work, and therefore are they in a manner new to us. If you, by previous study and attention, had obtained an appetite for pleasure, you would certainly have been pleased as casily as we are.

Little Laura, who, however young she was, by no means wanted understanding, was so struck with these remarks, as to discern that every one who would be happy should take care to mix improving exercise with pleasing recreation. And indeed, I know not whether, after such experience gained, the menace of a whole day's pleasure would not have more terrified her than that of a whole day's labour.

THE TULIPS.

LUCETTA had seen for two summers successively a bed of tulips in her father's garden, which were streaked with the most beautiful colours.

Like the fluttering butterfly, she often roved from flower to flower, being struck merely with their beauty, but never reflecting to what they owed their origin.

Last Autumn, she saw her father amuse himself with digging up the bed and planting tulip roots. Ah! papa, cried she in a whimpering tone, what are you doing? Will you spoil all our fine tulip bed so, and instead of those fine flowers that grew there, put nasty onions in it for the kitchen?

Her father answered her, that he knew what he was about, and he was going to tell her that from those onions would come forth new tulips the following year; but Lucetta interrupted him by her complaints, and would listen to nothing.

When her father saw that he could not make her understand reason, he left her to pacify herself, and continued his work while she retired sobbing.

During the Winter, as often as the conversation turned upon flowers, Lucetta sighed, and thought within herself how great a pity it was that her father had destroyed the finest ornament of the garden. Winter finished its course, and Spring came next to sweep the snow and ice off the ground.

Lucetta had not entered the garden yet. Indeed it would have been difficult to prevail on her to go in, as it was deprived of her favourite flower. One day, however, she entered without thinking. But what were her transports of surprize and joy, when she saw the tulip bed still more beautiful than the preceding year! She stood still at first, motionless and silent with admiration: at length she threw herself into her father's arms, crying, Ah! dear papa, I thank you for plucking up those nasty onions, and for putting in their place those sweet flowers that I am so fond of.

Yo owe me no thanks, answered her father; for these sweet flowers that you are so fond of sprung from nothing else but my nasty onions.

The obstinate Lucetta would not believe a word of it; upon which her father pulled up carefully one of the finest tulips, together with the bulbous root (resembling an onion) from which the stalk grew, and presented it to her.

Lucetta, quite confounded, asked pardon for having been so unreasonable. I pardon you, my dear child, with all my heart, replied her father, provided you acknowledge how easy it is for children to deceive themselves, when they attempt to judge, after their ignorance, of the actions of people who have had experience.

Oh! yes, papa, answered Lucetta, I am convinced of that, and therefore for the future shall distrust my own eyes; and whenever I shall be tempted to suppose that I know more of the matter than other people, I will think of the Tulips and the Onions.

I am very glad, my dear little friends, that I had it in my power to tell you this story; for you will presently see what happened to another child who had never heard it.

THE STRAWBERRIES AND CURRANTS.

ALLAN had frequently heard his father say, that children were without the least degree of knowledge touching what was proper for them; and that all the wisdom which they could possibly prove themselves to possess, lay in following the advice of people older than themselves. And yet he never had sincerely wished to understand this doctrine, or perhaps, to speak as favourably as the matter will allow, had forgot it.

His indulgent father had allotted him and Prospero, his brother, a convenient piece of ground, that each might have a little garden, and display his industry and knowledge in the cultivation of it. And not only this, but they had leave to sow whatever seed they thought proper, or to take any tree-root already growing in their father's garden, and transplant it.

Prospero remembered the instruction of his father, went to have a little conversation on this subject with Ralph the gardener, and began thus: Pray tell me what I ought to sow at present in my garden, and how set about my work?

The gardener gave him several roots and seeds adapted to the season. Prospero that moment ran and put them in the ground, and Ralph was so kind as to assist him in the work, and to give him some instruction.

But Allan, seeing Prospero's docility, shrugged up his shoulders. Ralph, not observing this contemptuous action, asked if he should give him some assistance and instruction likewise?

Yes, replied Allan, I have great occasion, to be sure, of your assistance and instruction, particularly the last!

On this, he went into his father's garden; and selecting for his own, a quantity of flowers, transplanted them immediately. The gardener let him do as he thought fit.

Next morning, when Allan visited his garden, all the flowers which he had so lately planted hung their heads like mourners at a funeral, and, as he saw, were dying. He transplanted others from his father's garden, which the morning after he observed, with much vexation, were exactly in the same condition.

He was very soon disgusted with this sort of work. It was paying very dear, we must acknowledge, for the pleasure of possessing a few flowers. Of course he gave it up, and it was not long before his piece of ground was overrun with weeds and thistles.

Towards the middle of the Spring, as he was looking at his brother's garden, he saw something red suspended very near the ground, which, on examination, he discerned to be strawberries, and found to have an exquisite degree of flavour.

Ah, said he, if I had planted strawberries in my garden!

Some time after, likewise, he saw certain little berries of a milk white colour, that hung down in clusters from the branches of a bush; upon examination, they were currants, which to look at only was a banquet.

Ah, said he again, if I had planted currants in my garden!

Eat as many as you like, said Prospero, as if they were your own.

It rested with yourself and no one else, remarked the gardener, to have had as good; so never for the future treat with scorn the assistance and instruction which any one may offer you, who is possessed of greater knowledge and experience than yourself.

OBLIGINGNESS AND COMPLAISANCE.

EMILIA, Victoria, Juliet, and Sophia, had a governess who loved them with the fondness of a mother. This governess was called Mademoiselle Beaufoy.

Her greatest wish was, that her pupils should be virtuous in order to be happy; that a friendship for each other should increase the pleasures of their childhood; and that they should taste those pleasures without diminution or anxiety.

A kind indulgence, and exact degree of justice towards them, were the constant motives of her conduct, whether she had any thing to pardon, to reward, or punish in them.

She enjoyed, with infinite delight, the pleasing fruits of her instruction and example.

The four little girls began to be the happiest children upon earth. They told each other of their faults, forgave each other, shared together of each other's joys, and could not live without each other.

Alas! by what fatality do children poison the source of their own enjoyments, at the very moment when they begin to taste its charms; and how great is their happiness when they are placed under the eye of a person endowed with equal prudence and tenderness.

It happened, Mademoiselle Beaufoy was forced to leave her pupils for a time, as certain family concerns obliged her to visit France. She left them with reluctance, made a sacrifice of some advantages to the desire of quickly settling her affairs, and hardly had a month expired when she returned in safety to her little flock.

They all received her with the greatest signs of joy: but, alas! what an unhappy alteration did she very soon perceive in these poor little children!

If, as frequently it happened, any one among them asked the slightest favour of another, the latter ill-naturedly refused it, and hence followed discontent and quarrels:— the uncommon gaiety that hitherto had been remarkable in all their little sports, and made their work itself delightful, was now changed to peevishness and melancholy; and instead of those expressions dictated by peace and friendship, which were before heard in all their conversations, nothing now prevailed among them but incessant bickerings. Did either wish to take an hour's diversion in the garden? her sisters were sure to assign some reason for remaining in their chamber. And, in short, it was enough that any thing should meet the wish of one among them to displease the others.

It particularly chanced one day, that not contented to deny each other every sort of friendship and obligingness, they mutually distressed each other with reproaches. Mademoiselle Beaufoy, who sat as a witness of this scene▪ was so affected by it as even to shed tears.

She could not speak a word; and pensively withdrew into her chamber, that she might the better think upon the means of rendering back to these unhappy little ones the pleasures which they had lost of their former friendship and reciprocal attachment.

She was still employed in this afflicting task when all the four young ladies entered her apartment, with a peevish and uneasy look, complaining that they could be no longer happy in each other's company. There was not one of them but charged the rest with causing it; and all together earnestly desired their governess to restore them, if possible, to their lost happiness.

The governess received them in a very serious manner▪ saying, I observe, my children, you obstruct each other in your pleasures; therefore, that this circumstance may never come to pass again, let each take up her corner in this very room, if she thinks proper, and divert herself in any way that she likes, but so as not to interfere with either of her sisters. You may have recourse to this new mode of recreation instantly, as you have leave to play till night; but each (remember) in her corner, as I said just now.

The little girls were charmed with this proposal, took their places, and began to play.

Sophia entered into conversation with her doll, or rather told her many little stories; but her doll could not reply, and had no stories in her turn to tell. It was in vain to look for any entertainment from her sisters; they were playing, each asunder, in their corners.

Juliet took her battledore and shuttlecock, yet none applauded her dexterity; besides, she would gladly have struck it across the room, but in that case there was nobody to send it back. It was in vain to hope such service from her sisters; they were playing, each asunder, in their corners.

Emilia could have wished to pass the time that now hung heavy on her at a game of which she was very fond, hunt the slipper: but, alas! who was there to pass the slipper from hand to hand? It was in vain to ask her sisters; they were playing, each asunder, in their corners.

And Victoria, who was very skilful as a little housewife, thought how she might give her friends an entertainment, and of course send out for many things to market. But who was to receive her orders? It was in vain to pitch upon her sisters; they were playing, each asunder, in their corners.

It was just the same with every other play. All of them supposed that it would be compromising matters to approach each other, and therefore they disdainfully continued in their solitude. At length the day concluded. They returned again to Mademoiselle Beaufoy, and begged her to shew them a better sort of amusement than that which she had already recommended.

I can only think of one, my children, answered she, which you yourselves knew very well formerly, but which it seems you have now forgotten. Yet, if you wish to put it once more into practice, I can easily remind you of it.

Oh! we wish to recollect it with all our hearts, replied they; and stood all attention to seize with ardour the first word that their governess should utter.

It is, answered she, that reciprocal obligingness, that mutual friendship, which sisters owe to each other. O, my dearest little friends! how miserable have you contrived to make yourselves and me too, since you lost it!

She stopped short when she had uttered these few words, which yet were interrupted frequently by sighs, while tears of tenderness ran down her cheeks.

The little girls appeared astonished and struck dumb with sorrow and confusion in her presence. She held out her arms; they rushed at once affectionately towards her, and sincerely promised that they would love each other for the future, and agree as they had done before she left them.

From that moment they betrayed no signs of peevishness to trouble their harmonious intercourse. Instead of bickerings and discontent amongst them, nothing now was known but mutual condescensions which delighted all who had the opportunity of being with them.

They preserve this amiable character at present in the world among their friends, of whom they are acknowledged to be the delight and ornament.

THE LINNET'S NEST.

MAMA, mama, cried out little Sam, one evening, running out of breath into the parlour; see, see, what I have here in my hat.

Mrs. Baxter.

Ha, ha! a linnet! Where did you get it?

Sam.

I happened to find a nest in the morning, as I passed along the white thorn hedge, below the fish-pond. And waiting till the evening, I crept along the hedge as softly as I could, and slap! before the bird could be aware of me, caught him by the wings.

Mrs. Baxter.

Was he by himself, then, in the nest?

Sam.

No, no; the little ones were in it too. But they are so little yet that they have not got their feathers. Oh! they can't escape me!

Mrs. Baxter.

And what do you intend to do with this linnet?

Sam.

Put it in a cage, mama.

Mrs. Baxter.

And with the young ones?

Sam.

Oh! I'll take the young ones too, and rear them. I will run now and fetch them.

Mrs. Baxter.

I am sorry, Sam; but you will not have time to get them.

Sam.

Oh! it is not far off. Don't you know the Windsor pear-tree? Well, it is close by that. I have taken care to mark the place.

Mrs. Baxter.

But that is not the matter. What I mean is, that our neighbour, Justice Sharp, has sent to take you up. The constables are very likely come, and at the door.

Sam.

The constables! to take me up?

Mrs. Baxter.

Yes, yes; to take you up! The justice has your father in custody already; and the constables who took him, told us that they would soon come back for you, with Kitty, Bell and Sally, and then carry you all four to prison.

Sam.

Oh! dear me! And what does he design to do with us?

Mrs. Baxter.

You will be shut up in a little room, and not have permission to come out a moment.

Sam.

Oh! the wicked justice!

Mrs. Baxter.

However, he will not do you any harm. They will give you, every day, good things to eat and drink. You will have nothing to complain of but your loss of freedom, and the pleasure of seeing me. (Sam begins to cry.) Well, what is the matter with you? Is confinement such a great misfortune, if they give you every thing that you want? (Sam cannot speak for sobbing.) The justice treats your father, sisters, and yourself, as you would treat the linnet and its young. You cannot call him wicked, therefore, as you do, without confessing that you are so yourself.

Sam,

(sobbing.) Oho! I will let the linnet fly, mama, this instant. (He opens his hat, and the bird flies out at the window.)

Mrs. Baxter,

(taking him into her arms.) Be of comfort, my dear Sam! for I only meant to give you some instruction by this little story of the justice: neither will your father, or your sisters, or yourself, be sent to prison. All I wished was to convince you how wicked it would be to shut up the poor little bird. As much as you appeared afflicted, when I told you that they would take you up, so much the little bird was certainly when you deprived him of his liberty. Conceive how much the cock would have lamented to be parted from the hen, the young ones from their mother, and the mother from her young ones. This I am sure you did not think of, otherwise you never would have taken him. Tell me, would you?

Sam.

Never, dear mama. I did not once think of all this.

Mrs. Baxter.

Well, think of it for the future, and forget not that birds, as well as every other creature, were created to enjoy their liberty, and that it would be cruel to fill up with sorrow that short period of existence which God has granted them; and, to remember this the better, you should get by heart a little piece of poetry that your friend has written.

Sam.

What! the Children's Friend? Oh! pray repeat it to me.

THE LINNETS.

I HOLD it fast, this linnet's nest,

With one, two, three, four young ones in it:

Long did I watch you, without rest,

But pris'ners made you in a minute.

Cry, little rebels, as you please,

And flap your wings; but vain you'll find it!

You cannot get away with ease;

So stay with me, and never mind it.

But, don't I hear their mother's cries

Deplore the durance that has bound them?

Yes; and their father likewise flies,

Sadly complaining, round and round them.

And shall I cause them so much pain

Who us'd to go last spring, and hear them

From you broad oak pour down their strain,

While the whole grove was music near them?

Alas! if from my mother I

Were violently to be parted,

I know, with sorrow she would die,

Or, if she liv'd, live broken-hearted.

