HOSPITABLE MANSION

Of Mrs. Mills, at which they arrived to­wards evening the next day. It was situ­tuate in the most fruitful part of the county; on a rising ground, one side of which com­manded a view of distant hills and beauti­ful enclosures, and the other of a cheerful village, the inhabitants of which looked gay with health and industry. The re­ception of our travellers was the most ten­ter and affectionate; Mrs. Mills embraced her nephew and niece with tears of joy, and gently chid her brother for having so long estranged her from those in whom her heart was so deeply interested.

Clara and William, whose faults proceed­ed, not from a bad or insensible heart, but from an erroneous education, were touch­ed with her caresses, and the more so as they could not perceive in her countenance or manners the least trace of that austerity they had ridiculously attached to her cha­racter.

Mr. Clement, whose business required dispatch, staid only to take a slight refresh­ment, and again set forward on his journey, promising to render his absence as short as possible: for Clara, who, however recon­ciled [Page 9] to her aunt, could not over come the disgust she felt at the idea of passing a week without amusement, stept aside and private­ly entreated her father to short [...] the [...]ne of their penance.

Rest being the most desirable after a fa­tiguing journey, the young people were ear­ly conducted to bed, where they slept sound­ly till called upon to rise the next morn­ing.

William had for some time entertained himself in the garden when his aunt en­tered the breakfast-parlour; but it was not till repeatedly told, Mrs. Mills waited breakfast, that Clara was prevailed upon to get up and dress; the lady, however, re­ceived her with her usual kindness, and rea­dily accepting her apologies, they were soon seated at the breakfast table.

"Do you rise every morning so early, madam?" said Clara, upon her aunt ob­serving that she did not appear to have [...] come the fatigue of her journey.

"Certainly, my dear," replied Mrs. Mills; "one must be wholly insensible to the beauties of nature, to prefer a state of in­activity to the glorious contemplation of it on a fine summer's morning.

"I will answer for it," said William, archly, "that my sister, by her own con­sent, would not rise till ten or eleven o'clock for the finest sight in the world."

[Page 10] Clara coloured with vexation, and dart­ing a glance of displeasure at her brother, said, "he need not be so sharp upon her, for it was only since he had been at school that he was become such a mighty early riser.

William seeing his sister's displeasure, said, "he did not mean to offend her," and owned "he had once been as fond of his bed as she," but said "it was now as great a pain to him to lie late, as it had for­merly been to rise early."

Mrs. Mills observed, "that the habit of rising early was easily acquired," and said "she could not think we were authorized by our maker to waste those precious hours in sloth, which might be rendered benefici­al to ourselves, and useful to our fellow creatures."

"But do you not find the day very long, madam? said Clara.

"Not in the least," returned Mrs. Mills, "on the contrary I often find it too short to fulfil all the duties it necessarily brings along with it."

"Astonishing!" said Clara; how is it possible, madam, that you can employ your time? In London, where there are many things to amuse one, I am generally tired before night."

"From this," said Mrs. Mills, "I must [Page 11] judge that our amusements and pursuits dif­fer widely; I should ask my dear girl, in what yours consist? had we time to enter upon the subject; but a walk before the day be too far advanced to render it sultry, will, I think be agreeable."

The young people replied, "they should like it extremely, and in a few minutes, were ready to attend their good friend."

The fragance of the breeze, the harmony of the birds, and above all the kind conde­scension of Mrs. Mills, conspired to render the walk agreeable, and they continued it on the banks of a winding river, convers­ing on different subjects till the attention of Clara, whose observations did not in ge­neral extend beyond the fashion of a cap, or the colour of a ribbon, was attract­ed by the swarms of young fish that appeared in the shallow water. "I never, in my life," said she, "saw such numbers! look William, they are absolutely innu­merable; I suppose this river is remarkable for fish?"

"Remarkable!" said William, laughing, "why you may see as many in every river, if you have a mind to look."

"I do not believe that," said Clara; "I am sure I never walked by one where there were such quantities."

'Your attention, my dear,' said Mrs. [Page 12] Mills, "must have been directed another way; William is very right, there is nothing singular in what you see; innumerable as the young fry appear, many rivers produce more abundantly than this."

"Is it possible!" said she, and added, still fixing her eyes upon the water, "what prodigious quantities!"

"The increase is indeed wonderful," said Mrs. Mills, "but what may not be ex­pected when a single fish is capable of pro­ducing millions of its species."

"Millions!" exclaimed William and his sister at the same instant, "did you say mil­lions?"

