EUGENE, RICHARD, and CASSANDER, were the sons of Mr. Smithson, a reputable mer­chant in the North of Old England, who hav­ing no other children besides them, and being in pretty affluent circumstances, resolved to have them educated immediately under his own eye. For this purpose he invited into his house a Mr. Markham, a gentleman of learning and approved morals, to be their tutor, whose care and attention to their improvement afterwards fully answered all his expectations.

These Three Brothers, from their earliest in­fancy, were play-mates and companions. They had never been sent out of their father's house, either to nurse or even to a school: as Mrs. Smithson, their mother, whose education ren­dered her perfectly equal to the task, under­took to put them through the first rudiments of learning, and to prepare them for whatever studies a tutor might afterwards direct them to. Whether it was their constant society from their earliest childhood; in the course of which, notwithstanding the difference of two years, be­tween [Page 6] the age of Cassander and that of Eugene, each shared invariably in the studies as well as the amusements of the other two; or whether it was the natural bent of their dispositions, I know not, but they were remarkable for bear­ing towards each other a degree of affection that is rarely to be found amongst brothers in general. In their sports they were inseparable; the inequality of their number was never an ob­stacle to their all partaking of the same pastime, though it might originally have been intended but for two; and notwithstanding there would now and then arise a trifling dispute amongst them concerning their play, all differences were usually settled and reconciled before the con­clusion of the game, so that they never parted from each other in a pet; but, on the contrary, after they were tired of play, it was no un­common thing to see them linked all three arm in arm, sauntering up and down the gar­den walks, which were commonly the scene of their amusements; and in that friendly at­titude communicating to each other their little fancies, discussing the remarkale stories that occurred in the course of their lessons, or else laying their heads together to plan and strike out some new mode of diversion.

Thus agreeing, and unanimous in all things, they entered with pleasure upon the course of study laid down to them by Mr. Markham, their tutor. Mrs. Smithson had never, while her sons were under her care, made their les­sons a painful or disagreeable task; the novelty therefore of Mr. Markham's first examination, under whom they found that they were to learn [Page 7] both Latin and Greek, so charmed and de­lighted them, that they all three jumped for joy when their Papa showed them three Latin Grammars, which they were to begin the next day.

Besides, their satisfaction at not being o­bliged to leave their dear parents, nor to be se­parated from each other, might not a little [...] ­tribute to the alacrity they showed on this oc­casion. In effect the quickness of their pro­gress surprized and delighted Mr. Markham, [Page 8] their present tutor, as well as their former one, that is their Mama, to whom they would run every day in raptures of joy to communicate the contents of their several lessons.

Hitherto we have seen Eugene, Richard▪ and Cassander, perfectly alike and equal in all things; it is necessary now to show in what res­pects they were unlike, and how the particular character and disposition of each, though lead­ing to actions extremely different from what the others would pursue, yet always uniformly concurred in the exertion of that amiable prin­ciple, brotherly love.

Eugene, therefore, with much generosity and something of fire in his composition, was at the same time a little arch, or what is called waggish. His pranks in general were the most innocent in the world, it is true, and he could say at least, that he never meant to hurt: if, however, it would sometimes happen, which after all was seldom the case, that any of his little jokes cost either of his brothers a tear; that tear, it was easy to be seen, gave Eugene infinitely more pain than any he himself shed: but the open frankness and ardent good nature, with which he would console his weeping bro­ther, seldom failed to dry it up in a moment. He would never justify his own mistakes or his awkwardness; and thus he seldom felt the re­proaches of his companions, because they al­ways found him ready to submit to them can­didly, and, whenever it so happened, to own himself in the fault.

Richard, on the other hand, was all simpli­city: he had not the least shadow of design in [Page 9] him; and were it not for the extraordinary ap­prehension that he showed in his learning, in which he outstripped both his brothers, he might be said not to have a thought of his own. Thus Richard, though as cheerful as the day, seldom laughed unless Eugene or Cassander led the joke. He never proposed a new sort of play, or invented a fresh plaything, but always was ready, with the greatest good humour, to join in the one and admire the other, if offered to his attention by either of his brothers. He might even be said to have no wants or likings of his own, but as they put him in mind of them. If Eugene said to the maid, "Molly, I want to go to bed;" Richard would add, "so do I too." If Cassander said, "Mama, pray give me a piece of bread and butter," Richard, if present, would commonly join, "Aye, and me too." And this disposition of Richard was the happiest in the world; for preserving the friend­ship of the Three Brothers; since, whatever advantage or superiority he might have in his learning, all his amusements, all the pleasure that he enjoyed from society, depended wholly on Eugene and Cassander.

This last was neither so volatile as his elder brother, nor so simple as Richard: he had something grave even in his countenance, and though youngest of the three, was allowed to be much the most prudent; by which means he balanced, as it were, the opposite defects of his brothers, and frequently would act as their adviser and censor, by reproving Eugene for his too great vivacity, which led him so often into scrapes, and Richard for his thoughtless absence and extreme credulity. But though [Page 10] he sometimes took this freedom, it was always with the greatest tenderness, being accustomed from his infancy to treat his elders with respect, particularly his brothers. Indeed a respect for their elders and superiors Mrs. Smithson took early care to inculcate on the minds of all her children. Richard was commanded to yield in every thing to Eugene, and Cassander to Richard; and all three to behave with proper deference to those who were more advanced in life than themselves. This injunction had a good effect more ways than one: it prevented any childish contests for the preference, as each knew and was contented with his own rank, and always waited his proper turn. Besides, it made them behave with good manners to strangers, let their condition in life be what it will; nor was any one of them ever known to speak or act with petulance even to a beggar.

After remaining a competent time under the instruction of Mr. Markham, it was their fa­ther's pleasure that they should all three enter the University together, and pursue their studies there, in order to qualify themselves for what­ever of the learned professions they might af­terwards choose. This circumstance gave them infinite pleasure. The love that they bore to each other while children, was now ripening into a steady, ardent friendship, which no time could alter or diminish; and they saw before them a prospect of being happy in each other's society during the whole course of their lives. But human events are uncertain, and the shades of misfortune often intervene unexpectedly to chequer the most equal and placid sunshine of [Page 11] prosperity. Mr. Smithson was still in trade, and therefore liable to accidents and crosses which merchants frequently experience. It hap­pened, in the beginning of the war, that two ships, containing property of his to a very con­siderable amount, uninsured, were taken by the enemy. The deficiency produced in his capital by this misfortune, joined to several other smaller losses, obliged Mr. Smithson to become a bankrupt; after which, conceiving a distaste to his native place, he determined to take a voyage to the West Indies, in order to look after an estate in land which had been be­queathed him as a legacy by some distant rela­tion since the time of his failure. At his de­parture, not judging it expedient to take his wife along with him, he left her a small sum of ready money, but promised to send over remit­tances whenever the property, of which he went to take possession, could be turned to any account.

Our Three Brothers were inconsolable at parting with their father: this was the first time in their lives that they might be said to feel the grief of absence from their beloved parents; for while at College they could hardly be called absent from home, as they conversed weekly, nay almost daily, by letters, either with Mr. or Mrs. Smithson. But their sorrow was con­siderably increased, when, after two years had elapsed without any tidings from their father, they received a melancholy epistle from Mrs. Smithson, informing them of her utter inability to maintain them any longer at College, and requesting their immediate return, in order to [Page 12] consult how they should dispose of themselves for their future settlement in life.

During the last two years that they had spent at the University, nothing but the strict­est economy, on the part of the Brothers, as well as that of their indulgent parent, could have enabled them to subsist; yet notwithstand­ing the general dissipation of the place, their temperance and frugality did not hinder them from supporting an amiable character, and be­ing highly esteemed by all who knew them. They were remarked for an obliging, affable demeanour, an unexceptionable attention to their College duties, but particularly for the strict intimacy and happy degree of unanimity which they always appeared to maintain. They were indeed distinguished by the title of the Three Brothers; and the wits of the place spoke of them as an exception to that remark of the poet,

[Page 13] However, there was a considerable difference in their dispositions, which, without the least impairing their affection, grew every day more and more conspicuous. Eugene was now am­bitious, enterprising, and changeable: his parts were rather brilliant than solid. Cassander, on the contrary, was steady in his opinions and re­solutions, which he built on the soundest and most mature reflexion: he appeared more slow in apprehending the difficulties of science than his elder brother; but, in return, his memory was more faithful and retentive, and whatever knowledge he once made his own was ever af­ter at his command; for, as Mr. Pope elegant­ly observes,

Richard was a sort of medium between these opposites: with something of Eugene's viva­city and the steadiness of Cassander, he had an ardent and insatiable thirst of knowledge; in effect, he had recommended himself so power­fully to his superiors, by the extent and splen­dour of his attainments, that he was at this very time of Mrs. Smithson's writing for him and his brothers, pointed out to a nobleman, equally respectable for his rank and principles, as a proper person to be private tutor to his Lordship's two sons, who were lately entered at the University.

At their return, therefore, upon the sum­mons of their mother, when she laid before them the melancholy state of their affairs, the disappointment of their expectations, and, to [Page 14] crown all, the dreadful apprehensions that she entertained of the loss of her husband, either at sea or by the casualties of war; concluding with the tenderest advice to them, to unite their efforts towards the re-establishing of their circumstances by a steady course of industry in whatever professions they might adopt: upon this occasion it was that the advantages of su­perior application and a more rapid progress in learning appeared conspicuous. While Eugene and Cassander endeavour to comfort Mrs. Smithson by the strongest assurances of their future diligence and the exertion of their in­dustry in some line or other that might afford themselves and her a decent maintenance, Richard had the happiness of being able to make his mother and brothers the immediate tender of a small competency from the salary which his noble patron was to allow him, who only waited for his answer to invest him with the care of his children's education. This prospect was a seasonable relief to Mrs. Smith­son from the despondency into which the pre­sent gloom of her affairs had thrown her. It is true, the iron hand of want had not as yet be­gun to pinch her and her children, but the near approach of that unwelcome visitor (with­out such a resource as Richard now suggested), was sufficient to fill her mind with the most melancholy ideas and dismal presages of adver­sity and distress.

Now therefore at length, by the irresistible decree of necessity, were our Three Brothers obliged to part, and take different walks on the vast theatre of life. Richard, returning to the [Page 15] University, attached himself with so much suc­cess to the education of his noble pupils, and to his own improvement, that, besides being able for the present to contribute to the com­forts of his mother, and those whom he held most dear next to her, he had the prospect be­fore him of obtaining an ample settlement in the church, through the interest of his munifi­cent patron, whose favour he enjoyed in as full a measure as his numerous good qualities enti­tled him to it. Eugene, having procured re­commendations to a merchant in London, re­paired thither, and, applying himself steadily to business, in the course of four years gave such proofs of his integrity and other good qualifica­tions, that he was taken by the merchant into partnership. Cassander, in the mean time, fearing to become a burthen on the moderate pension that Richard allowed his mother, em­braced the offer of a Newcastle trader, who, hav­ing formerly been an intimate friend of Mr. Smithson's agreed to take Cassander a voyage to the East country upon trial. Cassander was still but young, being no more than sixteen at the time of his entering upon a sea life, and af­ter his voyage of trial he prudently made it his choice, in preference to waiting for the un­certain chance of some more brilliant establish­ment. In effect, what with the advantage of an excellent education, a patient and humane disposition, and the uncommon character (for a seaman) of being remarkably sober and fru­gal, he in a very few years so improved himself in the knowledge of trade and navigation, that he was appointed mate of a vessel trading to [Page 16] Russia, the owners of which were so well pleas­ed with his activity and good conduct, that they were determined, notwithstanding his youth, to send him out master of one of their ships, the first opportunity that offered.