Should I then, cruel spoiler! tear,

Those innocents from her who bore them?

No: I'll not doom you to despair!

Take back your young, I here restore them.

Teach them, in some o'er-arching glade,

Round you, from morn till night to hover,

Learning to harmonize the shade,

Throat answering throat, and lover lover.

So will I come and sit, next year,

With the first dawn, till day's descending,

Under the oak, and feast my ear

While their soft notes are sweetly blending.

THE DESERTER.
A DRAMA, in Three ACTS.

CHARACTERS.

- MOORHOUSE, a Publican.

- GRACE, his Wise.

- GEORGE their Son, a Corporal.

- TRUNNION, his Comrade.

- THOMAS, Moorhouse's Brother.

- STEWARD.

- CAPTAIN.

- SERJEANT.

During the two first acts, the scene is laid in the Publican's house; but changes to a prison in the last.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Moorhouse, (entering,) Grace, (spinning with a distaff and spindle.)

Moorhouse.

HERE is a soldier coming, Grace.

Grace,

(letting fall her spindle.) A soldier! What are we to do? Our trade gone, and a soldier quartered on us!

Moorhouse.

After all, perhaps, though it is not likely that he should help us, he will have more compassion on our poverty than richer folks. A soldier's character, my dear, is much misrepresented: he has far more conscience than a steward, who is hardened to oppress the poor by dint of habit, while a soldier is often thinking of another life, as he has death before him often.

SCENE II.

Moorhouse, Grace, Trunnion.

Trunnion.

Save you! I am come to be your guest. See, here is the billets it is for two. Another is on the road.

Moorhouse.

We would entertain you, soldier, with all our hearts, but we really have not the means. Though we keep a public-house, yet trade is so dead that we cannot renew our licence, which is almost out. We signified as much to Justice Parsons in the neighbourhood, and begged that no soldiers might be sent us; but he answered, till our licence was expired we must be looked upon as publicans, and take the consequence. Indeed, we have hardly now a single customer: the house is deferted, and our stock of liquor out to the very last drop.

Trunnion.

But, for heaven's sake, my good people, tell me how you live without a bit of fire?

Grace.

When one has got no fuel, and no money to buy any—

Trunnion.

For my part, I must have some to warm me, and a bit of dinner likewise. Have you any thing to give me?

Grace.

Nothing; not so much as bread. We live from hand to mouth; and when we get one meal, cannot tell when we shall have another. If you do not believe me, take a look about the house, and see if you discover any thing but poverty within it.

Trunnion.

No, no; I believe and pity you. I have a little money in my pocket, which I cannot do better than share with you. My good friend, here is a shilling and some halfpence: go, buy us something good to eat; you shall take a bit along with us, but first, a little wood.

Moorhouse.

You are very kind; I will run immediately. (He goes out.)

SCENE III.

Trunnion, Grace.

Trunnion.

And in the mean time, with your leave, good mother, I will examine how my arms are.

Grace.

With my leave, good friend? Do what you please; you are welcome.— (Aside.) My husband is right; soldiers are much better christians than too many gentlefolks.— (To Trunnion.) My son is a soldier likewise.

Trunnion.

In what regiment?

Grace.

Colonel Sheffield's.

Trunnion.

What is his name, then?

Grace.

George Moorhouse. Heaven knows if he be still alive. I have not heard about him for these four years.

Trunnion.

Do not you be uneasy, my good woman, he is still living.

Grace.

Dear sir, do you know him then?

Trunnion,

(embarrassed.) I can't tell that; but I suppose he is living, as he came of such good folks.

Grace.

Ah, that is no reason.

Trunnion.

But I wish your husband were returned. If I had but the wood, I would make a fire. My comrade is rather boisterous, and will certainly be angry if he does not find things ready when he comes.

Grace.

Oh! you will excuse us. A good word from you will pacify him.

Trunnion.

Words will not do with him, and besides he is a corporal. I must not speak to him as I please.

SCENE IV.

Trunnion, Grace, Moorhouse.

Moorhouse,

(throwing down a faggot.) Here is some wood, and a nice bit of meat; and turnips that a gardener gave me. I have brought you back a little change too.

Trunnion.

Keep that to buy us some small beer. I thought to have had a pint of porter; but my family is increased, and so my liquor must be weaker.

Grace.

Come, my dear, open the faggot, and I will make a fire: the gentleman says that his comrade is rather hasty.

Trunnion.

Yes, and being a noncommissioned officer besides, he will expect things to be as they should. He is giving orders in the company, otherwise he would have been here before now. Ah! here he comes.

SCENE V.

Trunnion, Grace, Moorhouse, George.

George.

Well, is dinner ready? Make haste goodpeople.

Moorhouse.

It is not our fault, good sir, that matters are no forwarder. Your comrade will inform you so.

Trunnion,

(in a whisper to George.) Come, finish this child's play, and tell them who you are. (To Grace.) Consider this young man, good mother.

George.

Do not you recollect me?

Grace,

(after having looked at George with attention.) Heavens! can it be George?

George.

Yes, yes, it is, dear mother. Oh, what pleasure to behold you after such long absence!

Moorhouse.

Is it possible? my son! Oh, welcome dear, dear boy, a thousand times!

Grace,

(embracing him.) I see you then once more before I die! Heaven be praised!

Moorhouse.

And how have you contrived to live? so many, my dear son, are dead, but you in safety!

George.

Yes, and yet I have never been deficient in my duty. I owe it certainly to your prayers, that I have escaped safe and sound from all dangers. I find, I am quartered on you: Are you sorry for it?

Moorhouse.

Can you ask if we are sorry! since the day you left us, we have never been so happy.

Grace,

(whispering Trunnion.) My good friend, you told me something of a corporal, I think?

Trunnion.

Why, George is a corporal. Don't you see it?

Moorhouse.

Then you are promoted! but how came that about? You could not read.

George.

My captain had me taught.

Moorhouse.

Oh, what a charming man this captain must be!

Grace.

Let them tell us now that soldiers are not special people!

Trunnion.

I will answer for it, George will soon be higher than a corporal. (To George.) But how came you not to tell me, when you saw the billet, that you were quartered on your father?

George.

Comrade, I was so full of my joy that I could not speak.

Grace.

How long are you to stay with us?

George.

Two days. We halt here.

Moorhouse.

I am glad of that, my dear boy; we shall have time to talk of a few matters.

Trunnion.

Well, well, I can see you have enough to talk of these three hours or more perhaps: so, mother, shew me where to make the fire and dress the meat; I will do the whole myself.

Grace.

At least I will help you, my good sir.

Trunnion.

No, no; you have enough to do with George, so do but shew me to your kitchen; then you may come back, and talk together at your ease.

Grace.

Since you will have it so.

SCENE VI.

Moorhouse, George.

George.

Then, father, you are not at your ease?

Moorhouse.

At our ease! Oh, no. Our trade is fallen from us, and in short, these two years past, it is wonderful how we subsist!

George.

But how is that possible? you that were formerly so well to live!

Moorhouse.

You have reason to be surprized at it, knowing as you do how laborious we always were, and that we did no• manage like one half of our neighbours, who do not know how to lay by any thing against a rainy day. However, we have had severe losses since you left us, and now the worst of it is that we are indebted to our landlord upwards of four pounds. We cannot pay it, and the steward threatens every day to turn us out of doors, in which case we must beg our bread.

George.

Just Heavens! could I have thought to find you in so sad a situation!

Moorhouse.

We should never have been in it, had the steward not contrived to make you, as he did, a soldier. It was wholly a contrivance on his part, of which I will tell you the particulars some other opportunity. When he was nothing but a bailiff, and had scarce a coat to wear, I would not lend him money, and it was then that he first of all began to hate us. And at length he has compleated his revenge. Our house is to be sold, and you will not possess a groat belonging to your father.

George.

If you had but something to subsist on, I should not regard myself. Here is all the money that I possess. I give it you with tears, because I have no more to spare you.—

Moorhouse.

May heaven repay it to you a hundred fold, my dear child! This will keep us a few days.

George.

Let me think a little. Cannot I speak with this same steward?

Moorhouse.

He will be here this very day.

George.

Then I will be sure to tell him something that may do you good. The king is coming to review our regiment; so you shall go and tell him your sad situation.

Moorhouse.

I go tell him! I should not be able to pronounce a word before him. I should stand stock still, or perhaps run away through fear and terror, were I forced into his presence!

George.

Never fear: he would return you a kind answer. I was once a centinel at Windsor, on the Terrace, when the king was walking there: it was upon a Sunday evening. I shall never sure forget with what familiarity he spoke to people; but that is nothing; for he met one morning with a poor man's child as he was walking through the town, and entering into conversation, found him such a clever little fellow, that he ordered him a guinea: when the father heard it, he was ever on the watch to fall in with his majesty, as he was walking out. He proved at last so fortunate as to obtain a hearing, when he thanked him for the guinea; upon which the king, would you believe it, ordered him another guinea for his gratitude, as he particularly mentioned.

Moorhouse.

You don't tell me so.

George.

Believe me, I would much rather have to speak with him than many of our officers.

Moorhouse.

What a gracious king!

George.

There cannot be a better. So pray hear what I intend to do; I will get our quarter-master to write me a petition; and though possibly you should have twenty miles to walk, no matter.

Moorhouse.

And what, think you, will the king do for us?

George.

I cannot tell exactly, but we will talk further about it to-morrow. In the mean time, be assured, dear father, it is much more agreeable to have to do with great than little people. Come, let us take a turn or two together through the village.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Moorhouse, Grace, George, (standing near a table.)

Grace.

We have no more than two plates.

George.

No matter, mother. Our provider will be with us very shortly.

Moorhouse.

What a deal of pains he takes on our account!

George.

You do not know him yet: next to fighting, he likes nothing half so well as cooking: here he comes.

Trunnion,

(entering with the meat and turnips dressed.) Here, my friends. Here is what will warm our stomachs this cold weather. I have made a little broth; and take a soldier's word, you will find it excellent. So let us sit down; but first say grace.—Come, help yourselves.— They say there is no such thing as eating broth without a spoon: and so here is mine. (He takes a knife and spoon out of his pocket.)

Moorhouse.

I am very glad of that; we have but two. (They help themselves.)

Grace,

(to Moorhouse.) The broth is excelient!

Moorhouse.

I have not eat so good these many years.

George.

Do not spare it then. To say the truth, I have tasted worse.

Grace.

We would never wish for better as long as we live: nay, nor yet so good, except on Sundays.

George.

Well, let us now begin upon the meat.

Trunnion,

(to Moorhouse.) But how is this, my friend, you have no plate?

Grace.

Oh, never mind: one plate will serve us both.

Trunnion.

Here is mine.

Moorhouse.

By no means.

Trunnion.

I can make myself a plate. (He cuts a slice of bread, and puts his meat upon it.) We should be finely off in camp, if we were forced to wait for plates!

George.

But father, you do not eat, what ails you?

Moorhouse.

Ah!

Trunnion.

What makes you sigh?

Moorhouse.

I cannot help sighing, to reflect I should have treated George at my expence on his return, but was without a bit of bread to give him.

George.

Pray do not talk at this rate, father.

Trunnion.

No, no, do not even think about it. Come. your health! (he drinks.) Now you, good friend.

Moorhouse,

(taking the mug.) Come, here is our benefactor's health; and many blessings on him for his kindness. (Drinking.)

Grace.

Oh! a thousand blessings! (drinking.)

George.

Comrade, my hearty thanks to you for this day's friendship shewn my parents.

Trunnion.

Do you wish to make me proud? You drink my health, as if I had won a battle!

Moorhouse.

Ay, and you deserve we should. You have yourself but little, and part with it for our sakes. (A knock without.)

Grace.

Who's there?

SCENE II.

Moorhouse, Grace, George, Trunnion, the Captain, Serjeant.

George.

Our captain!

Serjeant,

(with a pocket-book in his hand.) How many are you here?

George,

(rising.) Two. (They all rise.)

The Captain.

Very well. Do not stir: and you too, my good people, keep your seats, make no ceremony. I am charmed to see so much harmony and cordiality amongst you. Have you (to Moorhouse) any complaint against these men?

Moorhouse.

Oh! no sir; if they are satisfied with us.

The Captain,

(to George.) Do you like your quarters?

George.

Sir, I am quartered with my father: it is my comrade's part to answer.

Trunnion.

We have every thing that we desire.

The Captain,

(to Moorhouse.) What! is this young man your son? you are very happy then; for I can tell you, all the regiment love him. (He looks round about him.) I am afraid your circumstances are not of the easiest: but you are rich in having such a son!

George.

I thank you, captain, for reserving this favourable testimony of me for the ears of my parents, and shall so behave myself, I hope, that they may never lose the happiness that it affords them.

Moorhouse.

O, good sir! my bosom overflows with joy.

Grace.

We should be happier, captain, could you •et him stay with us.

Moorhouse.

What, wise, to die of hunger? Would you think it, sir, this generous soldier, though a stranger to us, bought the dinner that we have been eating, otherwise we should not have had bread to give our son? We have lost our custom; and besides, our landlord, for about four pounds that we owe him—

The Captain.

Threatens perhaps to turn you out of doors? The case, alas, is far too common: and I pity you sincerely. Here is a piece of gold that I chance to have about me: it will be of some assistance to you. George, this is what your conduct has deserved; for it is on your account I give it to your parents.

George.

Ah, my generous captain! if you knew how serviceable such a gift is, you would say yourself that I never can repay you as I ought.

Moorhouse.

God only can repay such bounty.

Grace.

May he grant you many years of happiness! If I had twenty children, I would let you have them every one with pleasure.

The Captain.

Good woman! you repay my kindness very much indeed. One child is valuable to a parent, and you would give me twenty! but I interrupt your dinner. Farewell, good people. I will come once again and see you, if I can, before we go.

Serjeant.

Trunnion, be ready for the next relief: the guard will turn out very soon.

SCENE III.

Moorhouse, Grace, George, Trunnion.

Trunnion,

(drinking.) Long live our noble captain!

George.

So I say indeed; for he has saved us all from dying.

Moorhouse.