"I did," replied Mrs. Mills; "the cod produces at a birth, eight or nine millions; the flounder above a million; the mackerel five hundred thousand; and as for the her­ring, Mr. Buffon, a great naturalist, suppo­ses that if a single one was left to multiply undisturbed for twenty years, it would pro­duce a progeny more numerous than the inhabitants of ten such globes, as this we live upon."

"Amazing" said Clara, "and how many different sorts of fish do you think there are, aunt?"

"To the best of my recollection," re­plied Mrs. Mills, "naturalists describe upwards of four hundred, but it is sup­posed [Page 13] that many more have escaped obser­vation."

"I wonder for my part," said Wil­liam, "they do not stop the course of the rivers."

"The greater part," resumed Mrs. Mills, "are confined to the sea, and would expire in fresh water; but such is their astonishing increase, that the ocean itself would be too limited to contain them, did not the exist­ence of one species depend on the destruc­tion of another."

"What, do they eat one another?"

"Yes;" replied Mrs. Mills, "it is com­puted that scarcely one in five thousand escapes the perils of its youth: the young fish become the prey of the older, and those that escape, in their turn, devour such as are smaller than themselves."

William was going to reply, but was prevented by his sister, who exclaimed, "what a leap that fish gave! I declare, it made me start; did you observe, madam, it jumped quite out of the water?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Mills, "but i [...] you ad­mire agility, what will you say to the sal­mon, which is frequently seen to throw itself up cataracts and precipices many yards high."

"Is that possible?"

"It is a fact well known," said Mrs. [Page 14] Mills; "the generality of fish, as I before observed to you, are confined to the sea; but a few quit the sea at certain seasons, to deposit their spawn in the gravelly beds of rivers: of this kind is the salmon, which upon these occasions will swim up rivers five hundred miles from the sea, and not only brave various enemies, but spring up cataracts and precipices of an amazing height, that interrupt its pro­gress."

"How surprising!"

"And are they as anxious to return to the sea?" asked William.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Mills, "equally so were they confined to the fresh water lon­ger than the time nature has appointed for the preservation of their species, it is prov­ed, by experience, that they become sick­ly, pine away, and expire the second year: the salmon, therefore, has no sooner depo­sited her eggs, which she does with great care in the gravelly bottom of the river, than she returns to the sea, if she escapes the various snares laid for her by the fish­ermen."

"Pray, aunt," said William, where is the salmon mostly caught?"

"We are chiefly," said Mrs. Mills, "sup­plied with this delicious fish from the ri­vers Tweed and Tyne; from whence it is [Page 15] no uncommon thing for a boat load to be taken at one draught. The trade of Ber­wick, a town on the borders of Scotland, and of Colraine, in Ireland, consists wholly in this article. A great quantity of the salmon annually caught is consumed fresh, and the rest is salted or pickled, and sent beyond sea."

"It is a little hard, poor fellows," said Clara, "to be caught after making so long a voyage, and encountering so many diffi­culties. How many miles, Madam, did you say they will swim from the sea?"

It is said," replied Mrs. Mills, "they will swim up rivers five hundred miles from it; but these voyages are nothing, when compared with those made by fish of ano­ther description: What do you think of the herring, which visit us every year from the furthest extremity of the North?"

"Why, do they, aunt?"

"Innumerable shoals of herring," said Mrs. Mills, "live in the seas near the North pole, which at certain seasons they quit, and descend in multitudes upon our coasts."

"They are great travellers indeed," said William. "I am studying geography."

"The cause of their leaving that retreat, where the severity of the climate secures them from the attacks of various enemies, [Page 16] is not ascertained: Some authors think their numbers oblige them to emigrate; others, that they take these long voyages to avoid the large fish that inhabit the frozen ocean; but the opinion more generally entertained is, that having exhausted the stock of in­ [...]ect-food, with which those seas abound, they travel southward in pursuit of a fresh supply, which awaits them at the time of their arrival in the British channel. What­ever be the cause, this perilous expedition seems to be undertaken with general con­sent, and performed with the utmost regu­larity. They assemble before they set out; separate into distinct shoals, and during the voyage not a straggler is seen from the ge­neral body. In June the main body arrives on our coasts; and though it has suffered much from the greedy inhabitants of the deep, many of which are said to devour barrels at a yawn, is so numerous as to alter the very appearance of the ocean, be­ing divided into distinct columns, five or six miles in length, and three or four broad."

"They must make fine work for fisher­men," said William.

"The Dutch," replied Mrs. Mills, chiefly monoplize the herring fishery: The English, however, yearly export great quan­tities, which are pickled, smoaked and sent to different parts of Europe."