Thus, for some years after the separation of the Three Brothers, fortune seemed to recom­pense the severe loss that they had felt in the person of their father, concerning whom, all this time, notwithstanding every possible in­quiry, not the smallest intelligence had been received. But now, alas! once more, sorrow and adversity came hand in hand to disquiet the feeling hearts of our three youths, by an hour of trial such as they had never yet experienced. The news of their mother's death was the se­vere prelude to their misfortunes. Richard had scarcely recovered the shock of this, when the death of his patron totally dissipated all the flattering hopes that he had formed of fortune and preferment in the church, in which he had already taken orders. Eugene, and his partner had for some time felt their affairs in a critical condition; but this did not hinder him from exerting his native generosity in the service of an ancient friend. Indeed, the voice of friend­ship and gratitude always met with a favoura­ble hearing from Eugene, let their summons be ever so pressing and importunate. His old tutor, Mr. Markham, under whom he and his brothers had spent some of the happiest years of their life, was at this time in London. Dis­abled by sickness and infirmity, advancing fast towards helpless old age, and sorely galled by poverty and the neglect of the world, he was [Page 17] almost without a friend. In this crisis, chance threw his generous pupil in his way, who am­ply supplied the place of one to him. Besides

furnishing him with the means of supplying his present necessities; Eugene, and by his per­suasion his partner, became security for the payment of a very considerable debt, which was on the point of consigning Mr. Markham to a gaol, where he might probably have passed the remainder of his life. But how ill did for­tune requite Eugene for this friendly action! Mr. Markham died in less than three months after, when of course the debt devolved upon those who had given security for him. Imme­diately upon the heels of this misfortune follow­ed another. The affairs of Eugene's partnership growing desperate, they were obliged to declare themselves bankrupt, and this very kindness which he showed Mr. Markham, was reckoned [Page 18] among the misfortunes that contributed to his ruin. The shock that Eugene's spirits suffered upon this occasion, as he found himself now un­able to fulfil engagements which he looked up­on as sacred, drove him from one act of rash­ness and despair to another; till in the end, re­duced to extremity of want, in an obscure coun­try place; he madly and precipitately threw himself among a company of travelling players, and, to crown all, in this unpromising state of life, being barely able to subsist himself, he had the desperate imprudence to marry. It seems he had formed a slight acquaintance with a young lady (the daughter of a clergyman), who was so struck with his figure and accomplishments, that she yielded to his solicitations to be united with him in the ties of clandestine wedlock; thereby utterly forfeiting all her expectations of fortune, together with the friendship of eve­ry one of her relations. The consequence of this unadvised step, which brought poverty and her train into Eugene's habitation in shapes unknown before, he bore with as much forti­tude and philosophy as usually falls to the share of five and twenty, that is, with very little if any at all. Some time before this, Cassander, who had made two or three voyages for his north-country owners, was invited to London by his brother and his partner, to take the command of one of the large ships in which they were principal proprietors. Overjoyed at this invitation, which would give him an op­portunity, or rather indeed lay him under the necessity, of being frequently with his brother while on shore, he came to town with all speed▪ [Page 19] and was just time enough to be witness to the unfortunate failure of Eugene and his associate in trade.

Thus were the Three Brothers plunged into circumstances of the most helpless distress, just at a time when they entertained hopes (appa­rently well founded) of fixing themselves to their satisfaction for life in their respective pro­fessions. Had any one of them been exempt from the pressure of misfortune, the other two would have been sure of partaking with him in the comforts that depend on a competency of wealth. But all three were equally reduced; and the only remnant of happiness, that they could call their own, was the sense of their mu­tual affection, which still continued unalter­able, amidst the most pinching trials of disap­pointment and calamity. In this situation were the Smithsons, when an incident happened which put that affection to the proof, and brought forth instances of self-denial and gene­rosity that well deserve to be recorded. In the course of Eugene's wanderings as a country player, fortune conducted him to Gravesend where, as he was exhibiting before an audience, chiefly composed of seafaring people, the same fortune unaccountably led his father to become a spectator of his performance. In order to ex­plain the sudden appearance of Mr. Smithson, it will be necessary to relate what befel him af­ter his departure from England. The reader will remember that this gentleman had set sail for the West-Indies, in order to take possession of an estate in one of the islands there; but, having pretty early intelligence that the enemy [Page 20] were masters of the island, and therefore ap­prehending numberless obstacles to his obtain­ing clear and quiet possession of the estate; he formed the immediate resolution of getting out, if possible, to the East Indies, where he trusted that, by his general knowledge of trade, he should in a short time be able to retrieve his shattered circumstances, and to return to his native country with a fortune sufficient to ren­der the remaining years of his life easy and com­fortable. At the same time he took another re­solution (the source of infinite grief and dis­quiet to his family), which was, never to in­form them of the place of his retirement until he had gained wealth sufficient to release them from the state of indigence and obscurity into which, he was pursuaded, his absence must have plunged them. This object he amply accom­plished in ten years, during all which time his family considered him as dead; and at the end of that period he was now returning to share his riches with those whom he held most dear; when the first sight that saluted his eyes after he went on shore was his unfortunate son figuring in the humble profession of a stroller. It is impossible to express the rage, sorrow, and disappoint­ment, which at once took possession of Mr. Smithson's breast, when he was at length con­vinced that his eyes and ears did not deceive him. He suddenly left the theatre, or rather barn, before the play was half over, and tak­ing no farther notice of his son than to leave a note directed for him, and filled with the bit­terest reproaches, he hurried on board the ship. Upon his arrival in London, finding his anxi­ous [Page 21] wishes and all the projects of his affection disconcerted by his eldest son's imprudence; his next care was to make inquiry about Richard and Cassander; for his wife's death he had been informed of by mere accident a short time be­fore he left India. Richard he soon found out, who, upon the first summons, flew to embrace his long lost parent. Mr. Smithson, after brief­ly relating to him the circumstances of his voy­age to and success in the East Indies, began, bitterly to lament his misfortune in having a son so abandoned to modefy and discretion, as he styled the unfortunate Eugene. He added, that the bulk of the fortune which he had realized abroad, he intended now to divide between his two younger sons, the elder having proved him­self so unworthy of his favour: that he did not mean to keep them in expectation until his death, but would put each of them in imme­diate possession of an ample fortune; reserving for himself what he was determined should be sufficient for his necessities during the remain­der of his life. He concluded with insisting, that whatever he meant thus to dispose in favour of his younger sons, he would take care to see settled in such a manner, that neither Eugene nor his posterity should ever inherit a penny of it.

Richard modestly thanked his father for the affectionate care that he testified for his interest, but tenderly intreated him not to form too pre­cipitate a resolution to the prejudice of his eldest born. He used many arguments to excuse, or at least to palliate Eugene's indiscretion; repre­sented the sorrowful effects that a continuance [Page 22] of his father's resentment might have upon a mind so exquisitely feeling as his; and ended with these words: "As to what regards my own personal advantage, I assure you Sir, I feel myself naturally very indifferent; and were I not so by nature, the profession that I have em­braced, the precepts of which I have with my whole heart consented to obey, that profession commands me to fix my thoughts and expect­ations upon matters of a far different nature. Besides, had I the most worldly regard for my own interest, the affection that I have ever borne, and still bear to my brother Eugene, would stand as a bar to my accepting any fortune to which he had the most distant claim, I am not with­out hopes, my dear father, that when your pre­sent anger subsides, you will once more look upon him with the tenderness of a parent, in which case you will, I trust, applaud the prin­ciple that induces me to decline your liberal offer." Mr. Smithson, with astonishment in his countenance, asked his son if he was serious in refusing so handsome a fortune; and finding him fixed in the determination that he had be­fore expressed, he rose up with evident marks of vexation and disappointment; and casting some uncharitable reflexions on the destiny which, he said, pursued him through life, baffling and frustrating the most favourite and even lauda­ble wishes of his heart, he added in a tone of voice, somewhat softened, "Little did I expect, when I sent for you, to find you an abettor of that profligacy which has alienated my heart from your elder brother. I fondly thought that my children would pay such deference to my [Page 23] authority as even to adopt my prejudices; but since you have determined to think for your­self, be your own master. Thank Heaven, I have yet one son left." Richard endeavoured in the most respectful manner, to represent the motives of his conduct, but perceiving that whatever he said only tended to irritate his fa­ther, and that it was impossible, for the pre­sent, to obtain a calm hearing, he reluctantly withdrew, leaving his father in a situation not to be envied by a parent.

Nothing could arrive more opportunely to relieve the depression of Mr. Smithson's spirits, than the news that he heard next morning; which was, that a ship, in which Cassander had gone out in the capacity of a mate, after the failure of Eugene, was returned from her voy­age in the river. His resentment was now not only pointed at Eugene for his indiscretion, but at Richard for his too scrupulous, uncomply­ing principles. He was therefore determined to bestow his whole fortune upon Cassander. But what language can express the amazement of Mr. Smithson, when, upon his proposing to do so, the generous seaman, without the least he­sitation or preamble, flatly refused to accept a penny of it! He thought, however, that re­spect to his father required him to give the reasons on which he grounded his refusal. He did so, and with arguments nearly the same as those used by his brother Richard, he endea­voured to convince his father that passion had a much greater share than mature deliberation in the sentence which he was going to pass upon his eldest son: "We are all liable to go a­stray," [Page 24] said Cassander: "happy is he who has the fewest faults. If we do not forgive those of a son, or a brother, Heaven help us when our own come to be judged! As for me, I have lived contented with a little, and am not un­acquainted with hardship and distress. God for­bid, therefore, that I should grasp at my bro­ther's birth right.—But I declare, were Eugene no brother of mine, knowing as I do his gene­rous nature and the warmth of his honest heart, I would go before the mast all my life long, sooner than accept, to his prejudice, a property which nature and reason so clearly adjudge to him."

There was something so ingenuous in this address of Cassander's, something that spoke so feelingly to his father's breast, that, in spite of a short conflict which resentment endeavoured to excite there, he found himself constrained to yield the point, and while he wiped away a tear, the offspring of returning tenderness and affection, he took his son by the hand: "Cas­sander," said he, smiling, "thou hast con­quered. Surely there must be something of extraordinary merit in Eugene, since he has found two so resolute advocates in his favour as you and your brother Richard.—Well, I for­give all the past—it shall be buried in oblivi­on.—Convince me, as I doubt not you will, that my eldest son possesses qualities worthy to excite such sentimnets as you have both express­ed in his favour, and I shall be happy indeed."