He yet never saw us, and we get a piece of gold! who could have thought that a stranger would compassionate our situation, when we are treated with so much barbarity by those that know us?

Grace.

O the blessed gentleman! but how much is it worth? (looking at the piece of gold.) It must be of pretty large value.

Moorhouse.

Good heavens! could I suppose that I should ever stand in such need of a single piece of money! What is it? Do you know its value, George?

George.

I never saw so large a piece.

Trunnion.

It is more, I am certain, than a guinea: but I cannot tell now much.—Stay, let me see.—Oh! now I recollect. It is what they call a six-and-thirty: there are several now going about. They come from Portugal: it is nearly worth two guineas.

Grace.

What! two guineas! almost half our debt: if the steward would take this in part, it would make us easy.

Moorhouse.

I hope he will give us a little time for the remainder.

Grace.

Do you think that is likely? I should be content to live upon dry bread till next winter, provided we were not obliged to leave our house.

George.

Do not be uneasy mother, I will try what I can do with him.

Grace.

We stood so much in fear of soldiers, and a soldier is now our guardian angel! God's good providence be praised for this repast, and the assistance that he has sent us. (They all rise.)

Trunnion.

Well now, I will put every thing away.

Grace.

Yes, truly, should I let you. Rest yourself; I will do that myself.

Trunnion.

No, no; it is part of my employ. I will have you recollect the day we quartered in your little cot as long as you both live.

Grace.

There is no resisting you. (Trunnion takes the things out.) I am not surprized that the women are so fond of soldiers; they must make such husbands! they do all the work themselves, and with so much dexterity! but I must follow, or he will wash the plates. (She is going, but returns.) Ah! here is brother Thomas. Let us observe if he will remember George.

SCENE IV.

Moorhouse, Grace, George, Thomas.

Grace,

(to Thomas.) Look, brother, here is a young man come to see us. Don't take him for a common soldier though. Have you any knowledge of him? or you George, have you? go to him: it is your uncle Thomas.

George.

Just as if I did not recollect him!

Thomas.

I your uncle?—let me see.—No—Yes—Yes. he himself. My nephew, as I live!— (they embrace.) One need not ask about your health; you look so very well!

George.

I hope, dear uncle, you are as well as I am.

Grace.

I could wish you did but know how much his captain praises him! I wish I could stay and tell you; but I am forced to go, or I believe our cook would set the house to rights from top to bottom.

SCENE V.

Moorhouse, Thomas, George.

Thomas.

I rejoice, dear nephew, with all my heart, to see you safe come home: however trust me if you have not heard the whole already, you could never have returned to find us more unhappy. We are all as poor, as if the country had been pillaged.

Moorhouse.

And our landlord's wicked steward too, would gladly, if he could, suck out the little blood that is left us.

George.

You no longer need have any fear of him, as you can pay down half the sum that you owe him. He must needs be patient, till such time as you can pay the rest.

Moorhouse

(letting Thomas see his piece of gold.) See brother; see what George has got me.

Thomas

(to George.) Did you save it from your pay, or is it plunder?

George.

Neither one, nor the other: it is a present from my captain who was here just now.

Moorhouse.

It is to George however that I am obliged for it: his captain gave it me, because he had behaved himself so well.

Thomas.

In truth I am so much better pleased; because a soldier, who would lay up such a deal of money from his slender pay, must certainly deprive himself of many little comforts in this life: and, as to plunder, justify it how you will, it is always villainously got, and never prospers.

George.

That was what I always thought; and therefore never would go pillaging: indeed with all the plunder that others got, I found they were not richer than myself: but on the contrary, spent half their time in the black hole, being always guilty of some crime or other, after they had been a robbing, for it was nothing else; whereas my officers were never troubled with complaints of me.

Thomas.

I easily believe you. All your family are honest people; and you would not, I am sure, have been the only good-for-nothing fellow of the number. We are poor indeed, but have the fear of God before our eyes, and that is much better than the greatest riches.

Moorhouse.

Yes; and if the steward—

Thomas.

Softly brother, here he comes.

SCENE VI.

Moorhouse, George, Thomas, the Steward.

The Steward.

Well, Moorhouse; to-morrow is just at hand. You are ready I suppose to pay your rent, or else to quit your house.

Moorhouse.

I cannot, my good sir, pay more than half; nor should I have been able to do that, if Providence had not assisted me. Be so indulgent as to wait till harvest for the rest, and do not compleat my ruin by distressing me still further than I am distressed already.

The Steward.

•y distressing you! the common cant: the more one does, the more one may for such as you. How long, pray, has not this same rent of yours been growing? yet my lord distresses you; and why? because at last he tells you that he will have his money!

Moorhouse.

But is half of what we owe him nothing? Take that half, let me beseech you, and entreat my lord in our behalf.

The Steward.

Yes, yes, intreat him to let you lead him by the nose another twelve month? I shall hardly do so: therefore pay the whole; or else I seize, that's certain.

George.

Oh! a little mercy, my good sir; and think that with a single word you have it in your power to make my father happy. If there's nothing goes unpunished in this world, 'tis surely no small matter to reduce an honest man to heggary.

The Steward.

Mind your musquet, and not my affairs.

George.

My musquet, sir, belongs to the king, and I shall take care of it without your instructions. If the king were here present, he would not take it amiss that I should speak for my parents, and yet, I think, there is some difference between you and him.

The Steward.

Mr. Soldier, you may have seen service, as they call it, but remember that you are not talking now to some boor whom you have plundered, and have at your mercy.

George.

I never talked to any man as, I think, I should to you (now I know your disposition,) were I to meet you in an enemy's country.

The Steward.

You will never have that satisfaction.

Thomas.

Excuse a soldier's bluntness, my good sir.

The Steward.

Hold your tongue likewise.—I have you down in my papers, I believe.

Thomas.

I am sure you have; and not me only, but all honest people.

The Steward.

What do you mean by that?

SCENE VII.

Moorhouse, George, Thomas, the Steward, Grace, Trunnion.

Grace.

The steward here!

Moorhouse.

Be quiet, wife.—For Heaven's sake, let me beg you, Mr. Steward—

The Steward.

All your prayers are useless; and tomorrow you shall set out on your travels.

Grace.

You will surely have some pity on us. We shall soon get work. Here is half your money, and our house will still be standing for the other half, if we should break our word.

The Steward.

Still standing! you may burn it: but if not, I must obey the orders of his lordship.

George.

Has his lordship ordered you to ruin a whole family, for what my father owes him? You are paid to take whatever care you can of his affairs; and by proceeding as you would you do not earn your wages. Therefore take my counsel, and for once fulfil your duty.

The Steward.

Will you tell me what my duty is? you may keep your counsel to yourself; I tell you that.

George.

And you, I tell you, may be civil.

The Steward.

Who taught you all this impudence?

Trunnion.

Suppose yourself a moment in this young man's situation. He is a soldier, and a soldier always knows what he is to say; a thousand times better, at least, than any steward. You have dared before his face, to tell his father that he shall go upon his travels. We all know the meaning of that phrase; and would you have him stand there like a post before you, without having the spirit to open his lips? Who could keep his temper if he saw his family on the point of being ruined by an ill-natured our of your stamp? We know what stewards are, and how they make fortunes. This young man spoke to you civilly at first, and you slighted him. He is in the right now to speak the truth to you.

The Steward.

This is past bearing. (turns in a violent rage to Moorhouse.) Are you disposed to pay? I ask you but once more.

Moorhouse.

I have told you that it is not in my power.

Grace.

And offered you the little that we have.

The Steward.

I will have the whole or nothing.—If it is not sent to-morrow, you shall hear from me.

George,

(stopping him.) Once more.

The Steward.

Let me go. I'll not have any thing to do with such a ragamuffin.

George,

(striking him.) Ragamuffin! You are speaking to a soldier, sir, take that: and out with you. Old rascal! get you gone! (he pushes him out.)

The Steward.

Oh! vengeance! vengeance!

SCENE VIII.

Moorhouse, Grace, Thomas, George, Trunnion.

Grace.

George, my dear George, what have you done!

Moorhouse.

We are ruined.

George.

Do not be frightened, father. Had you wept even blood, he would not have relaxed. I never struck a man before; but I was never called a ragamuffin in my life till now. Could I be a soldier had I borne it?

Trunnion.

If you had not struck him, I was ready to strike you.

Moorhouse.

Who knows what it may cost us?

George.

What, because I would not be insulted?

Grace.

It was very wrong in you; for notwithstanding he insulted you, yet still you should have recollected that he is my lord's steward.

George.

Pshaw! he is not the first of his profession that has undergone a soldier's vengeance. I, for my part, think it perfect sympathy, that when a soldier sees a rogue, he naturally knocks him down.

Grace.

I can't help thinking we should certainly have softened him at last.

George.

No, trust me, never.

Grace,

(to Moorhouse.) What think you my love? It will be much better for us to go after him.

George.

It would be useless.

Moorhouse.

That may be; but, I am resolved, it shall not be said that I have left any means untried. So Grace, let us go together.

George.

Well, since you will go, let it be so: but if he yields, I'll eat my hat.

Moorhouse.

Come, wife, let us try this only method left us; and Heaven's will be done, if it should fail.

Grace.

Sure since we have struggled through life thus far, Providence will not let us perish with hunger at last.

Trunnion.

Your mother, I can see, has all her necessary consolations ready when she wants them. I will go see, on my side, what our comrades are doing.

SCENE IX.

George, Thomas.

George.

And do you think, uncle, that I have exposed my parents to the steward's malice more, by my behaviour, than they were already?

Thomas.

Trust me, so I fear, though it was bad enough before between them. And yet, nephew, they might certainly have mended their affairs last week, if they had only had a little less compassion.

George.

How, dear uncle?

Thomas.

They discovered a deserter, but would not inform against him, notwithstanding the reward.

George.

Indeed!

Thomas.

The blacksmith here hard by was not so scrupulous, and got the money.

George,

(to himself.) A deserter! a thought strikes me.— (To Thomas.) O uncle! I can save my father, if I please; but must have your assistance. May I trust you?

Thomas.

Certainly.

George.

But can you keep a secret!

Thomas.

I have always thought I could.

George.

Whatever happens?

Thomas.

Yes, provided there is no wickedness in the affair.

George.

None, uncle.

Thomas.

Well then, speak.

George.

But were you to betray me?

Thomas.

It must sure be some extraordinary matter?

George.

Yes; but you will have no reason to fear any thing.

Thomas.

Well, come then to the purpose.

George.

I will desert this very night. You shall secure me, and get forty shillings by it, which will nearly pay my father's debt.

Thomas.

I fancy you are turned fool! What, I secure you? I, your uncle? Why not bid me take a musquet up at once, and shoot you?

George.

There is no musquet in the case. A soldier is never shot the first time that he deserts.

Thomas.

Well then, at least he is flogged severely.

George.

But I need not fear even that; for all the Officers of the regiment love me, and I am sure I shall get off.

Thomas.

No, no; I cannot consent. Suppose your father was to know it?

George.

Can he know it, if we keep the secret? For deserting, as I have told you, I shall not be shot: though, were there any room to fear it, I have often risqued my life to benefit my country; I can risque it surely then to benefit my father. Think too, he is your brother, and that by this way only we can save him and my mother too from beggary, and perhaps from death.

Thomas.

The devil, sure, has brought me into this temptation. I cannot tell what resolution I should take.

George.

Remember you have promised me, will you break your word? In my despair I shall desert, and then my father will get nothing by it: so that you have no affection for your family if you refuse me.

Thomas.

No affection!—You hold out a knife before me, and are ready, as it were, to stab me to the heart.

George.

Well, uncle, take your choice. Time presses.

Thomas.

But should you deceive me, nephew! Should your sentence be—

George.

Of death, I have told you, there is no fear. At worst, it will not exceed a whipping. I know how to suffer, and at every lash I shall bethink me that I have saved my father.

Thomas.

Well then, I consent to do as you direct me; but should matters fall out otherwise—

George.

How can they fall out otherwise? Give me your hand, and be secret. Our people call the Roll, as we term it, at six o'clock, and he that does not answer to his name is marked down as a deserter; now you shall conduct me to the guard room to-night, and inform them that you apprehended me ten miles out of town, as I was deserting from the regiment.

Thomas.

It is the first deceit that I ever was concerned in.

George.

Do not reproach yourself with it, dear uncle, since it will get us both a blessing. Let us embrace once more; and now go, find my father. But take care! let me conjure you not to cause suspicion. If I am doing wrong, God will assuredly forgive me. What should not a duteous son do for the preservation of his parents?

ACT III.

SCENE I. a prison.

Drums and other music at a distance.

Trunnion

(coming in) Oh! my poor dear Bob! He should have told us his distress about the cursed steward, and not thus deserted. Who would have imagined it last night? to have gone off, been apprehended, and suffered his punishment all within the compass of a night and a morning! But it is over, and I am glad of it. He has borne it like a hero; never uttered a single groan: the regiment that loved him so well hitherto, will, I am sure, not love him the worse for it; for my part I could have gone through half the punishment for him. But here he comes.

SCENE II.

Trunnion, George, Serjeant.

George,

(entering, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven.) Thank heaven! it is over, and my father is safe!

Serjeant,

(in surprise.) His father is safe! what does he mean by that?

George.

Dear Trunnion!

Trunnion

(embracing him.) O my dearest friend! how fares it with you?

George.

Do not shed tears for my sake, comrade; I am much happier than you think.

Serjeant

(aside.) What can all this mean?—Shall I go fetch the surgeon?

George.

No Serjeant, I thank you.

Serjeant,

(aside, shaking his head.) There is something of a mystery in all this. I will go and tell my Captain what I think of the affair. (goes out.)

SCENE III.

George, Trunnion.

Trunnion.

Well at least then take a drop of something to support you. (Giving him a glass of liquor.)

George,

(squeezing Trunnion by the hand.) Thank you heartily, good comrade. (He drinks.)

Trunnion.

I am rejoiced that the court, in consequence of our request in your behalf, remitted so much of your sentence. But pray tell me, comrade, what possessed you to desert thus!

George.

I am ashamed, dear Trunnion, to conceal the reason from you; so do not ask me; it is a secret that I can never mention.

SCENE IV.