[Page 17] "As Mrs. Mills and her young friends conversed thus, the sky became suddenly overcast, and they were glad to take shel­ter from a shower, beneath the branches of a spreading elm. Clara was extremely discomposed at the thoughts of being wet, and said she was sure she should get her death of cold, beside spoiling her new bon­net the first time of putting it on.

"I hope neither of these misfortunes will happen," said Mrs. Mills, with her usual cheerfulness: "This tree will afford us shelter for some time; and the shower is too violent to continue."

"Ah," said Clara, "it does not look as if it would cease: See it already begins to drip through the tree. Dear, what shall we do? I'm sure I shall get my death of cold."

"Do not alarm yourself, my dear," said Mrs. Mills. "When a misfortune can­not be avoided, the wisest way is to sub­mit to it with patience, and not to make it greater, by the supposition of evils that may never arrive, or if they do, that you cannot prevent."

As Mrs. Mills said this, they saw a little girl hastening to them, with a bundle almost as big as herself. "How do you do, Peg­gy?" said Mrs. Mills, when she came up to them.

[Page 18] The little girl made her best courtesy, and untying the bundle, "Please you, my lady," said she, "I saw you under the tree, as I came from school; so I made haste home, and have brought you my mo­ther's riding hood." Saying this, Peggy produced a long camblet cloak, with a hood large enough for an umbrella.—"Here is one too," said she, "for young madam; and if master would please to put on this coat.

"Thank you, my good girl," said Mrs. Mills, "these accommodations are very seasonable indeed.

Peggy then added; "My mother sends her duty to your ladyship, and says, if you would please to step to our cottage, I could go and tell Mr. John to come with the coach: she would have brought the things herself, but she has scalded her foot."

"Your mother is very considerate," said the lady. "I am sorry for her accident, and think we cannot do better than accept her invitation, as we are so far from home. What say you, my dears? Dame Bartlet's cottage is at hand; we can wait there till the shower is over, and the wet a little dri­ed off the ground."

The young people consented, and being equipt in the things Peggy had brought, made the best of their way to

THE COTTAGE,

where every thing wore the appearance of neatness and industry. Dame Bartlet, who, upon their entrance, was spinning, said, she hoped Mrs. Mills would not take it amiss that she did not get up to receive her; but that she supposed Peggy had mentioned her accident, or it must seem very strange that she did not come in person to offer her services.

Mrs. Mills replied, that the attention she had shewn was quite sufficient, and obliged her extremely.

"Ah! Madam," returned Dame Bartlet, "it would be very strange indeed, if me or my girl were wanting in any duty to a lady who has been so good to us."

Mrs. Mills now enquired into the state of Dame Bartlet's foot and recommended the treatment she thought salutary, desiring she would, in the afternoon, send Peggy to her for some balsam to apply to it. She then made enquiries after several sick villa­gers, which, she said, it was her design that day to visit, had not the rain prevented her walk being extended so far. Clara, in the mean while, who had never before seen a spinning wheel, was attentively surveying Dame Bartlet's. She admired with what [Page 20] dexterity the good woman drew the thread from the distaff, and declared she thought it must be a very pretty amusement.

"It was once," replied Mrs. Mills, "an employment of repute among persons of the first rank; at present it is, in general, con­fined to the lower and middling class of peo­ple, for many of whom the distaff provides a comfortable subsistence."

An hour-glass, which stood in the win­dow, was not less the object of William's attention; it was the first he had ever seen, and, before he enquired, he ventured many conjectures upon what might be its use. When Mrs. Mills explained to him in what manner it was calculated to measure time, he observed, that the people who in­vented it must have very little brains, for that it was not half so convenient as a watch.

"I agree with you," said Mrs. Mills, "that it is not so convenient as a watch; but cannot agree that the first inventor of the hour-glass discovered the least want of ingenuity.—Tell me, William, were you in an island where no watch or clock could be procured, what should you think of the hour-glass?"

"I believe, aunt," said William, a little ashamed of what he had said, "I should think it a great treasure; for I fancy it [Page 21] would be long enough before I should be able to make a watch or a clock."

"You see then," returned Mrs. Mills, "that we must not always despise an in­vention for its simplicity, and that the va­lue of things depend much upon time, place, and circumstance. It was long be­fore the hour glass fell into disuse, from the discovery of a more convenient mode of measuring time. In the first ages of Greece, it was customary for a person ap­pointed to the office, to ascend an eminence every day, in the midst of the city, and proclaim that the sun had reached the high­est point of the heavens; in other words, that it was noon. Sun-dials were after­wards invented, and in time gave place to still greater improvements. Clocks, though much inferior to those now in use, were produced, and in time carried to the perfection you so much admire. With res­pect to our own country; the ingenious art of clock-making was introduced into it, in 1622, by Hugens, a native of Hol­land."