It is needless to add, that the joy produced by this favourable change in Mr. Smithson's feelings was soon diffused in the breasts of his [Page 25] two disconsolate sons. Eugene, upon the re­ceipt of his father's note, had hurried up to town from Gravesend, like one distracted, and was now at Richard's lodgings, indulging the most passionate effusions of grief and despair; while Richard, depressed with a load of sorrows, sat moping in silence, without a word of comfort to offer to his brother. They hardly perceived Cassander enter the room; but when he met their eyes, they started as at the sight of an an­gel. Something prophetic whispered comfort to their minds even before he spoke. But how

full was the measure of their joy when he an­nounced to them his father's invitation to repair immediately to his presence! The sequel is ea­sy to be imagined: all was reconciled: the past was forgotten, and the future opened a prospect of happiness before them more smiling than they had ever enjoyed before.

[Page 26]Thus the Brothers, by the efforts of their mutual affection, increased the happiness that prosperity afforded them, sustained each other under the pressure of misfortune, and, by per­severing in unalterable friendship to each other, at length ensured both their own happiness and that of their dearest and first friend on earth—their Father.

NOT many years ago there returned from Bengal a man whom we will call John Sterling: he had been well educated, was sprung from a decent family, and brought home the same good heart which he carried out with him from Britain. As his fortune was now very large, and he had formed no matrimonial connexions, his first care, on his arriving in his native land, was to discover what relations he had still re­maining, and to inquire into their circum­stances, in order to bestow on the most deserv­ing of them, part of his great acquisitions. It chanced that the person to whom he applied, was able to assist in his search. "Some at least," said he, "of your family, I can give you a pretty good account of: you have two cou­sins [Page 27] settled in London; they are sisters, and are by no means in distressed circumstances, but are perfect contrasts to each other in their man­ner of living. The eldest of them is avarici­ous to an extreme, lives in a paltry lodging, keeps but one maid servant, and in short seems to have no pleasure on earth, except that of heaping up money. Not so her younger sister; she takes care to spend to the very extremity of her income. She takes great delight in dress, equipage, and every specie of luxury, but her expences of the showy kind never prevent the exertions of her humanity: there passes no week in which she does not distribute, on an ap­pointed day, money, cloaths, and victuals to a number of beggars, who crowd around her door to be relieved." "This last cousin of mine," said our Indian, "I like well enough, by your account; but as to the other, not a penny of mine shall she have, to add to her heaps, an old avaricious skin-flint!"

With these sentiments, John Sterling set out to visit his youngest relation. From her he met with a polite and hospitable reception, and de­parted from her house in a perfect good humour with her and her manner of living.

It happened that the only maid servant who lived with the eldest sister, was acquainted in the family of the person from whom Sterling had received his intelligence concerning the characters of the two sisters. Some of the do­mestics had overheard the conversation, and took the first opportunity to reproach the girl for the parsimony of her mistress, which they told her had lost her the sharing of a fine sum of [Page 28] money. This soon reached the ears of the fe­male miser, whose vexation, at hearing what she had missed, was almost insupportable. The large fortune, which by dint of the most penu­rious economy she had scraped together, now appeared to her less than nothing, when she considered the immense treasures of her cousin, all of which she thought might have been her own, had she but managed so as to gain the good graces of the owner. "Perhaps," said she to herself, "it may not, even now, be too late to retrieve my error. Some of my money I must sacrifice, it is true, but then if I succeed, I shall be nobly reimbursed. It will go to my heart, indeed, to part with what has been the whole joy of my life to procure, but I see no other chance in my favour, and this scheme must be tried." Having taken her resolution, she determined, as the first step, to contrive to fall into company with her opulent relation. This she soon brought about, by meeting him at her sister's, where he was almost always to be found. She now endeavoured, by every win­ing grace in her power to captivate his atten­tion, and when she thought she had in some measure succeeded, she took an opportunity to reproach him for appearing to have forgotten that he had such a relation as herself. "No, Madam," said the blunt Sterling, "I had by no means forgotten you, but the plain truth is, that finding on inquiry, that your turn and mine were as widely different as light and dark­ness, I thought that no good could arise from any connexion between us." "I comprehend you, Sir," (replied the lady,) you have heard [Page 29] me represented in the most odious colours, as a pattern of meanness and avarice. How cruel is the tongue of defamation! I have laid up mo­ney, it is true, but Heaven knows with what intent! The service of my indigent fellow-crea­tures has been my real motive, and it was only to amass a sum sufficient to lay the foundation of a new Hospital, that I have deprived myself of not only the superfluities, but almost of the necessaries of life. At length I have attained to my wish, and to-morrow I intend to deposit, in the hands of proper trustees, five hundred guineas, which I mean to be laid out in the purchase of land for the edifice to stand upon." The honest Indian was completely taken in by this manoeuvre. "How unjustly," said he to himself, "have I thought of this poor woman! Here has she denied herself every gratification for the sake of the poor, and I have looked on her as a self-interested miser! Well, well, I must contrive to make her amends." Then turning to the lady, "Madam," said he, "hither­to I have mistaken your character, but I now honour you as much as a few hours past I des­pised you. But you must not prevent me from sharing with you the merit of the noble work which you have taken in hand; to-morrow I will attend upon you, and will add my part to the do­nation which you are about to make." He kept his word, and accompanied her the next morn­ing: he then saw her make a deposit of the sum which she had mentioned, to which he joined a much more considerable present for the same charitable purpose.

The worthy Sterling was recounting the ad­ventures [Page 30] of the day to his friend, and was tell­ing him how very unjustly he had thought of the elder of his cousins, when he was told that an old domestic of the family earnestly entreat­ed to speak with him. "Perhaps," said the good East Indian, "he may need my assistance; let him come in." The poor fellow entered. "Can I, my good friend, be of any service to you?" said Sterling. "I am very unfortunate," said the suppliant, "and it is only the report which I have heard of your goodness, which has tempted me to this application. I lived twenty years in the service of your worthy un­cle: I married, and when I lost my good mas­ter, I set up a little shop: when I was going on with tolerable success, I was utterly ruined by an unfortunate fire, which consumed my whole stock. Since that cruel event I have been unable to provide for my young and nu­merous family, and I now presume to hope that your goodness will enable me to put my poor children into some way of business."

"But why, in the name of wonder, did you not apply to my two cousins!" "Alas, good Sir, I addressed myself to them in the begin­ing of my misfortunes; but from the eldest I met with a positive refusal; and the other lady, though she offered me some relief, yet she ac­companied that offer with the condition of my coming publicly along with other poor, to re­ceive charity at her door; and indeed, Sir, it appeared hard to one who had been a reputable, tradesman, to be reduced to beg his bread at a door in a public street. No Sir, I rather chose [Page 31] to get into a service, which I fortunately con­trived to do."

"And what my good friend became then of your children?"

"My eldest daughter, Sir, has had the hap­piness of being protected by your Honour's cousin, Madam Sophia, who is goodness itself, and who, although in very narrow circumstan­ces, yet finds opportunities of doing a thousand good actions."

"How?" said the good Sterling, "and have I another cousin? And is she poor, and yet is she charitable? And have I, like a blockhead as I am, been ignorant of her very existence?"

"There is such a one, I assure you, Sir; she is the daughter of your uncle, and young­est of the three sisters."

"Is this possible?" said the East Indian, "and if so, how comes it about that neither of her sisters have mentioned her name to me? Where has she lived? How came she so poor?"

"The good lady, Sir, trusted her fortune in the hands of a merchant who became a bank­rupt, and lost nearly the whole of it. She then retired, with what little she had remaining, to a village in the country, where she boarded at the house of a friend of her's who married a clergyman. There, from her small income, she found means to be of infinite service to her poor neighbours; she visited the sick, she in­structed the young, and by her example and advice, she reclaimed the idle, and encouraged the worthy members of society. As to her name not being mentioned to you by her sis­ters, I fear their motive for keeping you in ig­norance [Page 32] concerning her, was their conscious­ness of her superior claim to your favour and protection."

"This," cried Sterling, "is the exact per­son that I am looking for. Come, my lad, get your boots ready, to-morrow you shall be my guide to the village where this precious cousin of mine resides; trouble yourself no more about your children; they shall hence forward be my care: and as to yourself, quit your service as soon as you can with decency; you are too old to wear a livery, I will provide for you com­fortably for the rest of your life."

"Oh, Sir," said the old servant, "be assured that what is left of that life shall be employed in praying for blessings on you, and on my kind benefactress Madam Sophia."

Sterling soon reached the village. He alight­ed at the parsonage, and inquired of the minis­ter concerning his amiable cousin. "She is an angel," said the priest; "notwithstanding the loss of her fortune, her countenance expresses the happy tranquillity of her mind. Nothing, in short, can deprive her of her benevolence, and that benevolence must always insure her tranquillity." "Tell her, I entreat you, Sir," said Sterling, "that a relation, whom she has never seen, begs to be introduced to her." So­phia received her cousin with unaffected regard and natural politeness. "I am enchanted with you, my sweet cousin!" said the East Indian. "In your modest, neat, linen gown, you look more like a woman of fashion than your showy sister in her gayest dresses; and poor as you are, your features are illuminated by an air of con­tent [Page 33] which never appears on the visage of that other sister of yours; that rich lady that founds hospitals! But tell me now, honestly, cousin Sophy, how has it happened that neither of my cousins ever made mention of your name to me since my arrival? Have you fallen out with them? Or do they not know where you reside?"

"Believe me, Sir," replied Sophia, "I love them both too well to keep them in ignorance of my place of abode, and within these last three days I have written to each of them" "Hard-hearted wretches!" exclaimed the good Sterling; "can I ever forget their indifference to so amiable a relation?" "Excuse them this one time," said the gentle Sophia; "I doubt not but that they meant to have made me amends for this omission, by the future kind­ness of their behaviour." "No, no," said her cousin, "I know the vileness of their hearts. They were conscious of your superior merit, and dreaded, lest I should reward it by bestow­ing on you that fortune which each of them al­ready grasped as her own: but their odious cunning and greediness shall be disappointed. To your ostentatious sister I will not give one farthing; she does good, indeed, but it is merely for the sake of being talked of abroad as a woman of unbounded charity. Your pe­nurious sister I am still less disposed to encou­rage. The donation which she has made in fa­vour of the poor, has her own interest so im­mediately in view, that it gives me infinitely more disgust than pleasure. You, my worthy cousin, who do good actions merely because it is right and fitting to do them, you I declare [Page 34] to be my sole inheritrix; and from this mo­ment I insist on your making use of my fortune as if it were your own. I know that fortune is by no means necessary to your happiness; but I know, at the same time, that your being rich will be the means of communicating happiness to numbers of sufferers, whom, until now, you could only pity and not relieve."

FREDERIC was the son of a lady of fortune, who, having retired to her estate in the coun­try, bestowed most of her time on his educa­tion. In return for her attachment to him, Frederic was modest, studious, and humane; he felt the obligations which he was under to his parent, and did his best to requite them by pursuing her instructions with care, and by preferring her company to that of any other person. Jacob, a lad of the same age with Fre­deric, and whose mother's cottage stood near the park-pale of the lady we have just spoken of, was in every respect of a character directly opposite to that of his amiable neighbour. He [Page 35] was loved by no one, not even by his poor mo­ther, all whose endeavours could never prevail on him even to take the pains of learning to read. The most innocent way in which he spent his time was in loitering from place to place, and lounging about; at other seasons he was the plague of his comrades, and, in consequence, the detestation of the village. Frederic was too well bred up to choose so vile a boy for a play-fellow; Jacob, however, taking advan­tage of the opportunities which the situation of his mother's tenement gave him, stole, one day, into the room where Frederic's playthings were kept, broke to pieces his violin and his chariot, completely spoilt his bird organ, and carried off in triumph his hobby-horse.