Trunnion, George. Thomas.

Thomas,

( •ntering violently agitated.) Well, now are you sati•f••d▪—

Trunnion.

Softly! softly! You seem agitated. Do not disturb your nephew, he wants rest. A man is not always the same.

George,

( 〈…〉 uncle.) You are angry, uncle. Should you speak of the affair between us, you will undo me.

Thomas.

I am undone already.

George.

Are you serious?— (to Trunnion.) Prithee, my good friend, leave us a moment to ourselves. (Trunnion retires a little.)

Thomas.

Your father is in so great a passion that he will not see me, on account of my having informed against you, and received the money. Besides he will not accept a farthing of it. When I offered it to him, herejected it with horror. God forbid! cried he, it is the price of my son's blood. What then shall I do? There is scarce a boy in the village but will pelt me for my treachery, as they call it; and all this through you.

George.

Be pacified, dear uncle! every thing will yet be well. The worst is past: and you have only to go back and tell my father that I desire to see him.

Thomas.

No, not I:—he won't permit me to approach him. I informed you so before. But how is this! I see him coming with my sister.

SCENE V.

George, Thomas, Moorhouse, Grace.

Grace.

Where is my son? Let me see him.

Trunnion.

This way, good mother; here he is.

Grace,

(running up to George.) What have you been doing, son? How could you cause us so much sorrow?

Moorhouse,

(in anger.) Are you here, unhappy wretch? You have yourself converted all the joy that you gave me yesterday into distress and sorrow. I will never see you more.

George.

Dear father, pray forgive me! I have undergone my punishment.

Moorhouse.

Yes, for flying from your colours; but you have not yet suffered for disgracing us in our old age. Sure sixty years, all passed without a blot upon our character, entitled us to hope that we should have died without one; and yet now you have covered us with infamy. But we renounce you!

George.

Pardon, pardon me, dear father! Heaven is my witness, I have not disgraced you, and was far from wishing to disgrace you.

Thomas,

(aside.) Oh! what torture to hear this, and yet be forced to stand thus silent!

George,

(following Moorhouse.) Do not, do not, father, leave me thus, without embracing me! Oh! stay a moment! And you, mother, can you shew yourself as cruel?

Grace.

What can I do, son?

Moorhouse.

Never call him son. He has forfeited that name.

Grace.

Forgive him, good man! He is still our child.

Thomas.

Yes, brother, let your heart be moved to pity his affliction.

Moorhouse.

Hold your tongue! You are full as bad as he is; you that sell your nephew for the sake of money. I will no more be your brother, than his father.

Grace.

( 〈…〉 a little while with George.) Hear me, husband! He makes solemn promises. Do not make us both wretched! After all, he is our child, the only one that we have, and can we then not love him?

Moorhouse.

Don't speak one word more, woman, but follow me. (He is going out, but Trunnion holds him.)

Trunnion.

Come, master Moorhouse; enough! You have vented your passion: let all be forgotten. The king accepts him again; why should not you? Give him, give him your hand. Do you think that I should continue to have a regard for him, if he did not deserve it?

Grace.

Hear that, my love! Do not be more hardhearted toward, him than strangers are. Besides, consider what his captain said yesterday in his behalf.

Moorhouse.

I see him coming; so I will speak to him before I answer.

SCENE VI.

George, Thomas, Moorhouse, Grace, Captain, Serjeant, Trunnion.

Moorhouse.

Ah! sir, does it not afflict you, when you recollect that yesterday you said so much in praise of my unworthy son?

The Captain.

He had deserved it; though indeed I could not have supposed my commendation would have had such bad effects. But (to George) tell me what could possibly induce you to desert! You must have had some very ungent motive. Let me know the secrets of your heart, whatever be the consequence. You have been punished, and have therefore nothing now to fear.

George.

My worthy captain, do not, I beseech you, take away your favour from me! I will endeavour to deserve it.

The Captain.)

If you tell the truth, I will not. For to fancy that you deserted for a quarrel, which, I understand, you had with a Steward, is absurd.

George.

And yet, your honour may be certain, there is no other reason. It is well known, I never was remarkable for quarrelling with any one. The least offence appears enormous, when one has not been accustomed to it. I was so disturbed at the affair that it took away my reason; and besides, the unhappy situation of my father aided to distract me.

The Captain.

What then signified these words that you said on entering the prison with the Serjeant? Thank Heaven, it is over, and my father is safe!

Moorhouse,

(astonished.) Were those his words, sir? God forgive me, but the devil surely must have turned his brain.

George,

(sighing.) I do not remember to have said those words.

Serjeant.

I remember to have heard you say them, when you first entered this room.

Trunnion.

Yes, yes, comrade, that you did. I myself heard you also, now I recollect.

George.

They must then have certainly escaped me in my pain.

The Captain.

They might so; yet they are not without a meaning.

George,

(in great embarrassment.) I do not know what answer to make you.

The Captain,

(taking him by the hand.) Do not, my honest fellow, study to deceive us. This desertion has some other reason than your quarrel. Your dissimulation very much displeases me; and you are likely to lose all my friendship. Was it not on account of your father—

George,

(eagerly.) How say you, sir. Do not believe—

The Captain.

I see, you are not worth the trouble that I am taking for you, and no longer wish to be informed of any thing about you. You are more indifferent to me than the worst of men. You do not know, perhaps, how much you have lost by this prevarication.

Thomas.

I must tell it then, at last.

George,

(interrupting him.) Dear uncle, would you wish to make us more unhappy than we are?

Thomas,

(to the Captain.) I can explain the whole affair, sir; but have reason to fear lest the mischief should become still greater.

The Captain.

No, you have nothing to fear; I give you my promise.

Thomas.

Well then, good sir, it was to save his parents that he deserted. He found means to make me turn infermer, and get forty shillings, that his father might have wherewithal to pay his debts; but now, his father will not hear a word about the money or his son. Let me beseech you therefore, sir, to rid me of this money, which I cannot keep, and interpose at least with your authority and kindness, that my brother may be profited by what his son has so affectionately done to benefit him; for the affair is exactly as I relate it to you. (Every one appears astonished.)

The Captain.

George, what do you say to this?

George,

(bursting into tears.) You have heard the truth. However, I beseech your honour to believe that nothing but my father's safety could induce me to desert my colours. I despised the danger, hoping to save him; but, since every thing is discovered, and my hopes all lost, I must suffer more severely.

Moorhouse,

(embracing George.) What, dear George! and was it for my sake you did all this?

Grace,

(embracing him also.) Yes, now indeed we may embrace him; though, indeed, my heart informed me all along that he could not be so guilty.

The Captain,

(taking George by the hand.) Oh, my generous youth! what affection and what courage! Yet, to say the truth, your filial piety has carried you too far; for to desert is always blameable.

Moorhouse.

Most certainly! Heaven keep me from becoming richer by a penny of this money!

George.

There now, uncle, see what comes of your revealing the affair! I have made myself a double criminal to get my father money, which you find he will not accept.

Thomas.

Yes, yes, you have this to lay to my charge, I must acknowledge; but his honour made me a promise first of all.

The Cattain,

(to Thomas.) Let your brother have the money. Take it, (to Moorhouse,) my good friend; for George has deserved it richly.

Moorhouse.

I can never bring myself to take such ill-got money.

The Captain.

I will have you take it! and what is more, I will go and tell the matter to our colonel.— (To George.) You have not done your duty as a soldier, I acknowledge; but have shown yourself a son in such a manner, that he cannot but be moved when made acquainted with it. Wait me: I will return immediately. (The Captain and Serjeant go out.)

SCENE VII.

George, Thomas, Moorhouse, Grace, Trunnion.

George.

My consolation is, that I can now with greater confidence entreat you to forgive me, as I have finished your misfortunes, and the steward will not have it in his power to hurt you.

Trunnion.

Yes, my good old man, forgive your son! He will be cured the sooner, if he has your blessing; and besides, you ought to consider that he is to possess your cottage after you.

Moorhouse.

He is, and therefore I will preserve it for him. Come, my son, forgive your father, who has used you thus unkindly. Heaven can tell how much I suffered, from the thought that you had left your colours; and it seems, you were discharging even then your duty towards me. How shall I repay you for so much affection, in the little time that I have to live?

George.

By loving me, as you have always done.

Grace.

Oh, yes! and ten times more; for every bit of bread that we eat, we will say to one another, it is our dear son's gift.

George.

I am satisfied. And I thank you, uncle, for the service that you have done me.

Thomas.

You thank me, do you? I am glad that matters have turned out as well as they have. But never make such a ticklish experiment again. And now, brother, have you still a grudge against me? If it had not been from my wish to serve you, I would never have been concerned in my nephew's scheme, no more than he would; and since you pardon him, you may extend your liberality to me.

Moorhouse.

What can excuse your conduct, brother? I may throw myself into the flames, but he that lights them for me ought to be considered cruel. Yes, indeed. However, I will not hate you: there is my hand.

Trunnion.

Comrade, hitherto I have loved, but now respect you. Let us embrace then, and be always friends.

SCENE VIII.

George, Thomas, Moorhouse, Grace, Trunnion, the Captain.

The Captain.

Good luck! good luck! You are a serjeant on the spot. The colonel, when I told him the affair between your father and yourself, was happy to promote you. Take this also (giving him a purse of money) from him, as a witness how much he applauds your filial piety.

Moorhouse and Grace.

O, sir, may heaven reward you!

The Captain.

Nothing in all this is due to me: the colonel has done every thing. (George embraces his parents one after the other, and then turning to the captain, says) I beg your honour's pardon!

The Captain.

You deserve the pleasure of embracing those that gave you birth, to whom you have so well discharged your duty.

Thomas.

Well, could any one have thought that old Thomas, simple as he is, would come to make a serjeant, as, it is plain, I have?

Trunnion

Yes, yes; and therefore, Mr. Serjeant—

George,

(embracing him) Call me nothing but comrade and friend, as we have always been.

Trunnion.

Well then, comrade, let us break off a little for the present: and as nothing like good liquor suits a joyous time, let us, as soon as we are able, make up for the sorrows of last night and thus morning. His honour and the colonel shall be toasted first.

THE BED OF DEATH.

DUNCAN, a bricklayer's labourer, living in a distant country town, had lost his wife about a quarter of a year before the event we are to write of. The e•pences of a tedious illness, and the interruption of his labour by a very rainy season, had reduced him to the last distress. His children were half naked, and had really no bread to eat. This circumstance was of itself sufficiently tormenting; but to aggravate the scene, Susanna, his poor mother, laid upon a little straw in the corner of the cottage, was almost in the agonies of death.

Duncan, at such a prospect round about him, overwhelmed with sorrow, took a broken matted chair, and at a little distance from Susanna's bed sat down upon it, having both his hands held up, that he might hide his tears.

His mother turning towards him, with a feeble voice enquired if there was no where in the house a rag to put upon her. I cannot make myself warm, said she, do what I will.

Duncan.

Stay, mother; I will pull off my coat, and lay it on you.

Susanna.

No, no; I will not have it, my dear son. A little straw, if you have nothing else, will do as well. But have you not a single bit of wood still left to make a sire for these poor children? You will tell me, you cannot go into the fields, because of the attention that I require. My life is very long, since I am grown burthensome to you!

Duncan.

Pray do not say so, dear mother. Would to God I could procure you what you want, at the expence of my own life! I would freely give it up: but this is my grief, that you suffer cold and hunger, while I am utterly unable to relieve you.

Susanna.

Do not let that, however, afflict you much, my poor son. Thank God, my agonies are not so great as your affection fears they may be: they will very quickly finish, and my blessing will be the recompence of what you are doing now, and have been always doing for me.

Duncan.

O my poor dear mother! In my infancy you put yourself to many difficulties for my maintenance; and I, in your old age, must thus sit by and see you want for common necessaries! That, dear mother, rends my heart.

Susanna.

I know, it is not through any fault of yours; and then, Duncan, upon a death-bed one has few—(believe me when I tell you so)—few earthly wants. Our heavenly father has us then particularly in his care. I thank you heartily, my dear. Your love consoles me in this hour of my departure.

Duncan.

What, dear mother, have you then no hopes of recovering?

Susanna.

No; I feel within me that I must die of this complaint.

Duncan.

You do not say so?

Susanna.

Do not afflict yourself! I shall soon be in a better world.

Duncan,

(with sighs.) Oh heaven! oh heaven!

Susanna.

I say, my son, this need not grieve you. You were all my happiness when I was young, and now you prove the joy of my last moments. Soon, yes, very soon, thank heaven, you will have nothing left you but to close my eye-lids. I shall then ascend to my creator, tell what you have done for me, and earnestly beseech him to reward you for it everlastingly. Think frequently of me, and I will think of you above.

Duncan.

Yes, always, always.

Susanna.

There is only one thing in the world that gives me pain when I think of it.

Duncan.

And what is that mother?

Susanna.

I am mustering up my strength to tell you. And believe me, I must tell you; for it is like a stone oppressing me at heart.

Duncan.

Comfort yourself, dear mother, then, and speak.

Susanna.

I saw your little Arthur come yesterday here close behind my bed, and pull out several apples, which he ate. Duncan, these apples were not ours; for then he would have thrown them on the table, and asked me to take some. I remember still how lovingly he used to come and fling himself into my arms, when he had any thing to give me; saying with so much good-nature, Eat some, do, my dear grandmother. O my dear, dear son! if he should be a thief hereafter! The thought has afflicted me ever since yesterday. Where is he? Pray go fetch him. I would talk a little to him.

Duncan.

Wretch that I am! (He runs and fetches Arthur, and puts him by Susanna; she raises herself with difficulty, turns about, takes both his hands in hers, and leans her head upon his shoulder.)

Arthur.

Grandmother, do you want me! You don't call me here, I hope, to see you die!

Susanna.

No, no; fear nothing, my poor Arthur, I do not desire to frighten you; and yet, my dearest, I shall die, and very soon too.

Arthur.

But not yet. Do not die till I am bigger.

(Susanna falls backward in her bed. The child and father look at one another weeping, and each takes her by the hand.)

Susanna,

(coming somewhat to herself.) I am much better now that I have changed my posture.

Arthur.

So then you won't die?

Susanna.