At this moment Peggy, who had for some time disappeared, re-entered with a basket of mulberries she had been gather­ing.

"I see, Peggy," said Mrs. Mills, as the good girl set them before the young people, "that you still love to oblige."

[Page 22] Peggy's eyes sparkled with pleasure—she blushed—courtesied—smiled, and said she wished they had something better to offer.

Clara and her brother, who were ex­tremely fond of mulberries, immediately fell to; while Mrs. Mills, observing that the rain had ceased, said she would step to poor Susan Millstone's: "For," said she, "I hear the loss of her husband sets heavy on her."

"Ay, truly does it," said Dame Bart­let; "she has never held up her head since poor Ralph died. It is a pity she takes on so—she does nothing but cry—neglects her work; and as to her poor children, they would make your heart ache; she takes no thought of them.

"This is a sad account indeed," replied the lady, "I will go and see what can be done."

"Ah! Madam," said Dame Bartlet, "you carry comfort wherever you go."

During the absence of Mrs. Mills, Clara and her brother finished the mulberries, and gathered from Dame Bartlet, whose grateful heart longed to utter the praises of her benefactress, that she was indebted to Mrs. Mills for the cottage, with all that it contained, and indeed, she added, for every blessing she enjoyed: She was going, [Page 23] in the warmth of her heart, to enter into [...] particulars, had she not been pre­vented by the return of the lady.

"May I be so bold, Madam," said the good woman, "as to ask how you found poor Susan?"

"I found her, replied Mrs. Mills, "as you described, buried in grief; but have, I trust, left her more reconciled to her mis­fortunes."

At this instant a little girl broke abrupt­ly into the cottage. "O joy, joy, neigh­bour Bartlet," said she "mammy says she will go to work to-morrow, and Madam Mills says Jane and I shall go to school—and"—The child stopt, seeing her benefac­tress, and drew back confused.

The reader need not be told this was one of the poor woman's children whom the benevolent lady had just visited.

Mrs. Mills, whose benevolence was al­ways performed in secret, unwilling the subject should be further investigated, smi­led affably on the child, and observing that the day was far advanced, bade farewel to Peggy and her mother, and hastily left the cottage, followed by her nephew and niece.

In the course of their walk home, an ex­pression unguardedly escaped Clara, which strongly conveyed, that she thought her [Page 24] aunt condescended very much in visiting and speaking, in such familiar terms, to persons whose station in life was so much beneath her own.

Mrs. Mills immediately entered upon this subject, and observed in reply: That, in the eye of God, we were all equal: "He commands us," said she, to love our neigh­bour as ourselves without any previous dis­tinction, whether he be poor or rich, a me­chanic or a gentleman."

"To love our neighbour as ourselves," re­turned Clara pertly: "Do you think there ever was an instance of any one loving ano­ther as well as himself?"

"Many," said Mrs. Mills: "History abounds with examples that demonstrate the existence of such virtue. If you are at all acquainted with history, you cannot forget the friendship of Damon and Pythias, nor the noble conduct of Leonidas, and many heroes of antiquity, who devoted themselves to death for the service of their country."

Clara, ashamed to confess that she was totally unacquainted with history, was si­lent; but William, who was better inform­ed, acknowledged that those heroes might truly be said to love others as well, nay better, than themselves: but added, it was a long time since they lived.

[Page 25] "It is not on that account," said Mrs. Mills, "the less true that they did exist, and that the events recorded happened; but I could bring many examples from modern history to prove that it is possi­ble to love our neighbour as ourselves, nay, I can cite one, from a people we hold un­civilized, which happened within these last fifty years. Did you ever hear of the

CATARACT OF NIAGARA?"

"Never," replied Clara.

"Nor you, William?"

"Never."

"Well then," said Mrs. Mills; "ima­gine to yourself an immense river, in­creased by a number of lakes or rather seas falling perpendicular from a rock one hun­dred and thirty-seven feet high, and you will form an idea of the cataract of Nia­gara"

"I do think," said William, "I recol­lect Mr. Smyth, our geographical master's describing it: is it not in Canada, a pro­vince of North America?"

"It is," said Mrs. Mills; "and is esteemed one of the greatest curiosities in the world; for two leagues above the great fall, the river is interrupted by a va­riety of lesser falls, and runs with such ra­pidity, [Page 26] that the largest canoe would be overturned in an instant. Higher up the river is navigable, as you will find by the story I am going to relate.