The author of this mischief was soon dis­covered, and Frederic, in the first emotions of resentment, was running, by the advice of a ser­vant, to acquaint the mother of Jacob with the exploits of her son. "But, no," said he checking his speed, "she is a severe woman, and she will horsewhip him without mercy, and, may be, shut him up in an out-house for a week together. How should I like that for myself? No, no, I had better forgive him, for this once."

Not long after this, Frederic was walking out with his beloved mother, when unluckily they strolled near a place where the thoughtless, wicked Jacob was amusing himself by throwing stones with all his little force at every object within his reach, totally regardless of the mis­chief which he might occasion. One of these unluckily hit the little Frederic on the head, [Page 36] and fetched the blood; but Frederic was too much of a man to cry at a little pain.—"Ma­ma," said the spirited lad, "this stone has hurt me a little, but I dare say the pain will soon be over." As his forehead, however, was all covered with blood, his mother went directly home with him and had every proper care taken of his wound. It was an ugly one, and brought on a fever, and it was the end of seven or eight days before he was permitted to walk out, and his mother being engaged with company, ordered a servant to accompany him. As they were walking, the discourse turned on the wickedness of Jacob; and just as the do­mestic was hopeing that they might see nothing of him during their walk, they heard a rustling noise in a tree behind them, and down, at once, came Jacob, screaming and crying, from the top of an elm, which his usual spirit of mischief had tempted him to climb in pursuit of a crow's nest. "I fear," said Frederic, exerting his ut­most endeavours to raise the poor wretch, "that you have hurt yourself sadly." Jacob still con­tinued his groans and cries; and well he might, for, upon examination, his leg appeared to be, broken in two places. "Poor fellow," said the benevolent Frederic, "how he must suffer! let us contrive some how or other, to convey him home to his mother.—Unhappy woman! what distress must she not feel when she sees the condition of her unlucky son!" Her distress was great indeed. "Poor as I am," she ex­claimed, "I can just support myself and this ungracious lad; but how shall I ever be able to pay the long demand which the surgeon will [Page 37] have upon me, by the time that Jacob reco­vers." Little Frederic, who was a witness to her complaints, afforded to them those tears which his own suffering could never extort from him.—"Make yourself easy, my good neigh­bour," said the amiable boy, "and oblige me so far as to accept this new crown-piece, which my good Mama has just given me, that I might buy me a fairing, but I can do without it bet­ter than you can." The afflicted mother looked at him with silent admiration. Frederic pro­ceeded to assure her, that he was conscious of the smallness of the sum, (though it was his all) he would use his interest with his parent for a larger supply, and did not doubt to obtain it. The unfortunate woman now found her tongue, and expressed in the most affecting terms, her astonishment at seeing his earnestness in reliev­ing that worthless lad, by whose mischievous hand his forehead was still smarting. "This," said she, "is truly to return good for evil!" Frederic now returned to his mother, and after giving her the history of the whole occurrence, "How comes it, Mama," said he, "that al­though I was truly sorry for poor Jacob's mis­fortune; and though I feel both for him and his mother, yet, on the whole, I am more pleased than grieved?" "Child," said the lady, "you have had an opportunity of doing well, and you have made use of it; and, believe me, throughout life you will find, that the con­sciousness of having done a benevolent action will be the most effectual cordial for every painful sensation."

CHARLES STANLEY was the second son of a gentleman, who possessed a small estate in Yorkshire, (Old England) which at his death was designed for his eldest son, and the young­est was to be brought up to some genteel busi­ness, by which he might improve the little for­tune which his father intended for him. Charles gave early marks of a sweet and engaging tem­per; he was dutiful to his parents, he tenderly loved his brother, and was so obliging to the servants, that he became the favourite with them all. Every little boy in the village talk­ed of the good nature of little Charles, and of his willingness to part with his sweetmeats and playthings.

When Charles was about four years old, his father sent him to a neighbouring school, where he was very soon as much remarked for the progress he made in learning as he had been for his sweet temper. He read better than any boy in the school, and whenever he went be­fore [Page 50] his master to spell, he was certain to get the first place. This great quickness gave much delight to his fond parents and his tutor, though they observed that with all his good qualities, Charles had one capital fault; instead of going directly to school he would often loiter in the fields till long after the other boys had gone in, and his books were always to be sought for at the very time when he should have taken them to his master.

At a proper age, Charles was placed by his father at a great school, where he no longer found the indulgence to his faults, which he had met with from the village tutor. He was not allowed to defer the morning's task till the afternoon, and it was remarked to him that he was inferior in learning to many who were his juniors in age. Charles was stung with the re­mark; he knew that he was able to excel, and be resolved that he would at some time take great pains, and obtain the same rank he had held in the village school; but he thought he might defer this till some future time. His work, while he was under the eye of his master, was performed as well, and in less time than that of most of his school-fellows; but the tasks which he had to perform out of school hours were always deferred, and every thing furnished Charles with an excuse for delay; not that he passed his vacant time in play; instead of that he was often employed in writing exercises for his school-fellows while they were amusing themselves, and his own task was deferred till the morning, when there was little time to per­form it well, and he was punished for the faults. [Page 51] Thus poor Charles seldom enjoyed the proper season for play. He was compelled to com­plete his task, when his companions were en­joying themselves in innocent sports, and he was seldom set free from work till they were retiring to rest.

Charles continued in this situation till the age of fourteen, and was every day remarked for his abilities to excel, and for those habits of de­lay which often destroyed all the advantages he naturally possessed. Mr. Stanley then took him to London, and placed him with a Mer­chant, a friend of his, in the city, to whom he hoped Charles would become so agreeable, as in time to be admitted into partnership with him. In this situation Charles gave the strong­est proofs of integrity, sweet temper, and great abilities, but delay attended whatever he under­took; he was not dressed till some hours after he should be at the desk; he did not get to the Custom-House till the books were shut, nor appear upon Change, till every man of bu­siness had deserted it. With more virtues, and greater ability, than almost any man of his ac­quaintance, he became a general object of ridicule and derision, and when the term of his apprenticeship expired, he found that, with a character which was shaded with only one foible, all intimate connexions with him were shunned by the sober part of the trading world.

About this time Charles had the misfortune to lose his father, who bequeathed him such a fortune as entitled him to expect a partnership in some respectable house. But his known ha­bit of delay prevented his friends from making [Page 52] the offer; and though he fully intended to seek such a connexion, yet he continued to defer it till he had greatly lessened his little patrimony. His father had introduced him to several friends who might have assisted him greatly, but he had disgusted them by his conduct, by deferring his visits to unseasonable hours, and by protracting them till the repeated yawns of the family informed him that it was time to de­part. Charles, who saw himself in a situation where he was very likely to be without either friends or fortune, now resolved to exert him­self, and to follow the plan which his father had traced out for his conduct in life. He could not, indeed, meet with an agreeable partnership, but he determined to enter into a mercantile line by himself; and his friends, who were delighted with his exertions, formed such extensive connexions for him, that he had the greatest chance of being in a few years one of the richest men in the city. But alas! his habit of delay had acquired more strength than he was aware of, and his efforts to conquer it were but transient. Charles soon relapsed into his former indolence. He deferred business till he had not time to transact it. He neglect­ed to comply with the orders of his correspond­ents till the goods they sent for were no longer wanted; and he omitted insuring his vessels, not because he intended to risk the loss, but because, as he did not see them sinking he thought he might defer the business to some future time. In a short time his business de­clined, several of his vessels had either been ta­ken or lost, his creditors poured in from every [Page 53] quarter, his property could not answer their demands; and Charles Stanley, whose integrity was respected by all, was hurried to prison, with the conviction that his misfortunes were the consequence of his folly.

In this wretched situation Charles was a prey to sorrow. His heart was melted at the misery which many poor and innocent families must have suffered from his failure; and he thought of the uneasiness he must have given to his mo­ther with agony. Firmly did he resolve, that if he could ever again be established, he would atone by his future diligence for his past mis­conduct; but where could he look for assist­ance? His mother had no more than was suffi­cient for her support; and his brother had al­ready given him whatever he could afford. Charles was sitting alone, reflecting upon the sad situation of his affairs, when he was inform­ed that a gentleman inquired for him below, and in a few moments he beheld a brother of his mother's, whom the family had believed to be dead, but who was just returned from India with a large fortune. Mr. Hilton was much grieved at the misconduct and misfortunes of his nephew; but was so much affected by his in­genuous account of his past faults, and his reso­lutions of amendment, that he generously dis­charged all his debts, and enabled him to ap­pear again amongst his old acquaintance with credit.

Charles, fully sensible of the miseries from which he had been delivered, was very earnest to settle himself in some business which would afford him support; and his kind uncle, who [Page 54] hoped that a new scene would be favourable to his new-formed plans, earnestly advised him to embark for India, promising to return with him that he might see him well settled. This good­ness filled the heart of Charles with the warmest gratitude; he fell at his feet, and declared with tears, that he would exert himself to the utmost to fulfil the commands of his generous bene­factor. Every thing was ordered for their de­parture, and when the time arrived for the sail­ing of the ship, Mr. Hilton went on board with some goods which were in readiness, leaving his nephew to follow him to the Downs with those which were not quite finished. But de­lay again appeared in the conduct of Charles; he omitted inquiring after them till an express arrived from Mr. Hilton, with the account that the vessel was to sail the next day, and that he must hasten down immediately. Charles then began to execute the orders which his uncle had left, but was detained so long before he could get the goods, that when he reached the Downs he found the ship had sailed some hours. Almost distracted with this account, and with the thoughts of what his kind uncle must think of his misconduct, he wandered about for some time in the greatest distress, and at length having become almost desperate, he hired a quick-sailing boat, in hopes of being able to overtake the ship. For some time they ad­vanced rapidly, and gained sight of the India ship, and the heart of Charles was alternately agitated by hope and fear. But suddenly the sky was overcast, the sea swelled, the wind roared, and the boatmen declared that there [Page 55] was every appearance of an approaching storm, which soon raged round them with the utmost fury. The vessel, which was too light to re­sist its force, was tossed about at the mercy of the wind and waves, and the only hope the un­happy Charles had of saving his own life, and those of his companions, was by reaching the ship which they saw at a small distance before them. But they exerted every effort in vain; a great sea broke over the bark, and Mr. Hil­ton had the misery of seeing it sink for ever into the bosom of the ocean, and to lament the loss of the unfortunate Charles, who, though possessed of such talents as made him loved and admired by all, yet by one unhappy foible was rendered miserable and ridiculous through life, and subjected to a dreadful and premature death.

CAPTAIN DORMER, and his amiable La­dy, had lived during several years at their seat in Dorsetshire, happy in themselves, and beloved by all around them, when they re­ceived the unwelcome account that the Captain was commanded to join his regiment, which [Page 56] was ordered to embark for America. The news of this event filled all the country with sorrow. The rich grieved for the loss of so excellent a neighbour; the poor mourned for the departure of their kind and constant bene­factor; and the tenants and servants wept aloud at the thoughts of being separated from a mas­ter who had always treated them more like children than dependants. But in vain were their intreaties that he would remain; honour called upon him to depart, and Mrs. Dormer saw, with the utmost sorrow, that to honour he would sacrifice the strongest feelings of his breast. She resolved, however, not to be left behind, and in a short time they exchanged the tranquil pleasures of Belmount, for the horrors of carnage and war.