Be comforted, my little fellow. Dying is not painful to me, as I am going to a tender father, who at present waits in heaven to see me. When I am once with him, I shall be better off than here. Soon, soon my little fellow, I shall see him.

Arthur.

Well then, take me with you: I will go too.

Susanna.

No, my dear, you shall not go with me; but, if it pleases God, remain a good while here behind me. You shall live to be a virtuous and good man, and when your father is as ill as I am, you shall be his consolation, and afford him the assistance that he needs. Won't you, Arthur? Won't you obey him constantly, and do whatever you think will give him pleasure? See, he does whatever he is able for my sake. And won't you promise me that you will do so too?

Arthur.

Yes, certainly I will, grandmother.

Susanna.

Take care then how you perform your promise. God who made both earth and heaven, cannot but see every thing that you do. I suppose, you believe this.

Arthur.

Yes, I do believe it: you have taught me so yourself.

Susanna.

How then, my dearest Arthur, could you suppose that he would not see you come here yesterday behind my bed, and eat the apples that you had stolen?

Arthur.

I will do so no more—no, never grandmother, believe me, while I live. Forgive me what I have done, and pray that God Almighty would forgive me too.

Susanna.

It is true then, is it, that you stole those apples?

Arthur,

(sobbing.) Ye-e-es.

Susanna.

And pray of whom?

Arthur.

Of ne-e-eighbour Le-e-conard.

Susanna.

You must go to neighbour Leonard then, and ask his pardon.

Arthur.

Oh, do not send me there, pray grandmother. I dare not go.

Susanna.

You must, my little friend, that you may never do the like again. For heaven's sake, my dear child, in future never take what does not belong to you; not even a bit of bread, though you were starving. God will never let you want, since it was he who created you. Trust then to his assistance, tell him when you suffer, and be sure that he will console you.

Arthur.

Certainly, grandmother, certainly, I will never steal again: I promise you I will not: and for the future I would much rather die of hunger than steal any thing.

Susanna.

God hear and bless your resolution from his holy habitation. I have hopes that of his goodness he will keep you from so great a sin. (She clasps him to her heart, and weeps.) You must, my little boy, this instant go to neighbour Leonard, and desire him to forgive you. Tell him that I, too, beg him to forgive you. Go, my good Duncan, with Arthur; inform him how it grieves me that I am not able to make him restitution for the theft: but that I will pray to God for his prosperity, and beg a blessing on his family. Alas! he is no less poor than we; and were it not that his good woman works so hard, he could never bring up such a family of children as he has. My dear good son, for my sake, when I am dead and buried, give him a day's work to make him up his loss: it matters not how little he has suffered. We should think it criminal to take away a pin. You will remember this, Duncan?

Duncan.

Yes, mother; so do not let the matter make you any more uneasy.

He had hardly said these words, when, as it chanced, 'Squire Wearthy's steward tapped without against the window.

Poor Susanna knew him by his usual way of tapping, and the cough he •••••antly had on him. Bless me, it is the steward! said she. Surely some great mischief threatens us. He is like a raven, croaking at the window some bad tidings.

Duncan.

Do not be frightened thus, my good mother: I am not a single farthing in his debt; and for the rent that we owe the 'squire at Midsummer, I will give him all the labour that he requires in harvest.

Susanna.

Yes, provided he will but wait so long.

Duncan went out to know the steward's business. After he was gone, Susanna fetched a grievous sigh, and said, discoursing with herself, Since he was so hard-hearted as to seize upon our goods for rent, I cannot see or hear him, but my heart revolts at the idea; and at present, in my dying moments, he must come and cough at our window. But perhaps the hand of God brings him hither as an admonition for me to discharge my heart of every thing that looks like malice or ill-will against him, and even pray for mercy on his soul. Well then, my God, I am content to do so. I no longer wish him any harm. Forgive his sin, as I forgive it. (She hears the steward speaking rather loud.)

But I hear his voice! he is in a passion!—Heaven take pity on us!—O my poor Duncan, it is out of love for me that you have fallen again into his hands. (She faints, on which the little boy jumps off the bed, and runs to fetch his father.)

Arthur.

O father, father! Quick, come here! My grandmother is dying.

Duncan.

O my God!—Permit me, Mr. Steward. I must go to her assistance.

The Steward,

(going out.) Yes indeed! that is very necessary. The old Jezebel may die else!—I should think it a good riddance of bad rubbish.

Luckily Duncan was got too far to hear these cruel words. He was already by Susanna's bed, who speedily recovered from her swoon, and thus addressed her son:

The steward came to scold you; I could hear him. Doubtless he will not grant you time, when once the quarter is turned.

Duncan.

No, mother, he did not come about that: he brought me, on the contrary, good news.

Susanna,

(pausing a moment, and appearing to collect her spirits.) But is this true, my son? or do you only wish to comfort me a little? What good news can he have for us?

Duncan.

It is the 'square's design, he says, to pull down and rebuild his house; at least the front and stables; and to employ me at it, with my neighbours. I shall have at least, he says, ten shillings every week.

Susanna,

(with a countenance of joy.) You don't say so?

Duncan.

Yes, certainly; and there will be a matter of two years continual work. Next Monday I begin.

Susanna.

God's providence be praised for all things! I shall now die happy, seeing you enabled to get bread to feed your little ones. Death now has nothing painful in it. Heaven is merciful! may you, Duncan, at all times find it so: but tell me, are you not by this convinced of what I have so often told you, that the more misfortunes on one side attack us, so much more God's grace awaits us on the other?

Duncan.

Yes, I am, and shall be always. But methinks you seem much better. Let me quit you for about a minute. I will go fetch a little straw to cover you.

Susanna.

No, no; I feel myself much warmer. Rather go with Arthur to neighbour Leonard's. That is what disturbs me most of all. Go, my son, I ask it as a favour.

Hearing this, he did not stay a moment in the room, but took his son, and going out, gave Margaret a sign to come and let him speak with her.

Take care of your poor grandmother, said he; and if a fainting fit should seize her, come and fetch me from the carpenter's; I shall be there.

Leonard was at work, and Gertrude his wife was left all alone at home. She saw at once that the father and the child had both been crying.

What is the matter with you, my good friend, said Gertrude, that you have been crying? What is the matter with you, my poor Arthur?

Duncan.

Ah, neighbour Gertrude! I am quite unhappy. This poor child of mine who wanted victuals yesterday, came here and took some apples that were yours: he has confessed it. My poor mother saw him eat them.—Gertrude, she is on her death bed, and desires you to forgive him. I cannot pay you now the worth of what he took away; but when I go to work, which will be very shortly, I will be sure to satisfy you.

Gertrude.

O don't speak about it, neighbour: it is a trifle not worth mentioning. And you, my little fellow, promise that you will never for the future take what is not your own. (She kisses him.) You are born of such good people!

Arthur.

Oh! I promise you I will not: forgive me, Gertrude. I will never steal again.

Gertrude.

No, never for the future, my good child, You do not know yet how great a sin it is! When you are hungry, come to me, and if I have a bit of bread myself, I will share it with you.

Duncan.

Thank ye, neighbour; but I hope, he will never want bread again. I have got a deal of work to do at 'Squire Wealthy's.

Gertrude.

Yes, I heard so of the servants, and was very glad.

Duncan.

I was not near so happy when I got it on my own account, as for my mother's sake. She has at least this comfort on her death-bed. Tell my good friend Leonard that I shall work with all my heart to make him compensation for his loss.

Gertrude.

Do not speak about it, I request you once again. My husband, I am certain, will not think of any compensation. He was out of work himself, and is to have the wood work of the job for which you are engaged. But as poor Susanna is so ill, I will go and give her my assistance.

Gertrude got on her cloak, and then put up some pears and apples in a bag, and filled the little fellow's pockets likewise; took him by the hand, and bidding poor Duncan go first, came after.

They had quickly reached Susanna's chamber. Gertrude held out her hand, but turned away her face, that she might hide her tears. Susanna, notwithstanding, saw her, and began as follows:

You are crying then, my dear friend Gertrude?

Gertrude.

Indeed I cry to see you suffer thus.

Susanna.

It is, or ought to be, alas! our part to cry. Forgive us, I beseech you. It is the first time that such a circumstance has happened in our house.

Gertrude.

Why what a serious business you are making of a trifle! It was excusable in such a child!

Susanna.

But if when older, he should take to be a thief!

Gertrude.

No. no: I will answer for him, he will be good. My dear Susanna, you deserve this recompense of heaven for your own honesty, and all the care that you have taken to bring up your family in virtue. Do you want for any thing? Do not fear to tell me if you do: for every thing that we have is at your service.

Arthur.

Yes, indeed; for only see what Gertrude has given me! 〈◊〉, dear grandmother, do, eat some.

Susanna.

No, my child, I cannot: I shall never eat again; I feel my strength go from me, and I have almost lost my sight. My son, draw near me: now is come the moment to take leave, and give you my farewell.

Duncan no sooner heard these words, than he was seized all over with a sudden trembling: he took off his hat, fell down upon his knees beside Susanna's bed, laid hold with ardour of her hand, then lifted up his eyes to heaven, and would fain have spoke, but could not: tears and sighs prevented him.

Take comfort, said Susanna; I am going to a happier life than this, and there will wait your coming. When we once meet there, we shall not part again.

Duncan in some degree recovering, bowed his head, and craved his mother's blessing. Bless me, said he, my dear mother. I desire to follow you, when once my children have no further need of my assistance.

Susanna opened once again her dying eyes; and with uncommon fervour looking up, pronounced these words:

Hear me, O heavenly father, and vouchsafe the blessings of thy grace and favour to my son, the only one that I ever had, and whose affection was the comfort of my life. Duncan, may God be always with you, and confirm in heaven this blessing which I pronounce on you for having fulfilled your duty so much like a son.

Hear me now, my dear Duncan, and carefully observe what I shall tell you. Bring your children up in virtue, and accustom them betimes to a laborious life, that if they should be poor, they may not, when grown up, lose courage, and be tempted to do wrong. Instruct them to place all their trust in God, and to live good friends with one another; so that they may find sure consolation in the evils of this life. Forgive the steward his injustice. When I am buried, pray inform him that I departed without any malice or ill-will against him, and besought of God that he would grant him of his grace to see the sin that he had committed, and repent before he came upon a death-bed. (She stops a little to take breath, and then goes on.)

Reach me, my good friend, (to Gertrude) that book behind you; and my dear Duncan, there is a little leather bag in our great chest; I wish to have it. Good! (she takes and clasps them to her heart.) These are the only treasures that I have left on earth. And now I should be glad to see your children.

They were weeping at a table, whence their father brought them to Susanna, putting them upon their knees beside her, while she raised herself a little, so that she might see them, and began:

My dearest children, I am very sorry that I must leave you motherless and poor. Think often of me, my sweet babes. I have nothing that I can give you but this book: it has been frequently my consolation, and as often will be yours. When you have learned sufficiently, read in it every evening to your father. It will teach you to be good; and if you are but good, you cannot fail of being happy.

This, Duncan, (taking out a piece of paper from the leather bag,) is a certificate which I brought your father of my good behaviour at our marriage. Let it pass by turns to each of your three daughters, till they marry. It is my last request. And as for you, my son, I have nothing in the world to give you in remembrance of me; but the comfort is, you want none. You will not forget me, I am certain.

Gertrude, shall I request one other favour of you, after having pardoned Arthur? When I am dead, see now and then to these poor children.—They have no one friend.— I recommend you in particular my poor dear Lucy.—She is the youngest of the three.—Where is she?—I can hardly see.— (She stretches out her arm with difficulty.)

Conduct my hand, and let me touch her.—O my children! (she dies.)

After a moment's silence, Duncan supposing her to be fallen asleep, said softly to his children, Rise, and do not disturb her slumber. Might she but recover, after having had this unexpected rest! But Gertrude saw plainly that she was dead, and gave Duncan to understand as much. What was his distraction then, and that of his helpless family? How they wept and wrung their hands! How they beat upon their breasts, and tore their hair up by the roots for anguish.

Gertrude, as well as she was able, comforted their sorrow, and repeated to Duncan Susanna's parting words, which, in his grief, he had not heard distinctly.

She began that very day to shew how much she valued the deceased, by complying with her last wish. The little orphans being brought up with her own dear children, had the same instruction; and improving by it, grew in time to be a pattern for the village; and particularly Arthur, continually having in remembrance his first fault, became remarkable in time for his fidelity and honest dealing.

PASCAL.

MR. Dawkins was accustomed every Saturday to pay his only son, a little boy whose name was Pascal, an allowance, such as was sufficient to procure him, the week through, those little pleasures and enjoyments which children of his age so naturally pursue. No less confident than generous, he never looked for an account from Pascal of the way in which he laid out what he gave him. He supposed his principles to be such, that he would not abuse his bounty, but remember the instruction which he had so frequently given him upon the subject. But what lamentable consequences did this too blind credulity produce?

For hardly ever had he touched his weekly payment, but he ran that moment to a shop hard by, and stuffed himself with pastry and nice things. His purse, in this first onset, underwent so great a diminution, that a very little the next day was sufficient to exhaust it totally: and during the last part of every week, he never had a farthing to regale himself withal; yet he did not, upon that account, the less hanker after the same delicacies. Wherefore being resolved to gratify his palate, he prevailed upon the pastry-cook, at first, to give him credit; but when afterwards he found that the boy's allowance was never applied to pay off these arrears, while on the other hand the debt increased, he saw that it was prudent to give in his bill to Mr. Dawkins. Mr. Dawkins was extremely angry with the tradesman, reprimanded his improper conduct, and forbade not only him, but every tradesman round about, to let his son have any thing for which he could not pay on the spot. This might have been supposed a good precaution; and accordingly he thought it could not but become a check on Pascal's gluttony; whereas it only irritated matters, and the boy, as we shall see, at any risque resolved to gratify his palate.

Pascal's chamber was contiguous to his father's. After having noticed when his father generally slept the soundest, he once got up softly, came into his room, and feeling for his breeches, took out half a crown. Emboldened by this fatal success, he frequently repeated his offence, and for a time without detection: but there cannot be a crime, however secretly committed, which does not come to light at last.