Mrs. Dormer had not been long in America before she lay-in of twins, both daughters, and very beautiful. In the care of these sweet children she found some relief during the fre­quent absences of her husband, and would oft­en indulge the hope of returning peace, when the Captain, instead of engaging in the slaugh­ter of his fellow-creatures, might enjoy the delight of improving his little Fanny and So­phia. The children daily became more fond of their parents, often clinging to their father when they saw him preparing to go out, and always clapping their little hands with joy when they saw him return. As soon as they were able to speak, Mrs. Dormer taught them to say Papa, and in a short time, when they saw him at a distance, they would directly leave their play, and running up to Mama, would [Page 57] cry out, ‘Papa is come, dear papa is come to see his little girls.’

The improvement of the children became more visible every day, and they were daily more dear to their parents, when Captain Dor­mer, returning from a foraging party, was fiercely and suddenly attacked by the Indians, and a desperate engagement ensued. The time when Mrs. Dormer had expected his return had long passed, and she sat in silent agony look­ing at her dear children, whom at one moment she feared were deprived of their parent, and the next, stepping to the room door, she anxi­ously listened to every noise, and was fearful, lest even the sound of her own breath should prevent her from hearing the well-known step of her beloved husband. At length a sound reached her ears—it came nearer; it increased, and she flew down stairs in the fond hope of welcoming the return of what was most dear to her. The door was opened, but it no longer opened to admit the tender husband and fond father joyfully returning from the labours of the day; Captain Dormer was brought in a mangled lifeless corpse.

Thus cruelly deprived of her husband, Mrs. Dormer resolved to return to England, and to employ her time in the education of her little girls. She took them down into Dorsetshire, and instructed them herself; and little Fanny and Sophia Dormer were soon remarked as the neatest work-women in the country. But their good Mama did not direct their attention merely to the little arts of making trifling or­naments: she taught them that virtue was su­perior [Page 58] to accomplishments, and that what was useful was more excellent than what was merely elegant. Little Fanny soon understood, that though music gave her great delight, it was still more delightful by her own sweetness to charm all around her; and Sophia learned that no pleasure was equal to the pleasure of doing good to her fellow-creatures.

In this happy retirement Mrs. Dormer con­tinued for some years improving her sweet girls in real virtue and useful knowledge. At this time Lady Aubrey, a relation of Mrs. Dormer's paid her a visit, and upon her return would gladly have prevailed with the good mother to suffer both her daughters to spend some time with her in London. This, how­ever, Mrs. Dormer could not agree to; but as Fanny had shown a strong affection for her La­dyship, and earnestly wished to see London, she consented to her going; and Sophia, who preferred the company of her Mama to any other enjoyment, was left at home. At first indeed, she felt uneasy without her sister; she found a solo on the harpsichord was not half so agreeable as a duet, and the beautiful alcove in the garden was not near so pleasant, as when Fanny sat with her there, at her drawing or needle-work. By degrees, however, she be­came reconciled to her loss, but frequently thought that Fanny could not enjoy half the pleasure in London that she did at Belmount, in assisting her Mama to work for the poor people of the village, or in going with her to visit those who were sick. But her greatest de­light was in the office which Mrs. Dormer had [Page 59] given her of distributing the broken victuals, which were given away to the poor every day at her gate. This was the highest pleasure Sophia could receive. She flew with rapture to the house-keeper to obtain her welcome burden, under which she tottered to the door. She exulted in seeing so many poor creatures made happy by her bounty, and delighted to hear them say, ‘Here comes the good little girl; she will, one day, be as good a lady as her Mama;’ and she often thought with great pleasure of the joy which her sister Fanny would have, when she returned, in this new employment.

But Fanny's visit to Lady Aubrey unfitted her for the innocent pleasures of Belmount. She never heard of such a thing as working for the poor from her Ladyship; and cards, dress, and elegant equipages, engaged the attention of all the circles to which Fanny was admitted. She almost learned to forget the poor; and when she returned to Belmount, she spoke haughtily to the servants, and scarcely noticed her inferiors; and when the poor came to re­ceive their daily allowance, instead of serving them, she either turned away, or suffered her little favourite dog, Surly, to bark at them, and shake their tattered cloaths. All the village talked of her pride, and lamented that the good Mrs. Dormer should have such a naughty little girl; but the good and gentle Sophia was loved by them all. They presented her with the choicest flowers in their gardens, and the most beautiful bantams and pea-fowls were sent to the poultry-yard of the good little girl that be­haved [Page 60] so well to every one. When Mrs. Dor­mer came from church, all the farmers and their wives made their best bows and curtsies to the good lady, who spoke kindly to them all. She was followed by Fanny, who never turned her head aside; but when Sophia came near, the children plucked one another, and said, ‘Here comes the good young lady, see how good humoured she looks: she will ask us all how we do.’

Fanny could not avoid seeing how disagree­able her pride made her to every body, and she found herself much less happy than she was be­fore she went to London; but she had learned there to think that such behaviour was right, and, if it was an error, she foolishly resolved ra­ther to adhere to it than to own she had been wrong. She was one day invited with her sister to a ball at the house of a lady in the neighbour­hood, where she was to meet all the young peo­ple in that country. Her heart exulted in the thoughts of this gay party, and she resolved to behave in the same manner she had seen some fashionable ladies do in London. Upon enter­ing the room she advanced to a small knot of young ladies of her acquaintance; and, without speaking to the rest of the company, began to make remarks upon their dress and manners in a whispering voice, but in a tone loud enough to be heard. After some time a young lady, whom she had never seen before, entered the room, in a dress made up in a manner very dif­ferent from any that Fanny had ever observed; she directly began to sneer at her, and declared, that for her part she was surprised such strange [Page 61] figures should think of mixing with people of fashion, and wondered where they came from. The young lady, confounded at so rude a re­ception, retired to a corner, where she was joined by the good humoured Sophia, who chatted with her till the lady of the house re­turned into the room, and introduced her into the company as the eldest daughter of the Duke of Dorset, who was just returned from a tour to France. Nothing could exceed the chagrin of Fanny, when she found that the young lady whom she had been ridiculing was the principal person in the company, and that the dress she had despised, was the admiration of all who saw it. She had not the assurance to endea­vour to repair her fault by apologies, or to press her acquaintance upon the lady whom she had so grossly affronted. Indeed she saw that nei­ther her excuses nor intimacy would be accept­ed, and she had the mortification of hearing her sister Sophia receive a very pressing invi­tation to Dorset House, in which she was not included.

Fanny was greatly mortified at this incident, and she resolved never to behave in such a man­ner again. She ought, indeed, directly to have endeavoured to conquer every feeling of pride, and to return to that behaviour which made her beloved by every body; but she only resolved that she would not again laugh aloud at a stranger in a genteel company, and run the risk of offending her superiors. As to the poor and miserable, she thought them beneath her regard.

Some time after this, Fanny and Sophia were [Page 62] again invited to the house of a lady, whom, as Fanny regarded her as a person of great taste, she was desirous to please her by appearance. She put on all her little finery, but found that one thing was necessary to complete her dress, which was a Nosegay, and this she was deter­mined to buy when they reached the town. They set off in the carriage, attended only by servants, and by Fanny's little dog, which ran at the side of the chariot. Fanny could talk of nothing but of calling at the florist's, and of the elegant Nosegay with which she should be adorned. At length they saw a little tattered girl laying asleep upon the side of the road, whom Surley directly attacked, and began to shake her ragged cloaths. Sophia called him hastily away, and would have succeeded before he had awakened the poor little girl, but Fanny encouraged him to proceed; upon this the child starting up, aimed a blow at the dog, which he avoided, and made a snap at her leg. The poor terrified girl then endeavoured to run away, but in running missed her step, and fell down the bank into the ditch. She had hurt her foot, and lay crying in the ditch till Sophia ordered the servant to take her up, and, contrary to the advice of Fanny, desired him to place her in the chariot that they might convey her home. She then began to comfort the poor child, and inquired about her hurt; but she continued to cry out, "O my poor mammy, my poor mam­my, what will she do, now I cannot run a­bout and beg for her and my daddy!" "Who is your mammy," said Sophia, "and what shall we do for your foot?" "Oh! don't mind my [Page 63] foot," said the child, "give me only some bread for my poor mammy and daddy, and my little brother, and I don't care what becomes of my foot."

The child had scarcely finished her speech when the carriage stopped at the door of a cot­tage, which the little girl said was her home. When she attempted to get out, she found her­self unable to walk, and was obliged to be car­ried by the footman, who, accompanied by So­phia, entered the house, while Fanny remained in the carriage sullenly pouting at her sister's condescension, and very angry to be so delayed. She was indeed sorry to see the poor child so hurt, and when she was taken out of the car­riage gave her what money she could spare; but she took care to keep enough to buy her elegant Nosegay. When Sophia entered the house, she found a scene of misery which she could not have conceived. The father of the little girl had long laboured under an ague and fever, her mother was worn down with poverty and fatigue, and her little brother crying for hunger in a corner of a poor cottage, strip­ed of almost of all its furniture, which had been sold to buy necessaries. Sophia found that little Sally had gone out in the morning to beg something for this afflicted family, and that, quite exhausted with hunger and fatigue, she set down upon the bank and cried herself to sleep. The tender heart of Sophia was greatly affected by this distress; she empitied her pocket of every farthing which it contained, and gave it to the good woman of the house, and would not keep enough to buy the collar which she [Page 64] had once intended for her little favourite squir­rel. She then prepared to leave the cottage, but before she went, desired the poor people to get what was necessary, and told them she would soon return with her good Mama, who would give them cloaths and victuals enough.

The sisters then proceeded to their visit. Fanny bought her Nosegay, which was very beautiful: but the sweetness of Sophia, and the cheerfulness which the thoughts of the good action she had been performing inspired her with, made her so agreeable, that all the com­pany were charmed with her, but paid little attention to Fanny. At night, when they re­turned, Mrs. Dormer noticed Fanny's Nose­gay, which, though it had begun to fade, was still very beautiful. This pleased Fanny, and she cried out, "Ah! Mama, I was sure you would like it, it is so very pretty, and my sister liked it very much indeed." "Then why did she not buy one?" said Mrs. Dormer; Fanny hung down her head, and in a faultering tone answered, "Because she had no money." Mrs. Dormer, surprised at this, for she had given some to each of them that very morning, in­quired from Sophia what was become of it; Sophia then recounted to her mother the con­dition in which she had seen the poor people at the cottage, but took care not to mention a word of Fanny's ill behaviour: she then told her the way in which she had disposed of her money, and the promise she had made of tak­ing her Mama to the cottage; and ended by begging that she would go with her in the morning. Transported with her conduct, Mrs. [Page 65] Dormer pressed her virtuous child to her bosom, and promised to take care of the wretched fa­mily, for whom Sophia was so much interested. Then looking with anger at Fanny, she said, "Did you then give nothing to these poor unhappy creatures?" Fanny hung down her head in silence, for she was ashamed to speak; but Sophia said, "Oh yes, Mama, indeed she gave them all the money she had; except just enough to buy her Nosegay and a trinket for her little watch; and I am sure if she had gone into the cottage and seen their misery, she would have given them that too." "She sat at the door then," said Mrs. Dormer, "while you went in." Then turning to Fanny, "Proud and unfeeling girl," said she, "who could pre­fer vain and trifling ornaments to the delight of relieving the sick and miserable! Retire from my presence; take with you your trinket and Nosegay, and receive from them all the com­forts which they are able to bestow."

Sophia would gladly have retired with her sister; she was grieved at the displeasure she had incurred from her Mama, and she wished earnestly to sooth and comfort the dejected Fanny. Mrs. Dormer, however, chose that she should be left alone, and Fanny was obliged to pass the night by herself. She then began to reflect upon the happiness which she had known be­fore she went to visit Lady Aubrey: she was then beloved by every one, every body met her with a smile; all the servants were ready to oblige her, and all the neighbours loved her: now all was changed, and no one except Sophia, no, not even her Mama, seemed to love her. [Page 66] At this thought she wept bitterly. "And why am I not beloved?" said she. "And why does every one shun me, at the very time that they are so fond of my sister? Alas! it is because I am not so good as she." Fanny then thought of the vexatious situations into which she had been brought by her vanity and pride. They had caused her to be shunned not only by her inferiors, but by those above her, and had made her generally hated or despised. Heartily asham­ed of her conduct, and grieved at its conse­quences, she passed the greatest part of the night in weeping, and resolved that she would again be good, and again behave in such a man­ner as should make her beloved by all, and hap­py in herself.

Towards morning Fanny fell asleep, and, as she was much tired with lying awake so long, she slept till it was pretty late; the next day when she awoke, she inquired for her Mama, and was resolved to ask her forgiveness, and to inform her of her sorrow for her past faults, and her resolutions to amend. She was informed that Mrs. Dormer and Sophia were gone to the cottage, and had taken cloaths, and other necessaries for the family, and had sent for a physician to attend the sick man. "Ah!" said she, "Sophia is happy, and she deserves to be so, for she is good; I was not worthy to have the pleasure of going to the cottage, but I will be good and happy too." She then rose, and the first thing she saw was her Nosegay, which the maid had carefully put into a pot of water the night before. "This Nosegay," said Fanny, "shall be the constant memorial of my faults, and of my repentance." She then reach­ed [Page 67] her pallet, and making a beautiful sketch of the almost dying flowers, she wrote under them in a large hand, Virtue never fades, and placed the drawing in the most conspicuous part of the room. When Mrs. Dormer returned, she was struck with this elegant performance, and calling for Fanny, had the delight of hearing from herself what had passed in her mind during the past night, and her resolutions of amend­ment. After some time, during which Fanny had entirely laid aside her haughty behaviour, the indulgent Mrs. Dormer would have re­moved the drawing that it might no longer mortify her child; but Fanny begged it might remain, and whenever she found herself inclined to return to her former folly, she placed herself before the picture, which soon became, not merely the shameful memorial of past faults, but the elegant monument of her return to virtue.

TWO sailors, a Frenchman named Robert, and a native of Spain, called Antonio, were slaves to the same master at Algiers Friendship is the only consolation of persons in distress. [Page 68] Antonio and Robert happily enjoyed this conso­lation—they communicated to each other their mutual griefs; they conversed perpetually about their families, their countries, and of the exqui­site delight which the recovery of their liberty, should it ever be granted to their wishes, would afford them. Their conferences always ended in a flood of affectionate tears, and this expan­sion of their hearts enabled them both to sup­port the hard labour, which was their daily lot, with uncommon fortitude.

The task appointed them was the construc­tion of a road on the top of a cliff which over­hung the sea. One morning the Spaniard rest­ing for a moment from his toil, and casting an anxious look on the sea, "My friend," said he, "all my vows, all my hopes, are directed towards the opposite bounds of that vast liquid plain; why can I not, in company with the partner of my woes, attain those happy shores? My wife, my children, are ever before my eyes, eagerly longing for my arrival, or bit­terly lamenting my supposed death." Antonio perpetually indulged himself in these gloomy reflexions, and every day that he was summon­ed to his work on the cliff, he turned his eyes to the ocean, and regretted the fatal expanse which separated him from his friends and his country.

It chanced that one day a Christian ship appeared at anchor not very distant from the shore. "There friend," cried the Spaniard, "do you see that vessel? She brings us life and liberty. Though she will not touch here, (for every one avoids these barbarous coasts) yet to-morrow [Page 69] if you choose it, Robert, our woes shall end, and we will be free! Yes, to-morrow that ship will pass within a league of the shore, and we will plunge into the sea from this rock, or perish in the attempt; for even death is preferable to this cruel slavery." "If you can save yourself," replied Robert, "I shall sup­port my unhappy lot with greater resignation. You know, Antonio, how dear you are to me; my friendship for you will only terminate with my life. I have only one favour to ask of you; endeavour to find out my father—If grief for my loss, and old age, have not already de­stroyed him, tell him"—"What do you mean?" answered Antonio; "I seek your fa­ther!—And do you think I could live happily a single moment with the idea of having left you in chains?" "But I cannot swim," cried Robert; "and you know"—"I know that I have the strongest friendship for you," replied the Spaniard, embracing him, and shedding tears of affection: ‘friendship will give me re­doubled strength: you shall hold upon my belt, and we will both save ourselves.’ In vain did Robert represent the danger there would be of his perishing himself, and dragging his pre­server down with him to destruction; nothing could overcome the resolution of Antonio. ‘We will both escape, or both perish toge­ther,’ he cried. "But we draw the attention of our savage keepers; even some of our com­panions would be base enough to betray us— Farewel—I hear the bell that calls us from our work; we must separate; farewel till to-mor­row!"

[Page 70]They now returned to their dungeon.— Antonio was wrapped up in the idea of his pro­ject: he fancied he had already passed the Mediterranean, and was in the arms of his friends, his wife, and his children. But Ro­bert formed to himself a very different picture: he saw his friend falling a victim to his own generosity, and dragged by him to the bottom of the sea, and perishing by that means, when, if he had only consulted his own safety, he might have preserved himself, and been restored to the bosom of his family, who most proba­bly were continually lamenting his loss. "No," said the unfortunate Frenchman to himself, ‘I will not give way to the solicitations of An­tonio; I will not repay so generous a friend­ship by being the cause of his death. He will be free. My unhappy father will at least learn that I am alive, and that my affec­tion for him is unabated. Alas! I could wish to be the support and consolation of his age. He wanted my assistance—perhaps he is now perishing in poverty, and wishing to see and embrace his son. However, if Antonio is happy, I shall die with less re­gret.’

The slaves were not taken from their prison the next morning at the usual hour. The Spaniard was all impatience, while Robert was in doubt whether he should rejoice or grieve at the disappointment. At length they were call­ed to their labour, but they could not speak to each other, for their master went with them. Antonio could only look at Robert and sigh. Sometimes he cast his eyes towards the sea, and [Page 71] could hardly suppress his emotions. At length night arrives, and they find themselves alone. "Let us seize this opportunity," cries the Spa­niard, "Come!" "No," replies the other: my friend I never will consent to endanger your life: farewel, Antonio! I embrace you for the last time. Save yourself, I conjure you; you have no time to lose. Remember our friendship. I only request you to remember your promise in regard to my father. He must be very old, and much in distress; go and console him. If he should want assistance, I am sure my friend"—At these words the voice of Robert failed—he shed a torrent of tears—his bosom was torn with anguish. "You weep, Robert," says Antonio; "it is not tears, but courage, that we now want: resist no longer; a moment's delay may ruin us; we may never have the opportunity again; either deliver yourself to my direction, or I will dash my head against those rocks."

The Frenchman threw himself at the feet of the generous Spaniard: he still represented the hazard of the attempt, and pointed out the in­evitable danger that must attend his resolution of endeavouring to preserve him. Antonio made no reply, but catching him in his arms, he ran to the edge of the precipice, and plung­ed with him into the sea. At first they both sunk; but, rising to the surface, Antonio ex­erted all his force, and swimming himself, kept Robert also above the water, who seemed to re­fuse his assistance, and to fear lest he should in­volve him in his own destruction.

The people in the ship were struck with an [Page 72]

object which they could not well distinguish. They thought it was some sea-monster that ap­proached the vessel. Their curiosity was now called another way; they saw a boat leave the shore and hastily pursue what seemed to them a monstrous sea-animal. These were the soldi­ers who guarded the slaves, and who were anxious to overtake Antonio and Robert. The last saw them approach, and, casting his eyes on his friend, and perceiving that he grew weak, he made an effort and got loose from An­tonio, [Page 73] saying to him at the same time. "We "are pursued. Save yourself, and let me pe­rish; I only retard your course." He had hardly finished these words when he sunk. A new transport of friendship animates the Spani­ard; he darts towards the Frenchman, and seizing him as he is just ready to expire, they both disappeared.

The boat, uncertain which way to pursue, stopped; while another was sent from the vessel to discover what the object was which they had seen. The waves began to grow rough; at last they discovered two men, the one sup­porting the other, and trying to reach the ves­sel. They rowed to them as fast as possible, and came up with them just as Antonio's strength began to fail. They took them both on board. Antonio cried out feebly, ‘Assist my friend—I die;’ —and his countenance seemed convulsed with the agonies of death. Robert, who was in a swoon, recovering at the instant, and seeing Antonio without any sign of life extended by his side, was almost dis­tracted; he threw himself on the body of his friend. "Antonio!" he cried, "my dear Antonio, my friend, my deliverer, have I been your murderer? Alas! you cannot hear me. Is this your recompense for having saved my life? But what is life? Who can support it af­ter the loss of such a friend?"

Saying this, he started up in the boat, and, seizing a sword, would have plunged it into his bosom, if he had not been disarmed; but in the midst of his lamentations and distraction, Providence, apparently to reward an affection [Page 74] so sincere, interposed in his favour—Antonio breathed a sigh. Robert flew to the assistance of his friend, who, lifting up his languid eyes, tried to find the Frenchman, and, as soon as he perceived him, cried out with a transport be­yond his strength, "I have saved my friend!"

They were both conveyed on board the ves­sel. Their exemplary friendship diffused a respect for them among the whole crew. And, such is the effect of virtue even on the rough­est minds, every one contended with his fel­lows in showing them attention. Robert ar­riving in France flew to his father, who was ready to die with excess of joy at seeing him, and was appointed to a genteel office under the Government. But the Spaniard, who was likewise offered a very advantageous post, for one in his situation of life, chose rather to re­turn to his wife and family. But absence did not diminish his friendship; he continued still to correspond with Robert, and their letters, which are master-pieces of simplicity and affec­tion, do honour to the sentiment which was capable of producing so heroic an action.

MELCOUR lost his parents at an age when he could not be sensible of the greatness of his mis­fortune. One of his uncles took him home, brought him up with his own son, and paid the [Page 75] utmost attention to his education. Florival and Melcour, already united by the ties of kin­dred, were soon more so by those of friendship, which, from their living constantly together, grew stronger every day. They were both de­signed for the army. When they were of a proper age, they got commissions in the same regiment. Florival always hated application, and the dissipation that naturally attends a mi­litary life still inclined him less to it. As for Melcour, he had not only a very good natural genius, but a strong inclination to cultivate it. His studies had been properly directed; and a generous and humane disposition, joined with a habit of thinking seriously, led him to condemn the criminal practice of fighting duels on tri­vial occasions, a custom too prevalent in the army.