It chanced that Mr. Dawkins, some time after Pascal's first offence, in this way, had a law-suit on the following day to be decided. Having thought upon it waking, it is not to be wondered at that it should take up his attention after he was gone to rest. In fact, he lay quite silent, ruminating on the affair, when Pascal, thinking him asleep, got up as he was wont to do. Unhappily for him, the moon threw light enough into the chamber, that a person coming in might easily be seen. Accordingly let any one imagine if he can, what Mr. Dawkins must have felt, beholding his own son thus come and rob him! He for that time stifled his resentment; but before the thief could quit his chamber in the morning, he got up, went to him, and found means to turn the conversation into such a channel, as to ask him how much he intended to lay out that day of his allowance. Nothing, answered Pascal. I have given all my last week's money to a poor man in the neighbourhood, and must deny myself a little till next Saturday.

His father could not possibly restrain his indignation any longer, hearing so detestable a lie come from him. He sprung forward, seized him by the collar, for by this time he was dressed, and found five shillings in his pocket, which was what he had stolen from his father. In proportion as he had till now been tender and indulgent to his son, so much the greater was his severity and rigour on this occasion: for his reprimands were only the preamble to a harsher treatment, and the wretched Pascal was obliged to keep his bed for many days, in consequence of the correction that he received.

How difficult it is to extirpate a vice which has once taken root within us! Pascal was not cured by this correction. Mr. Dawkins left the key of his bureau one evening in the lock, and Pascal took a model of the wards, and got another made at the smith's. This gave him a convenient opportunity to rob his father whenever he pleased: who, as he usually kept a great deal of cash by him, and as Pascal was more cunning than to take too much at once, suspected nothing of the affair. He was now fifteen years of age, and could dissemble so well, that his parents thought him quite reformed, till his hypocrisy was accidentally discovered.

His father had received a piece of foreign coin, among other monies, which he soon remarked, and put it up in the bureau. This piece fell into Pascal's hands that very night, and Mr. Dawkins missing it the next morning, could not but bethink himself of Pascal's former inclinations, and suspect him. He resolved to satisfy himself that moment, and examining his pockets, found the piece of money that he had lost, together with the key, by means of which he had obtained it.

But Pascal by this time was too big for such correction as he had received before, and therefore Mr. Dawkins contented himself with severely upbraiding him for the present, and threatening to withdraw the benefits of his affection from him. He consulted a few faithful friends that he had, upon the treatment proper to be shewn him: their opinion was in general, that the harshest method of proceeding would most tend to his amendment, and advised his being sent to school in Yorkshire, where for years he might not see his family, but be subjected to the rigorous discipline and homely fare peculiar to such institutions, and of course have leisure to repent of his enormity, and be accustomed to a frugal way of life. This was their counsel; but the combats of paternal love in Mr. Dawkins's bosom, which was very far, as yet, from being quite extinct, would not permit him to pursue their salutary admonition; he inclined to something of a gentler nature, and in grief of heart, and as the only moderate method which he could devise to preserve him from destruction, sent that very day to Bristol for a friend of his, who kept a boarding school, to whose attention he consigned, upon the day of his arrival, this unworthy son, with directions to let him have no other money than was absolutely necessary for his wants. His friend set off on his return immediately, and Pascal with him.

This was a precaution; but it came, alas! too late: the youth's principles were utterly corrupted. His tutor's table was plain, though very plentiful; for which reason Pascal would go out, and at a tavern gratify his palate with the choicest wines and viands, for which he easily got credit, as his host took care to make enquiry, first of all, into his father's circumstances, who, he found, was very rich: nor did he stop at this; for to supply that want of money which his tutor would not, he began to play, and practised every species of deception at a gaminghouse hard by.

God's providence, as if it interfered particularly to reform him, punished all his vices on the spot. Three gamblers, his companions, who detected him endeavouring to deceive them with a pack of cards that he had beforehand sorted for the purpose, fell upon him unawares, and so rough were the effects of their vengeance, that Pascal was almost drubbed to death upon the spot.

He was carried home with scarce the least remains of life, and put to bed. His tutor ran to see him, and afforded all the succour and assistance in his power. He waited till he saw him almost reestablished, to impart such counsel as might possibly affect him; which he did with all the softness possible, and pointed out the horrors into which he was plunging himself. Miserable youth! said the tutor, what can have induced you to excesses so disgraceful! You dishonour, by your crimes, a name which the probity of those before you had exalted, and made really respectable. You rob your tender parents of those hopes which they indulged when first they laid the groundwork of your education. When the youth of your acquaintance, who now consecrate that time to study which you consume in scandalous excesses, shall be sought out by their country and employed in elevated stations, you will be considered as an abject dangerous character. You will be banished from all company that have the least regard or value for their honour, and the meanest class of men will scorn you.

Pascal was at first affected with this lesson. He broke off all commerce with his partners; he was satisfied with his preceptor's table-fare; and seemed as if beginning to imagine that study had some charms to please him. But this disposition was soon done away, and by degrees he relapsed into his former way of life. He sold his books; his watch and clothes went afterwards; and he contrived to strip himself of his apparel so completely, that he could not stir abroad.

On which his creditors came all at once upon him, and receiving a refusal from the tutor to discharge the young man's debts and satiate their avidity, they wrote letters to the father, threatening to arrest him if they were not paid. Let Pascal's situation now be imagined. Overwhelmed with the repreaches of his creditors, the indignation of his tutor, the contempt of those who waited on him, and his own remorse, he had moreover to dread the malediction of his parents. He was sensible that he had so much neglected to improve his understanding, that he could not find the least resources against want in any calling or profession. He began to think his situation desperate. A whole day he passed in his apartment violently agitated; every now and then he wrung his hands, tore his hair, and cursed his vices: but at night, still borne away by his depravity, he went from home to spend the little money that he had left in a tavern.

Accident that evening threw two men into his company who were employed to raise recruits for India. They remarked upon his countenance the embarrassment with which his soul was agitated, winked to one another, and began to talk of India. They described the beauty of the country, and what pay was given to the soldiery. They spoke of the advantages that a youth of family might meet with there, and what a probability there was, that such a one might make his fortune: nay, they went so far as to assert that many, to their knowledge, had from private soldiers been made officers, and married wealthy widows.

Pascal heard this conversation with avidity, joined in the discourse, and enquired if it was difficult to be enlisted with these soldiers. If you wish to enlist, said they, we can oblige you, though we have more recruits by many than we want; but you, by your appearance, seem to claim the preference; and thereupon they offered him five guineas if he would enter.

After some slight struggles, Pascal took the guineas, and enlisted. The remainder of the night he spent in drinking; and when morning came, was sent to learn his exercise. He found himself surrounded by a set of aukward rustics, runaway apprentices, notorious beggars, and convicted thieves, who had enlisted to escape the gallows. He was under the tuition of a surly corporal, who loaded him from time to time with curses, and severely caned him, when he could not comprehend his meaning.

Pascal's misery went on from day to day encreasing. All the money that he had lately touched at parting with his freedom, was already gone in riot. He had nothing to subsist on but the coarse provision granted by the company to keep their new recruits together. Lubberkin, who had been a swine-herd, and was then his comrade, was much better off. He had been always used to •ive on o•ten bread, and therefore thought himself a prince, when he could get a bit of half-baked meat. But what were Pascal's feelings, when, partaking of such coarse provisions, he reflected on the delicacies of his former repasts!

Some days after came an order for the soldiers to embark. Pascal heard this news with much more satisfaction than the people round about him thought he would have testified. If once you get to India, said he to himself, as you are young, and of a likely figure, you will make your fortune, as a multitude of Englishmen have done before you.

In the midst of all these brilliant prospects, Pascal went on board the vessel destined to transport him and his comrades. He drank down a glass or two of brandy at the moment of embarking, and the• served to warm hi• head, and to make him utterly forget his parents. He went off with mad huzzas. But then the joy with which he uttered these huzzas continued hardly longer than the drunkenness that caused them. Those on board who were now for the first time in their life at sea, began to feel a death-like sickness. Pascal, whose intemperance had hurt his inside much, endured a great deal more than any other. He was several days insensible, and nothing staid upon his stomach. Even the sight of food disgusted him; and when at last he grew a little better, and was hungry, mouldy pease, salt beef, and biscuits full of maggots, were the only victuals that he could procure. When he first set sail, the soldiers had a pint of beer each allowed them; but by degrees they were deprived of this indulgence, and compelled to put up with a bare sufficiency of water, and even this they were obliged to strain before they could drink it.

After six long months incessant suffering, during all which time they were in fear of continual shipwreck, they arrived in India, wearied out with watchings for the most part, and a dreadful scurvy. Pascal was marched up the country, with his comrades, to the army: but his heart, embittered by the horror of his situation, was insensible of any thing like goodness. His abandoned course of life, the crimes that he was incessantly committing, and his numberless desertions, frequently subjected him to punishment. He was determined, if he could, to quit these regions, watched his opportunity, and stealing on board a vessel bound to England, hid himself below till it had sailed; nor did he quit his hiding place, till the ship was a great way out to sea: he then came sorth, and being brought before the captain, promised to work his passage to England; which the captain in the end accepted, as the vessel was in want of men.

What, in the interim, was become of his unhappy parents? They alas! still lived, if people may be said to live whose sad days are spent in anguish and despair. The crimes which their son had committed, and with which the neighbourhood all around them rung, had forced them to renounce their place of habitation, and go down and live in Sussex, in a solitary quarter near the sea.

A short time after they were settled here, the ship, in which Pascal was, arrived on that very part of the coast where they had fixed their retirement. For while they were a little way out to sea, Pascal, a thorough graduate in vice, had conspired with ten or twelve desperate fellows of the crew, to murder every one on board who would not join in their conspiracy, and so obtain possession of the ship. They executed their infernal purpose; and soon after running the vessel ashore, they hoisted out their boat at night, that they might come on shore, and pillage the inhabitants.

That very night the unhappy Mr. Dawkins in his house was up, and watching by his wife's sick bed. Her grief for Pascal's wretched fortune had long preyed upon her constitution; and by this time, after having suffered grievously, she felt the agonies of death upon her. In the intervals of her delirium, she called out for Pascal: Where, where are you, said the dying mother? Come, that I may press you to my heart, and pardon you before I die. At this the door is suddenly burst open, and ten villains rush into the dwelling. Pascal, with a hatchet in his hand, was first, and led them on. The father comes to meet them with a candle; but before his son could recollect him—The remainder is too horrid to relate: suffice it, that Pascal and his gang were apprehended on the spot, and suffered at the gallows.

Children, if when you have read this story, you dare think of giving way to any vice whatsoever, tremble at the possibility of your becoming criminal by degrees, and ending like Pascal with the crime of parricide!

THE CONJURING BIRD.
A DRAMA, in ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

- THE COUNTESS OF GLENALVON.

- AUGUSTUS, her Children.

- JULIA, her Children.

- THE HON. MR. ODDLY, a Nobleman's younger Son.

- ELIZA, his Sister.

- GABRIEL, Friends of Julia and Augustus.

- LUCIUS, Friends of Julia and Augustus.

- SOPHIA, Friends of Julia and Augustus.

- JENNY, Servants to the Countess.

- RICHARD, Servants to the Countess.

The SCENE is in the country, at the Countess's, and in two rooms which open to the garden.

SCENE I.

Jenny, (reckening up the counters on a table.)

IT is all lost labour to stand counting thus. I cannot make more than ninety-four; and yet there should be an hundred. Well, I think, there never was a house like ours for hare-brained children; for wherever they once put their foot, one may be sure, they will jumble every thing together, if they do not lose something or another. I must look about for them in every corner of the chamber.

SCENE II.

The Countess, Jenny.

The Countess.

You seem uneasy, Jenny: What are you seeking?

Jenny.

Your ladyship's best counters.

The Countess.

Do not you see them on the table?

Jenny.

Yes, my lady; but the number is not complete.

The Countess.

That should not be.

Jenny.

That should not be, indeed; and yet there are no less than half a dozen wanting. Were there not an hundred?

The Countess.

Yes; you know it as well as I.

Jenny.

Well then, there are but ninety-four.

The Countess,

(after having counted them.) There are indeed no more; and yet last night the number was complete. I put them up myself, when we had finished playing. But what caused you to come now, and count them up?

Jenny.

Because, as I passed by the door, I saw that the children had been playing with them.

The Countess.

Yet I absolutely ordered that they should not be touched. They have ivory ones to play with: who could give them these?

Jenny.

Themselves.

The Countess.

Themselves! Where are they?

Jenny.

In the garden, madam, with their little company.

The Countess.

Fetch Julia here.—But stay, have none been here but Julia and Augustus?

Jenny.

Yes, their friends: and who can tell—

The Countess.

What, Jenny! can you possibly suspect—

Jenny.

I will answer for your children, please your ladyship, and likewise the three young Davenports, as if they were myself.

The Countess.

And not the others?

Jenny.

I do not know them well enough.

The Countess.

What, Jenny, two such children as the Hon. Mr. Oddly and his sister?

Jenny.

If your ladyship thinks sit, I'll call Miss Julia in: but here she comes.

SCENE III.

The Countess, Jenny, Julia.

The Countess,

(to Julia coming in.) Who told you, miss, to use my silver counters? Did not I forbid you to meddle with them?

Julia.

It was not my fault, mama.

The Countess.

And whose then, pray?

Julia.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly's and his sister's. I had got the ivory counters, when they asked me if I meant to play with them, as they never had such at home, and must have better; upon which they opened all the drawers and closets till they met with these.

The Countess.

Why did not you mention that I would never let you use them?

Julia.

Good! as if they would hear me! I believe they would have beat us, had we not surrendered them.

Jenny.

Upon my word! These children, as it seems, are charmingly brought up!

The Countess.

You should at least have counted them when you left off playing.

Julia.

That was what I wished to do. But after I had got to twenty-four or thereabouts, Mr. Oddly snatched them from me, put them up pell-mell, and dragged us out into the garden with him.

The Countess.

Do you know that six are missing?

Julia.

Sure, mama!

The Countess.

How! sure! when I have told you! See now whether one can trust you in the least! You know, it was your duty to take care of them.

Julia.