Different pursuits lessened, by degrees, the friendship of the two young men. Florival was blinded by the love of pleasure, he ran in­to all sorts of extravagance, and became in­volved in debt. Melcour lamented his folly, assisted him with his purse, and endeavoured to save him from the ruin into which he was going to plunge. He represented to him how much his conduct degraded him in the eyes of sensible people. "Even those," said he to him, "who now applaud your extravagance, will be the first to upbraid you when they see you in dis­tress. They call themselves your best friends, and you believe them; they have estranged you from me. They have painted me to you in the most unfavourable colours, and if they have not entirely extinguished the friendship [Page 76] that subsisted between us, at least they have greatly weakened it. The wretches well knew my sincere affection for you; they are informed of the pains I have taken to discover to you their perfidious designs, and they wish to pu­nish me for them. O, my friend, if they should succeed in robbing me of your esteem, their triumph will be too complete! But, my dear Florival! I do not speak on my own account only. I conjure you, by every sentiment of virtue that united our infancy, not to plunge a dagger in the heart of the best of fathers. If he were to know the excesses you run into he would die with sorrow."

These remonstrances touched the heart of Florival. He promised to amend; but his perfidious friends represented vice to him in so amiable a form, that he was unable to resist. Melcour being informed, that, after having lost a great sum of money at play, he was gone to dissipate his sorrow by infamous debauchery, immediately went to him, and urged to him, with some vehemence, the duties of his situa­tion, and the promises he had made to fulfil them.

Florival was no longer master of himself; he fell into a most violent rage against his cou­sin; he even drew his sword on him; and on Melcour's refusing to fight him, he abused him in the grossest terms, and was almost tempted to strike him. His cousin still kept his tem­per: unworthy as Florival appeared of his af­fection, he yet only regarded him as a friend and relation.

Overcome by this steadiness, he at length [Page 77] recovered his temper. He was ashamed of his behaviour, and begged pardon of Melcour for his violence, which was immediately granted by the generous youth, and an immediate and perfect reconciliation took place.

An officer belonging to another regiment happened to be present during the affair; he had been witness to the provocation given by Florival, and he imputed the coolness of his cousin to want of courage. He did not fail to make many sarcastic remarks on it, and they came at length to the ears of some of Melcour's friends. The least suspicion is deemed injuri­ous to the honour of a soldier. After many inquiries, it was discovered whose conduct had given rise to the scandal. They were told the honour of the corps was wounded through them, and it was their duty to vindicate it. The means were evident. If the report was true, they must fight each other; if false, they must punish the author of it. Melcour was truly miserable. His principles disapproved of duelling in any instance; and in this, if he obeyed the injunctions of his corps, he was re­duced to the terrible necessity of plunging his sword into the bosom of his relation and friend. But, in vain did he represent his feelings to his brother officers, they would hear of nothing but the choice of weapons, time, and place. His sorrow was unutterable: he retired to his apartment. Florival, who went to look for him, found him leaning on a table, hiding his face with his hands, his eyes streaming with tears, and his continual sighs only interrupted by the frequent repetition of the name of Flori­val. [Page 78] At such a sight he was not able to con­tain himself; he threw himself at the feet of his friend. His appearance recalled to Melcour all the horror of his situation—"What! in a moment I am called upon to pierce your heart, and do you come to seek me?—O Florival!" said he, his voice almost choaked with tears, "should my arm deprive you of life, I would not survive you. What should I say to your fa­ther? did he take so much care of my infancy, to see me stained with the blood of his son? O, wretched old man, whatever may be the event of this horrid duel, it will be an eternal source of anguish for you!"

At this instant some of the officers forced open the door; they came to tell Melcour he could not delay the combat any longer without giving room to call his courage in question. What a terrible situation! At this instant the two friends were embracing each other—they were unable to return any answer.

Florival was the first who broke this mourn­ful silence. In him the mistaken principles of honour at present prevailed over those of friend­ship. He got up, and extended his arm to as­sist Melcour, without daring to look at him. He arose and walked about the room in the greatest agitation; he fancied he saw his rela­tion and friend murdered by his hands, and his distracted uncle demanding vengeance for the blood of his son. At length, recovering himself, he turned to the officers, and said to to them in a firm and resolute tone of voice: I will no longer hesitate to act that part which is pointed out to me by the voice of religion, of [Page 79] reason, and of humanity, be the consequence what it may. My determination is fixed. Go, and inform those who sent you, that Melcour prefers an imaginary dishonour to a real crime, and that no consideration upon earth shall tempt him to point his sword against the bosom of his friend. This answer determined his fate. His brother officers informed him with the sincerest regret, that, as he had refused to fight, it was impossible for them to roll with him, and that he must quit the regiment. Who can describe the feelings of Florival, when he heard this sentence? it was he who had brought Melcour into this terrible situation. The disgrace of his cousin was owing to his follies. These thoughts almost drove him to distraction. His friends were alarmed for the consequences, and removed him by force from the mournful scene.

Melcour, left to himself, soon determined what steps to take. He was determined not to return home, to be there exposed to a disgrace he was conscious of not deserving. He resolv­ed to endeavour to improve the talents which Nature had endowed him with by travelling, till time should either obliterate the memory of this unfortunate adventure, or show it in its true light. That very evening he made the proper preparations for his journey, and wrote a letter to his cousin, acquainting him with his intended expedition. "Inform my uncle," he added, "of all that has happened; let him know that they wanted to compel me to be­come your murderer. He will shudder at the thought. Though these barbarians, guided [Page 80] only by a false sense of honour, think me un­worthy to serve my king and country, he at least will applaud the courageous efforts I have made to preserve us both from a crime. This lesson, my dear Florival, will be of ad­vantage to you; your eyes are now opened to the conduct of your companions. Still conti­nue your regard for me; and never esteem me unhappy while I preserve a place in your friend­ship."

He set out at day-break the next morning, accompanied by a single servant. He had not gone many miles from the garrison when he saw a large detachment of the enemy on the point of defeating an inferior number of French troops. He could not behold his countrymen in danger of being vanquished without burning with ardour to assist them. Regardless of the danger of the attempt, he only listened to the call of glory; and this Melcour, whose cou­rage his brother officers had presumed to ques­tion, flew to the field of battle, performed pro­digies of valour, took one of the enemy's co­lours, and animating his countrymen by his example, they obtained the victory.

The general officer who commanded the de­tachment was charmed with the bravery of the young warrior, and earnestly desired to know his name. "Sir," he replied, "I will tell you who I am directly; but, will you give me leave first to ask, what is the immediate desti­nation of your detachment?" "It is going," said he, "to reinforce the neighbouring garri­son," (naming that which Melcour had left,) "of which I am to take the command." "Then, [Page 81] Sir," said Melcour, "if you will permit me, I will attend you thither, and receive there those marks of your approbation that you shall be pleased to honour me with."

They arrived. "Sir," said Melcour, "the only favour I ask of you, is to call together the officers of the regiment of ***" (that which he had quitted); they assembled, and Melcour appeared. "Behold, gentlemen," said he, "the unfortunate victim of a false ho­nour, to which you sacrifice every thing, though it often renders you cruel and unjust. Because I refused to stain my hands with the blood of a relation younger than myself, and who had ex­piated a very slight offence by the most unequi­vocal marks of sorrow and repentance; because I listened to the voice of religion and humanity; because I respected the laws, you have judged me unworthy to carry arms in the service of my country. Blinded by prejudice, you have dared to accuse me of cowardice. For that accusation I have taken ample revenge. These colours, taken from the enemy, are a suffici­ent testimony of my courage." His brother officers surrounded him, and embracing him, by the praises they lavished on him, and the ex­cuses they made, they atoned for the rash suspi­cions they had entertained of him.

The general, astonished and charmed with the behaviour of Melcour, pressed him to re­sume his rank for the present, till he could have an opportunity of reporting so gallant an action to the minister. Melcour yielded to his solici­tations, seconded by those of the officers of the regiment. "Accept," said the general, "that [Page 82] commission you was deprived of yesterday, as a tacit avowal of the injustice of that prejudice which condemned you, and may your example entirely root it out!" Then turning to the of­ficers who surrounded him, he added: "Let the behaviour of this virtuous young man teach you, for the future, not to accuse that person of cowardice, who, obedient to the laws of true honour, and of his country, refuses to become a murderer. Renounce, gentlemen, that fatal error, which shows you the man of true courage in him who is not afraid to wash out an injury in the blood of his fellow citizen: behold him rather in the person who has greatness of soul to be above the desire of revenge. For the fu­ture, defer your quarrels till the day of battle, and let the contests for superior resolution be decided in the face of the enemies of your king and country. Or, if the insult offered you is amenable to the laws, let the laws fix that ignominy on your adversary that his conduct may deserve. But, let your warmest praises be bestowed on Melcour, and on those who have the magnanimity to follow the example he has this day given us."

It is impossible to describe the transports of Florival during this affecting scene. From that moment he renounced his fatal errors, and, strictly keeping the solemn promises he had made to his friend, and profiting by his exam­ple, they both were raised to the highest stati­ons in the army, which they filled with the greatest honour to themselves, their family, and their country.

EMMELINE was the daughter of a gentleman of large fortune; she was always dressed in the most elegant manner; her nursery was filled with the most expensive toys, and she had se­veral servants to wait upon her. If she wished for any thing, however absurd in itself, or in­capable of pleasing her when obtained, yet Emmeline must be indulged. Not a servant in the house was suffered to contradict her, and [Page 84] sometimes, if they happened to displease her, she would scratch and beat them in the most violent manner. Notwithstanding her finery, and her superfluity of toys, notwithstanding she had every thing at her command which riches could procure, and every one was striving to make her happy, she was a most miserable lit­tle girl. Her tyrannical temper made her universally disliked, even by those who were obliged to be subservient to her, and her fret­fulness and ill humour was a constant thorn in her own bosom.

At the entrance of her father's park stood a lodge, which was inhabited by a poor man who had also one daughter. Little Jenny was one of the best tempered girls in the world; she was never seen crying and out of humour like Emmeline, but on the contrary, was civil and obliging to every body. There was not a ser­vant at the hall but loved her as if she had been their own child; and never did they go down to the lodge, but they were sure to carry her an apple, or a piece of plum-cake, or some­thing nice in their pockets. It frequently hap­pened that Jenny was sent for to play with Em­meline, which she did not like at all, for the young lady was so whimsical it was impossible to please her, and frequently would desire Jenny to do what was very improper. On such oc­casions she would never comply; for though she paid the haughty little girl every respect which was due to her rank, she never forgot what was due to herself: well knowing that a wrong ac­tion is equally culpable, whether the person who tempts us to commit it, be poor or rich. [Page 85] If in their play they happened to break any thing, Emmeline would desire Jenny to say it was one of the servants who did it; and when she refused to be guilty of so wicked an action, Emmeline would put herself in a violent passion, and frequently beat her. In short it is not to be conceived how disagreeable she made her­self. She was also very ignorant; she could neither read, nor write; for though she had several masters, not one of them attended her more than three or four lessons. Mrs. Gordon would not permit her to be reprimanded, and no one could long endure her unrestrained inso­lence. She was therefore unacquainted with the most common branches of learning, and when Jenny, who was nearly the same age, could read very well, Emmeline scarcely knew her letters. Jenny was one day as usual sent for to the hall, and when she arrived she found the young lady in the parlour with her Papa and Mama, who were endeavouring to divert her by a great variety of very pretty prints, which they had sent for from London. She looked at them a little time, and then being tired, tossed them away. Jenny took one to look at, when Emmeline snatching it from her, asked her how she dared touch it? ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Emmeline,’ said she ‘but I was only going to look at it.’