I was confounded, dear mama; these children are so mischievous! I was obliged to have my eye continually on them, as I thought they would have broke your china. I was obliged frequently to follow them about the room: they may have flung the counters, then, into some corner or another.

The Countess.

Well, but I must have them found.

Jenny.

I know but one way, madam. Were I you, I would turn the little master's pockets inside out before they left the house.

The Countess.

Fie, Jenny! would you have me affront their parents?

Julia.

Oh! I am sure, mama, not one among them can have stolen the counters,

The Countess.

So I think; but children of their age may be a little giddy-headed. So go to them, Julia, and politely ask if any one among them may not by mistake have put them up into his pocket. Your commission is a nice one, and requires a little management. Take care not to offend them, by insinuating that you think any one of the company capable of taking them purposely.

Julia.

I shall take care, mama.

The Countess.

Accuse yourself of negligence, and tell them that I shall blame you, if they are not soon found.

Julia.

I understand you.

The Countess.

And bid Robert, as you pass, come here.

Julia.

I will, mama.

SCENE IV.

The Countess, Jenny.

Jenny,

(who has been employed in looking round the room.) I will answer for it, they are not here: there is not a corner but I have searched.

The Countess.

This should not have happened in my house. I dread, yet long to know, by what means they are vanished.

SCENE V.

The Countess, Jenny, Robert.

Robert.

Here I am, my lady: what is your pleasure?

The Countess.

To inform you, Robert, that I have lost since yesterday six counters.

Robert.

Does your ladyship suspect me of taking them?

The Countess.

God forbid! I am too well acquainted with your honesty for that. But I suppose, if you had crossed the room, you might have seen them on some chair or elsewhere.

Robert.

Counters on a chair?

The Countess.

I know, that is not a proper place for counters; but the children have been playing where they were, and might have inconsiderately left them in some corner, and you seen them.

Robert.

No, my lady, I have not.

The Countess.

I am sorry for it, and do not know what method to pursue. They must have certainly been lost since morning, as I counted them myself last night.—But look about.

Jenny.

Your ladyship has seen how I have been searching for them. Servants are but badly off, when any thing is lost about a house. However honest they may be, they are constantly suspected.

The Countess.

Very likely; but the honest servant will on this occasion pardon me, if I include her in my search of the dishonest.

Robert.

You may first of all examine me, my lady. Rogues are constantly the first to be displeased when they are suspected.

Jenny.

God be thanked, I have no fear of that sort! But it cannot be a matter of indifference to the honest servant, when a thief is in the house.

The Countess.

But put yourself into my place; what would you do? Think, Robert.

Robert.

Do, my lady?—A thought this moment strikes me; and provided I have leave to put it into execution, I will engage to find the counters.

The Countess.

But you must not think of giving any one occasion to suppose himself suspected.—What is your design?

Robert.

I cannot at present tell your ladyship. A single syllable might spoil the business. Do but bring together all the children in the adjoining room. I promise you, the thief, if there is any thief among them, shall betray himself.

The Countess.

I cannot tell whether I should let—

Robert.

You can trust me, madam. Be assured that no one but the guilty person shall have reason to complain; and him, I d•re believe, you would not wish to spare.

The Countess.

Well, Robert, as I know your prudence, I rely upon it.

Robert.

Good! my lady. Therefore I will go and begin conjuring. Do not be afraid! it is quite simple.

SCENE VI.

The Countess, Jenny.

Jenny.

My lady—did not he say something about conjuring? But that I know myself innocent, I should be frightened out of my wits.

The Countess.

Peace, simpleton!

SCENE VII.

The Countess, Jenny, Augustus.

The Countess.

What now, Augustus? You seem big with something or another! Have you brought the counters with you?

Augustus.

No, mama: I have only learned that six are lost. My sister told us so just this moment.

The Countess.

And how was the intelligence received?

Augustus.

We were exceedingly surprized. The two Davenports particularly, and their sister, want to come and plead their innocence before you.

The Countess.

Plead! they are the last that I should suspect of such a deed. And the Hon. Mr. Oddly—

Augustus.

Oh! he is furious; and told Julia, that to look upon him as a thief, was but a bad reception.

The Countess.

Julia was not rude, I hope, in telling them my message.

Augustus.

No, mama, quite otherwise. She spoke with great politeness.

The Countess.

Then pray why was Mr. Oddly angry? There was nothing personal in what your sister said.

Augustus.

I cannot well tell the reason; but Eliza drew him privately aside: he would not condescend to hear her. He is determined to be gone: his hat is fortunately here; he will come and fetch it, and declares that he will not remain a minute in the house. He threatens to complain to his papa.

The Countess.

Positively he must not go. I will tell his lordship the whole affair myself, when he comes to take him home.

Augustus.

The rest wish greatly for permission to appear and justify themselves before you.

The Countess.

There is no need of that. I only wished to know if they could give me any information of the counters. They are all of them too well brought up, that I should venture to accuse them of a theft. •ut I am well acquainted with the whims of children. They will see every thing, and finger every thing; and from a want of thought, might easily have put a thing into their pocket, without any criminal intention.

Augustus.

Certainly they might, mama; as I did, you remember, when I took my sister's purse up by mistake, and would have carried it away.

The Countess.

But softly! here they are.—Go, Jenny, and enquire if Robert is preparing matters. (Jenny goes out.)

SCENE VIII.

The Countess, Augustus, Julia, the Hon. Mr. Oddly, Eliza, Gabriel, Lucius, Sophia.

The Countess.

Well, how fares it with you all, my little friends? I am glad to see you here.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Miss Julia has just now informed us, that your ladyship has lost six counters of the number with which unluckily we were playing. I am sorry for it; but could never think that your ladyship would have suspected any one of us of having taken them. At least I can assure you for my sister and myself, that we know nothing of them.

The Countess.

God forbid that I should suspect such wellbred children, as I look upon you all to be. Sure Julia did not tell you that I supposed you to have the counters?

Eliza.

No, my lady; all that she said, was to enquire if we had brought them out through inattention, or to play a little longer with them in the garden.

The Countess.

Which you might very innocently have done. It is she alone that I blame in the affair, because she did not let you have her counters.

Gabriel.

She designed, I think, to use them.

Lucius.

I would never dare to shew my face again, if I had taken so much as a pin.

Sophia,

(emptying her pockets.) See, my lady, I have nothing here: and there are no other pockets to my slip.

The Countess.

My dear children, I have already told you that I am far from suspecting any of you to have them, when you say that you have not. They are certainly of no great value; yet I cannot but confess, that their loss affects me.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Were they only worth a straw, they are your ladyship's, and should not now be missing. But you know, there are such things as servants; and they are not always very honest. It is not the first time that we have suspected them at home.

Julia.

But it is the first time that any thing of the kind has happened in our house, dear Mr. Oddly, I assure you.

Augustus.

I would answer for our servants, men and women.

The Countess.

I have trusted them this long time; but if you, sir, (to the Hon. Mr. Oddly,) have made any observations, I request you to let me know them.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

O, no no!—But when we went into the garden, did not—what is her name—the housemaid enter?

The Countess.

Jenny! Oh! I do not fear her. These six years past that I have had her, she might easily have made away with things of value, had she been dishonest.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Did not your old footman come in likewise? I do not like his looks; and should not chuse to meet him in a lane at night.

The Countess.

Fie, sir! what makes you thus suspect the honest Robert? He was my father-in-law's confidential servant, and has been much longer in the family than even I myself. If he could possibly turn pilferer, neither you nor I could know what living creature we might trust.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

It is not unlikely then, but some one may have got into the room when we were gone.

The Countess.

That is not at all unlikely; and I am going to enquire. Amuse yourselves till I come back.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

No, madam; after what has passed, I cannot stay longer here. Augustus, can you tell me where they have put my hat?

Augustus.

It is taken to be brushed; you will have it brought you.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

I must have it instantly.

Eliza.

But won't you stay a little for papa? You know, he means to come and fetch us.

The Countess.

I cannot possibly let you go home on foot. You would have upwards of three miles to walk. Stay here till I return: I will not detain you long.

SCENE IX.

Augustus, Julia, the Hon. Mr. Oddly, Eliza, Gabriel, Lucius, Sophia.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

I am very much astonished that your mama should have such thoughts of us! We steal her counters!

Julia.

Sir, she never had such a thought. She might have fancied that we had put them, without thought, into our pockets. I might as easily have taken them in this way, as yourself, or any other: but to steal! she did not mention the word, or any like it.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Had there been none here but tradesmen's children, she might well have entertained suspicions: but she should make some difference now.

Gabriel.

You speak of us, sir, I can see: your looks inform me so. But let me tell you, in my turn, that it is one's manners and principles, and not birth, that makes one truly noble.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

How these tradesmen talk about their manners! You are very happy that there are so few children hereabout, and that Augustus and myself are forced to make you our companions, or have no diversion. Did you live in London, you would not have such an honour, notwithstanding your fine manners.

Augustus.

Speak, sir, for yourself alone; for just as here, in London too, I should be proud to entertain my little friends.

Julia.

Yes, certainly. They give us, to the full, as good examples as such whipper-shapper noblemen as you.

Eliza.

This, brother, you have deserved. Why attack them first?

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

And you, too, upon me? You think certainly as I do, though you will not confess it. Have you forgot mama's instruction on the subject of familiarity with those beneath us? "Never mix with tradesmen's children: in the lower ranks of life, you will always have low thoughts."

Augustus.

And can you possibly suspect that my friends are capable of being thieves?

Gabriel.

Did we approach the table?

Sophia.

No: whereas we saw you take the counters, and look at them I suppose half a dozen times. (The Hon. Mr. Oddly attempts to strike her. Augustus and Gabriel hold his hand.)

Augustus.

Softly! You will have to deal with me else.

Gabriel.

No, no, my friend. I thank you, but I can take care of my sister. Let him even threaten her. I am not a bit more frightened at his size than his title.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Oh! it is far beneath me to dispute with traders.

Julia.

Very well: I hope then it is beneath you likewise to attack a little girl.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

I shall not permit her to insult me.

Eliza.

She would certainly have done much better, had she held her tongue.

Julia.

But being such a child, she might be pardoned: and particularly when she spoke the truth.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

The truth? What do mean by that?

Gabriel.

She said, that you took the counters and looked at them: that is all. Did she say any more? And this certainly was true.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

I shan't even condescend to answer.

Gabriel.

You cannot take a better resolution, when you have nothing but such answers for us.

SCENE X.

Augustus, Julia, the Hon. Mr. Oddly, Eliza, Gabriel, Lucius, Sophia, the Countess.

The Countess.

What is the meaning of all this? I will not have any quarrels here!

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

My lady, I expect, you will do me justice on these little folks!

The Countess.

Folks! folks! who are they? I am not accustomed to have such as visit here called so.

Augustus.

He is angry, since we were not in a humour to endure his airs.

Julia.

He thought he should have had a company of dukes at least for play-fellows.

Gabriel.

And imagines that we should be suspected of this theft, much rather than a nobleman.

Lucius.

As if we had not a character to keep, as well as he has!

Sophia.

Ay, and would have beat me, had not Gabriel taught him better.

The Countess.

Why, sure! it is not possible!

Eliza.

To say the truth, my brother is too hasty.

The Countess.

Vivacity becomes his age very well; but we should not be proud, quarrelsome, or rash. Oh! here is Robert.

SCENE XI.

The Countess, Augustus, Julia, the Hon. Mr. Oddly, Eliza, Gabriel, Lucius, Sophia, Robert (carrying a basket covered with a napkin.)

Robert.

There is no more to be said, my lady. Every body in this house is innocent, as sure as my name is Robert; but however, for the satisfaction of the company, I will introduce my cock, who, you must know beforehand, is a conjurer. (Putting down the basket on the table.)

Sophia,

(jumping for joy.) O, a cock! a cock!

Robert.

Yes, nothing more; for look you! (He lifts up a napkin in the basket, so that Sophia and the rest discern the creature's neck and crest.) Just like others, saving that my cock has not his equal in the world for knowledge: why, he will tell me things which no other person possibly can know. If a single straw, and nothing else, is missing, I need only run and have a consultation with him: he will be sure to know who stole it.

Julia.

You can then find out our counters, can you?

Robert.

Can I? Why last Christmas, at the alehouse, I had lost my pipe; so what did I do, but away and fetched my cock, who let me know that the groom had got it: and I think, you recollect, he broke his leg about a fortnight after.

Sophia.

He can talk then?

Robert.

Yes, like other cocks: Cock, cock-a-doodle-doo. On which, I understand him just as if it were you that spoke to me.

Julia.

Yet you never told us this before.

Robert.

Because we never yet lost any thing.

The Countess.

Well, now, a truce to all this conversation, and begin.

Robert.

Not quite so fast, my lady. I must perform my conjuring in the dark.

The Countess.

A very easy matter. You need only close the shutters.

Julia.

I will go out and push them to.

The Countess.

You are much too short: you cannot reach them. Robert will do that himself.

Robert.

Yes, madam. (He goes out.)

SCENE XII.

The Countess, Augustus, Julia, the Hon. Mr. Oddly, Eliza, Gabriel, Lucius, Sophia.

Augustus,

(with the rest, excepting the Hon. Mr. Oddly, who appears embarrassed, lifting up the napkin.) This same cock seems supernatural, I fancy. (Looking at him earnestly.) How his eyes shine!

Julia.

And his comb, how red it looks! my patience! how it shakes upon his head!

Sophia.

Do you imagine, then, that it has so much knowledge as Robert says?

Lucius.

Papa has often told us, what we ought to think of such strange stories.

Gabriel.

Robert is a cunning sportsman, and I am sure can make birds hold their tongue, much better with his fowling piece, than teach a cock to talk by virtue of his wand.

Eliza.

Who knows! my governess has told me many wond'rous things of conjuration, and all that.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

I wonder, sister, you can listen to such stories!

The Countess.

I am glad you have these notions of the matter, and should like to laugh at Robert for his folly. What simplicity! a cock discover thieves!

The Hon. Mr. Oddly,

(forcing a smile.) I fancy we shall have a deal of laughing very shortly. (The shutters are closed all at once.) But why put the shutters to? (with uneasiness) I do not love darkness.

Julia.

If the cock cannot see, he will never find the thief out.—Will he, pray, mama?

The Countess.

Well asked: for I cannot tell you.

Sophia.

I should like, if I knew how, to make him speak. Come pretty little cock, say something.—See how dark it is.—Look out a little.—He does not speak a word!

Julia.

The reason is, I suppose, he will obey his master only. (Robert comes in again.)

SCENE XIII.

The Countess, Augustus, Julia, the Hon. Mr. Oddly, Eliza, Gabriel, Lucius, Sophia, Robert.

The Countess.

Well, you are satisfied now, Robert, since you have thus shut out the day-light?

Robert.

Yes, my lady; every thing is as it should be. And so now, let those remain that have not stolen the counters, but if any one is guilty, let that one go out.—What all remain!

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

How cunning!

Robert.

I see clearly then that I must employ my art. (He waves his wand, and draws a circle on the floor; pronouncing something unintelligible.)

That's well! So now, my cock, take heed;

And tell us, who are rogues indeed.

Come now my little gentlemen and ladies, and let every one of you in turn, lift up the napkin here, and with his right hand, do you see, stroke Chanticleer upon the back. You will hear his music, when the thief once puts his hand upon him: but do not lift the cloth too high; just high enough to let your hand pass under it.

So now, my pretty cock, take heed;

And tell us who are rogues indeed.

Well! what will none of you begin?

The Countess.

What, every one afraid? Why, one would think you all guilty, at this rate!

Sophia.

I am the youngest, but I will set the example. (She lifts up the cloth, and strokes the cock twice over in the basket.) Do you see, the cock does not speak. It is not I that have stolen the counters.

Robert.

Very well. Stand now in this place, with your hand behind you.—Is it so?

Sophia.

Feel, feel.

Robert.

That is right. Now you, sir. (To Augustus.)

Augustus.

Oh! I fear as little as Miss Sophia.—There. —He has not spoke.—Must I too hold my hand behind me?

Robert.

Certainly; and every one.—Come here, by this young lady.—Well, another.

Julia.

I will go next.— (She strokes him.) If he had said a word, he would have been a story-teller.—

Robert.

By your brother here. Who is next?

Eliza.

It is my turn now. (She strokes him.) As mute as any mackerel.—Yet I stroked him four times over.

Robert.

Are your right hands all behind you? Do not forget that part.

Gabriel,

(to the Hon. Mr. Oddly.) I will follow you.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

As if I would have to do with such child's play!

The Countess.

You would not surely spoil our sport. A little complaisance, pray, Mr. Oddly.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

If that is all, I have no objection. — (He puts his hand under the cloth.) There.—I do not find he has spoke for me, though I have stroked him more than others.

Robert.

Here, sir, with the rest; and keep your hand behind you.

Sophia.

There are none now, but my brothers left, that have not stroked him. It is one of them!—Oh, no; I do not think so. (Gabriel and Lucius imitate the others; upon which, the children all burst out a laughing.)

Lucius.

And where is the thief?—Why no where.

The Countess.

Robert, you should send your cock to Norwood; he is not cunning enough: and all this while my counters are not found.

Robert.

I must acknowledge, this confounds me.—For a little while, however, patience; and do not stir.—Stand still, I say.—They are just like so much quick-silver!— My circle, as I think, must be imperfect. I will go fetch a candle, and examine. I pray your ladyship, let no one quit his place.

SCENE XIV.

The Countess, Augustus, Julia, the Hon. Mr. Oddly, Eliza, Gabriel, Lucius, Sophia.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

I knew before-hand, how all this would end.—Stupid nonsense!

Sophia.

Why, this cock is no wiser than his master.

Eliza.

Truly, I am glad to see him caught.

Julia.

And what does he design to do, when he has brought a light?

The Countess.

He will shew us.

Sophia.

I should like to see the cock now.—He will scarce hold his head up, I suppose, for shame.

SCENE XV.

The Countess, Augustus, Julia, the Hon. Mr. Oddly, Eliza, Gabriel, Lucius, Sophia, Robert.

Robert.

(returning with a light, and going up to Sophia.) Come, let me see your little hand. (She holds him out the left.) Not this,—but that behind you. Good!

Sophia,

(looking at her hand, and crying out.) Oh, what a hand I have! as black as any coal! And will it always be so?

Robert.

Do not be frightened, little miss! I will speak about it to my cock, and you shall have both hands as white as snow.— (The children have not patience, but look all together at their hands, and instantly cry out at once.)

Augustus.

How black my singers are too!

Julia.

And mine likewise! What does Robert mean by this?

Eliza.

I would twist the creature's neck off, if I had him.

Gabriel.

Fegs! my wristbands are come in a little for it!

Lucius.

It is as if my hand were painted!

The Hon. Mr. Oddly,

(lifting up his hand in triumph.) But see mine! There is none of the company that has a hand fit to look at, except me.

Robert,

(taking hold of the Hon. Mr. Oddly by the collar.) Very likely! Then, sir, you have stole the counters.— Give them up, young gentleman, this instant, or I will search your pockets, and then blacken you all over!

Eliza.

Blacken him? O, brother! if you have got the counters, give them up this moment.

The Countess.

Take care, Robert, what you say!

Robert.

I am sure, he has them. So, quit the counters, or expect to have a countenance as grimy as the blackest negro's.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly,

(turning pale and trembling.) Is it possible that I should have put them in my pocket, and not thought of what I was about? (He feels about him.) I recollect, indeed, I had them in my hand. (He seems surprized at finding them thrust down into a corner of his waistcoat pocket.) Dear me! they are here indeed! Who would have thought it? (All the children look at one another with surprise, while the Hon. Mr. Oddly stands confounded.)

The Countess.

Robert! (he approaches) take away your cock and candle, and go open us the shutters. Take care (in a whisper) not to tell your fellow-servants how you found the counters. Say that they were thrust a great way back into the table-drawer.

Robert.

I will, my lady. (He goes out.)

SCENE XVI.

The Countess, Augustus, Julia, the Hon. Mr. Oddly, Eliza, Gabricl, Lucius, Sophia.

The Countess

Go, my little friends, into the other room: you will find water there to wash your hands. Take care, and do not splash one another's clothes.

Sophia.

No, no:—but if this black should not come off?

The Countess.

It is nothing but a little ivory black, and water will remove it. You, sir, (to the Hon. Mr. Oddly,) as your hands are clean, may stay with me.

SCENE XVII.

The Countess, the Hon. Mr. Oddly.

The Countess.

Well then, my haughty little gentleman! and is it possible you could be guilty of so scandalous an action? You, that scarce a quarter of an hour ago looked down wi•h so much soorn upon the children of a reputable worthy tradesman, and supposed your quality disgraced by being in their company. They have at present their reverge, since they may call you, and with justice, a vile thief!

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Pray pardon me, my lady!—I was playing with the counters—and without considering at the moment, must have put them into my pocket.—I have no other method of accounting for their being found upon me.

The Countess.

Pitiful excuse! that aggravates your fault! At such a tender age as yours, could I have possibly imagined one with so much front?

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Believe me, madam, I had certainly no had design!—I took them without meaning so to do, and afterwards concealed the matter, from my crend of being taken for a thief.

The Countess.

But after I had bid my daughter make enquiry for them with such delicacy, you might easily have seemed to search your peckets, and restored them without blushing. Your proceeding would have then been looked up was nothing but an inadvertoncy.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

I did not think of that, my lady.

The Countess.

What then did you think, when you durst drop hints that possibly my honest servants might have taken them? or that my children's little friends were objects of suspicion? What were your ideas, when you made believe to st••ke the cock?

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

But, madam, I did stroke him.

The Countess.

Hold your tongue, you little rascal!— for that 〈◊〉 is not too bad for your deservings. Happlly, as yet, you have not got sufficient cunning to conceal your wicked actions. You did stroke the cock! Is that then your assertion? Do not you see, that if you had, you would have blacked your hands as well as all the others, Robert having smeared him over with a certain composition? Your companions were not in the least afraid to stroke him, as their conscience did not any way reproach them for the theft; but as for you, the apprehension lest the servant's artifice might really be conju•ation awed you, and the means that you chose to avoid detection have betrayed you. Oh! how politic you thought yourself, I warrant, in pretending only, as you did, to stroke the cock; but honesty you would have found much better policy. You deserve that I should tell my lord, your father, of your laudable behaviour, when he comes to fetch you.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly,

(falling on his knees.) Oh, no! Pray, my lady, I beseech you! He would beat me: he would tread me under foot.

The Countess.

And it would be better that he should do so, than bring up a monster to disgrace him at some future period; for of what hereafter will you not be capable, since in the season of your infancy, as I may call it, you can perpetrate so great a crime?

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Ah! madam, pardon me for pity's sake, and never—

The Countess.

Doubtless you have often made these promises to others; for this hardly is your first transgression. Every circumstance confirms it. So much falsity and impudence—

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Then hear me, my good lady! If you ever heat, in future, that I make free with any thing whatsoever that is not mine—

The Countess.

Inform me, in the first place, what did you intend to do with these six counters? You could hardly think that you would have any opportunity of using them, but they must instantly be known. You meant to sell them, then, for money?

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

No, believe me! I was pleased with looking at them. I supposed that no one would remember having seen them elsewhere, and on that account secreted them, my lady.

The Countess.

And how could you desire to have another's property? Confess! Is this your first offence?

The Hon. Mr. Oddly,

(hiding his face.) No, no indeed, my lady. I have often been a thief at home; but never having been suspected there, I hoped to have the same good fortune here.

The Countess.

A very wicked sort of reasoning this! For, granting that no one upon earth suspected you, do not you know that God sees and punishes whatever people do amiss? Perhaps, however, this event is for your benefit; and you will prove more likely to amend, when you have once been punished as you merit.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Let it be by you, my lady, or by any one, but not by my papa. Let him know nothing of the matter, I conjure you. Tell it, if you please, to my mama, but keep the matter from his knowledge.

The Countess.

There again! You would not have your father know it, as you fear the blows that he might bestow upon you. Thus, it is nothing but an abjectness that guides you, even in the work of your repentance; and it is not for his peace of mind that you would conceal it from him, for you are not afraid lest your mama should know it, because she would not beat you. It is not your idea to consult her peace of mind.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

Then tell it my preceptor.

The Countess.

I am sensible, indeed, how much the knowledge of your fault would mortally afflict your parents, and from that consideration, not upon your own account, consent to spare you; but on this condition, that you come with your preceptor hither, and before him let me have your solemn promise of amendment. I will request him to keep watch upon your conduct; but if ever you should break your word, I will not only mention this adventure of the counters to his lordship, but let every body else know it.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

I consent you should do so, my lady.

The Countess.

You might think that, after this, I should forbid your keeping company with Julia and Augustus; but I have at heart your reformation, and will judge thereof myself. You may continue therefore coming here.

The Hon. Mr. Oddly.

But how shall I dare to face your servants?

The Countess.

You have nothing to fear upon that account, for I have had more care and forethought for your reputation than yourself, by telling Robert not to speak about it in the kitchen; and to hide your lie, have been compelled to one myself, that they might not suppose you guilty.

Mr. Oddly.

Ah! my lady, how much am I indebted to your bounty! I shall never forget the service that you have done me. But your children?—and the little company now with them?

The Countess.

I am well acquainted with their goodness, and am sure that they will forgive you. Call them. (Mr. Oddly, with a downcast look, goes slowly towards the door, and bids them enter.)

SCENE XVIII.

The Countess, Mr. Oddly, Augustus, Julia, Eliza, Gabriel, Lucius, Sophia.

Eliza.

Go, sir, you are a disgrace to me; I will never call you brother again.

The Countess.

No, my dear Eliza, he is not so guilty as you think him. He has told me every thing. It was to play a little with the counters out of doors that he took them; but when once the matter seemed considered as a theft, he was terrified at the idea of incurring my suspicion. This apparent guilt has sprung from a mistaken shame, which I am very willing to excuse; but not (looking at the little Davenports) his scandalous endeavours to make you, my little dears, seem guilty.

Gabriel.

Oh! my lady, we do not wish him any harm at present for it, as we know that we should forgive even such as wrong us, and particularly when we see them unhappy.

The Countess.

Do you mark that, Mr. Oddly? Such a conduct ought to shew you how much nobler it is to have an elevated way of thinking, than to boast an elevated birth. You find yourself entirely at the mercy even of those whom you have insulted; and, with all the boast of your nobility, you are the object of their pity.

Mr. Oddly.

Oh, what shame! but I submit to undergo it.

Gabriel.

We will never introduce again the mention of this matter. It shall be a secret for the time to come between us; shan't it, brother?

Lucius.

Yes, he may rely upon my silence.

Gabriel.

And you, sister?

Sophia.

I will not have him beat. I know what pain it gives one, (Mr. Oddly in the transports of his gratitude embraces them.)

Mr. Oddly.

I desire, but dare not ask, to be acquainted with you for the future.

Gabriel.

It will be doing us an honour, if you will still continue upon terms of friendship with us.

Augustus and Julia.

And for our part, we shall be no less delighted with your company, as long as you regard our friends.

Eliza.

You are all of you too good. He does not merit such indulgence, and papa must be informed of every thing.

The Countess.

You will lose my friendship and esteem entirely, I must tell you, Miss Eliza, could you possibly be unaffected with your brother's laudable repentance, when even strangers overlook his error. Do not employ the advantage that his offence affords you, to undo him in his parents' good opinion; but, for the future, let your counsel shew him how to act, that he may merit their affection. I dare answer, you need never be ashamed of any action of his hereafter.

Mr. Oddly.

I should be unworthy of such bounty, if this lesson could be blotted out from my remembrance.

Sophia.

Take due care it be not, or Beware of the conjuring Bird.

THE END OF VOL. III.

Information about this book

Title statement

The children's friend: Translated from the French of M. Berquin; complete in four volumes. Ornamented with frontispieces. [pt.3]

Ami des enfans. English

Berquin, M. (Arnaud), 1747-1791.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4733

ID [isbn10]

1106017323

ID [isbn13]

9781106017321

ID [TCP]

K072460.003

ID [BIBNO]

CW3311824001

ID [ECLL]

0360400703

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Source

— 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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