‘And who gave you leave? To be sure you are a mighty fine lady with your stuff gown to give yourself such airs.’

‘I thought, Miss Emmeline, you sent for me to play with you, and not to laugh at my dress; it is the best my father [Page 86] and mother can afford, and I am much obliged to them for it; many very good little girls have much worse.’

‘Well to be sure they must be very good, if they have not a gown.’

‘Can peoples' dress, Miss, make any difference in their goodness?’

‘Oh I do not know: pray don't ask me such questions. Come let us go and play.’

They went into the garden, accompanied by a servant, for Emmeline was never suffered to move without one. As they were running about, Emmeline happened to fall, and scratch her arm against a gooseberry bush. She im­mediately began to cry and shriek so loud, that in a few minutes her Papa, Mama, and half the servants came running to see what was the matter. Mrs. Gordon chided the servant very much for the accident, though she well knew it was in no servant's power to prevent her daugh­ter's doing what she liked. Mr. Gordon took her in his arms, and carried her into the house; but it was some hours before she could be paci­fied. Such was the child, whom unbounded indulgence had totally spoiled, for Emmeline had not naturally bad dispositions. With in­creasing years, her faults increased also, and her parents then began to see, and lament the folly of their conduct. Every pleasure, every comfort of their lives were totally destroyed. They could not enjoy their own home from the wretched temper of their daughter, nor were they happier when abroad, as their fears for her safety were ever awake. They knew no one [Page 87] could controul her, and that however dangerous what she had a fancy for, that, she would do. They were invited to spend a month at a gen­tleman's seat at some miles distance. Not with­out great reluctance did they accept the invita­tion; but at length it was determined Jenny should stay with Emmeline during their ab­sence. Poor Jenny dreaded the persecution she knew she must endure, and when she put on her bonnet to go to the hall, she could not help crying. The first day of her visit was spent much as usual; but the second, Emmeline was if possible, more ill-tempered than ever; and Jenny, tired beyond all endurance, thus ad­dressed her: ‘Miss Emmeline, I am come here, not because I wish it, but because your Mama, has desired it; do not therefore think that I will be treated in this manner. I know that I am poor, and you are rich; but yet, Miss Emmeline I would not change situations with you. Of what use to you is your rank, but to enable you to torment others, and to make every one as unhappy as yourself? I do not believe the poorest beggar suffers more than you do. You have riches, but you do not know how to enjoy them, and though you call yourself great, nobody loves you.’

This was language Emmeline had never be­fore heard; she would have uttered the effusi­ons of her passion, but shame kept her silent. She felt a sensation she had never experienced; and inferiority wholly new. How much did this little peasant appear superior to herself? how was all her boasted consequence dwindled to nothing?

[Page 88]Such is the power of Virtue, that even the wicked are awed by it. From that time Emme­line felt a veneration for Jenny she knew not how to account for. She saw how happy she always appeared, how much she was beloved, and in short, how different she was in every re­spect to herself. These reflexions first con­vinced her of her folly, in imagining she could ever be happy if she was not good. She re­solved to imitate the conduct she could not but admire, and, if possible, to become amiable. But she found this a very hard task; she had not only virtues to acquire, but faults to con­quer which ‘had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength.’ But yet, though it was difficult, it was not impossible; she told her resolution to Jenny, who could scarcely contain the raptures she felt at hearing this declaration; and she thought Emmeline had never appeared so lovely as in that moment. Her countenance was no longer clouded by frowns and tears; she began to feel what hap­piness virtue can bestow, and that it is she alone who makes us truly great.

Very often did she relapse into her former habits, but reflexion, by pointing out their fol­ly, and experience, by showing their misery, fortified her mind to resist their attacks; Jen­ny too was near, and assisted her to conquer them. Hitherto the profusion of money, which the too great indulgence of her parents had al­lowed her, had been spent in cakes, sugar-plums, and toys; but now, a new source of de­light was opened to her; she tasted the charms of benevolence, and her bosom was warmed by [Page 89] the emanations of charity. The poor of the village saw in her a rising benefactress, and the widow and the orphan prayed for her happiness. The servants too, whom she now treated in a very different manner, respected her as much as they had before despised her; and every one was eager to wait upon, and oblige her. As for Jenny, by whose example and advice the little tyrant had been reclaimed (for it was she who had taught her to pray Heaven to assist her good intentions) it is impossible to say with what warmth of affection she loved her. Her stay at the hall was no longer disagreeable to her, no longer occasioned dread and uneasiness.

Mr. and Mrs. Gordon had been persuaded by their friends to extend their visit a month longer. So uncomfortable was their own home, that they agreed to it with much less reluctance than they would otherwise have done. Two months, therefore, they had been absent, when they began to prepare for their return. The pleasure they would have felt in seeing Emme­line after this long absence, was much damped by the consciousness how ill she deserved their affection: yet themselves only had they to blame; for her heart was good, and naturally inclined to virtue; but so destructive are the consequences of unrestrained indulgence, that human nature is vitiated by it.

The first glance Emmeline caught of the car­riage among the trees, her heart began to beat with unusual sensations. She felt the painful emotions of conscious shame; she knew how ill she had requited the tenderness of her parents, and after a struggle with some few remaining [Page 90] sparks of pride, she determined to confess her faults, and entreat her parents' forgiveness. As soon as they entered the house, she express­ed in a manner very different from her former habits, the joy she felt at seeing them. They clasped her to their bosoms, and looked at each other in silent astonishment. They now began to display the profusion of toys, which they had brought her home, and asked her how she liked them? She made no answer, but bursting into an agony of tears, threw herself on her knees before them, and declared her conduct had hi­therto made her unworthy their goodness, but she would in future endeavour to deserve it more.

Inexpressible were the raptures of Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, they could not find words to de­clare their feelings, but each endeavoured to exceed the other in the most affectionate ca­resses. She now constituted their happiness as truly as she had before been the cause of their forrow. Her bad habits had been too long in­dulged to yield to any thing but time and re­solution; yet her relapses were short, and the contrition she felt, was her best security against their return. When her parents were informed it was to Jenny they were in a great measure in­debted for their daughter's reformation, they determined their gratitude should equal her virtue.

Emmeline had very soon a worthy woman provided as a governess for her, to whom she was docile, obedient, and attentive; and made so rapid a progress in her studies, that she asto­nished all who had known her former ignorance. [Page 91] Jenny was kept at the hall, and shared in the pleasure and instructions of her friend, to whom she every day became dearer.

From this story, my little readers may learn the benign influence of Virtue. Vain are rich­es, vain the boast of power without it! They can never raise any one so high as Virtue.

Let them consider Emmeline and Jenny. How much was the latter, though cloathed in the simplest manner, superior to her haughty friend, even when decked in the most costly at­tire! Let none then despise Poverty, it is often found the residence of Virtue. Let them pay to merit what is always its due, though found in the humblest walks of life. And let every one remember there is no real superiority but that of Goodness; and that it is equally the part of Wisdom and Virtue, to efface the wild ine­quality, the distinctions paid alone to rank and riches, which pride and folly have introduced into the world.

LUCRETIA was one fine morning walking in the fields with her Mama, when she took no­tice of several small masses of earth which seem­ed to have been purposely thrown up; ‘Pray, Mama,’ said she, ‘why do the people make these lumps? I think they are very ugly.’

‘They are ant-hills, and are formed by those little creatures you have sometimes seen in the garden.’

'And why do they make them?'

‘Look here; do not you observe several holes? Well, if you could see within those, you would behold a city.’

‘A city, Mama! are you not jok­ing?’

‘No, indeed I am very se­rious; and I assure you what I say is perfectly [Page 93] true. The ants dig some depth into the earth, and by throwing out the mould, as you here see, they leave a hollow space within.’

‘But does not the earth fall back again into the place underneath?’

‘It certainly would do so, if these ingenious little creatures did not con­trive a method to prevent it. They collect such pieces of stick as they judge necessary, which several of them carry to the spot where they intend to build their city; they then lay them across the top of their streets, forming by this means a roof. They also consolidate the earth with a kind of glue, and then cover the pieces of wood with moss, grass, or dry rushes.’

‘And is it possible, Mama, that these little creatures should be capable of do­ing so much?’

‘Yes, indeed it is, and even a great deal more; for they form these roofs in a shelving posture, by which means the current of water is turned from them. They divide their city into different depart­ments; lay up provisions of all kinds in their magazines, and conduct all their business with the greatest care and regularity. They are likewise the tenderest parents to their young, nurse them with the greatest affection, and amply supply all their wants.’

‘Really, Mama, it is very won­derful, but yet I can easily credit it; for I re­collect a few days since, when I was walking by the honey-suckle bower, I observed a vast number of ants crawling about. I stood [Page 94] some time to observe them, and I do assure you I saw one of them carry a part of a dead fly in its mouth.’

‘That is by no means un­common with them, for they are indefatiga­ble in their labours.’

‘I have often heard you say Mama, how much pleasure the study of natural his­tory afforded you. Will you teach me it? I am sure I should like it very much.’

‘Most readily: for there is no science which more strongly displays the wisdom and power of the creator. It is a sci­ence which ought to teach us humility, as it shows us the wonderful powers which some of the animal tribes possess; and as many of these are employed for our advantage, they ought to secure to their possessors the kindest treat­ment.’

The next morning Lucretia begged some grains of corn of one of the servants, with which she immediately hastened to the spot where she had before seen the ants. She laid her treasure on the ground, and in about a quarter of an hour several of these industrious insects came to it. Their numbers soon increased; she called her Mama to observe them, who told her, she had no doubt but this was nearly the whole co­lony, as it is well known the ants kept spies, whose business it was to discover any thing worth amassing, which was no sooner done than they gave information of it, and the whole party immediately sallied out.

Mrs. Mountain and her daughter stood some time to observe the little labourers, and saw [Page 95] them take all the corn to deposit it in their gran­aries. The pleasure of Lucretia was very great in beholding their industry, and she frequently placed corn or fruit that she might observe them carrying it away. Nor was her curiosity gra­tified, nor did her researches end here. Natu­ral history by degrees was familiar to her; bo­tany, that repository of wonder and pleasure, soon became the favorite study of her hours of recreation. Her mind being thus enriched with useful knowledge, no vacuum was left for those trifling amusements, which are equally a dis­grace to the head and heart.

Those who observe the beauties of Nature, who accustom themselves not merely to look at, but to see all around them, can never be at a loss for employment. Every bird that skims the air, every beast that ranges the field, will fur­nish them with sufficient amusement, and lead them to the contemplation of that Being whose wisdom and goodness are equally conspicuous in all that He has made.