"Two Indians went out one day in their canoe, at a sufficient distance from the ca­taract, to be, as they imagined, out of dan­ger; but having drank too frequently of some brandy they unfortunately had with them, the fumes of it created a drowsiness, and they were so imprudent as to stretch themselves at the bottom of the canoe, where they fell asleep.

"The canoe in the mean time, which they had been towing against the stream, drove back further and further, and would in a very short time have precipitated them down the fall, had not the noise of it, which is heard at the distance of six, and at certain times, fifteen leagues, awakened them. Figure to yourselves, my dear chil­dren, what must have been the feelings of the poor creatures at this moment; and how dearly they repented the intemperance which had hurried them into such danger, They exclaimed in an agony not to be ex­pressed, that they were lost; but exerted their strength to work the canoe towards an island which lies at the brink of the fall. Upon this, exhausted with labour and fatigue they at length landed; but up­on [Page 27] reflection were sensible that unless they could find means to escape from this island, they had only exchanged one kind of death for another, since they must unavoidably perish with hunger; the situation of the island, however, gave them some hopes; the lower end of it touches the precipice from whence the water falls, and divides the cataract in two parts; a space is con­sequently left between, where no water falls, and the rock is seen naked. Neces­sity supplied them with invention; they formed a ladder of the bark of the linden tree, and fastening one end of it to a tree that grew at the edge of the precipice, descended by it to the water below, into which they threw themselves, thinking, as it was not rapid in this part, to swim to shore."

"Had it been my case," said Clara, "I should rather have died of hunger in the island, than have attempted my escape that way."

"The Indians," said Mrs. Mills, "act­ed more wisely: while hope remains, it is our duty to exert our efforts to avert the misfortune that threatens us, when una­voidable, it is the highest wisdom to bear it with fortitude and resignation."

"And did they reach the shore, aunt?" said William.

[Page 28] "No," replied Mrs. Mills; "the wa­ters of the two cataracts, (for you know I told you one part of the fall was on one side of the island, and the other on the other) meeting, formed an eddy which, when they began to swim, threw them back with violence against the rock. They made repeated trials, but with the same ill success, till at length worn out with fa­tigue, their bodies much bruised, and the skin in many parts torn off, from the vio­lence with which they were constantly thrown against the rock, they were forced to climb up the ladder again, into the island, from which they now thought nothing but death could deliver them.

"Their hopes once more revived, when they perceived some Indians on the oppo­site shore. By signs and cries, they at last drew their attention; but such was the perilous situation of the island, that though they saw and pitied them, they gave them small hopes of assistance. The governor of the fort, however, being ac­quainted with their situation, humanely conceived a project for their deliverance. He reflected that the water on the eastern side of the island, notwithstanding it's ra­pidity, is shallow, and thought by the help of long poles pointed with iron, it might be possible to walk to the island. The [Page 29] difficulty was to find a person with suffi­cient courage and generosity to attempt their rescue at the hazard of his own life."

"Indeed," said Clara; "if their deli­verance depended upon that, I should have thought small hope remained of it."

"It was nevertheless effected," said Mrs. Mills; "two generous Indians under­took to execute the governor's project, re­solving to deliver their poor brethren, or to perish in the attempt."

"Is it possible?" said William; "what noble souls!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Mills; "they prepar­ed for their perilous expedition, and took leave of all their friends, as if they had been going to death: each was furnish­ed with two poles pointed with iron, which they set to the bottom of the stream, to keep them steady and support them against the current, which must otherwise have carried them along with it. In this manner they proceeded, and actually ar­rived at the island, where, delivering two of the poles to the poor Indians, who had now been nine days upon the island, and were almost starved to death, they all four returned safe to the shore they had left."

"What a providential escape!" said [Page 30] William; "how rejoiced the poor fellows must have been to receive the poles that were to assist them in getting away!"

"Their joy," said Mrs. Mills, "on the prospect of their deliverance, must certain­ly have been great, but I will venture to affirm, it did not exceed that, of the gene­rous Indians, who hazarded their lives to effect it."

"It must certainly," said William, "have given them great pleasure, but what a risk they ran!"

"True" said Mrs. Mills, "but on the other hand, what a gratification! do you think there could be a pleasure equal to that felt by the generous Indians, when they effected the deliverance of their poor country-men."

"They were certainly noble creatures," said Clara, "one does not often hear, even in civilized countries, of persons who act so disinterestedly."

"Though instances of such generosity," said Mrs. Mills, "do not occur daily, they are, nevertheless, more frequent than we are aware of.

"Do you think so?" said William.

"Yes;" replied Mrs. Mills, "the most generous actions, are performed in secret, and shun the noise of public fame; on this account, it is, that they do not so often [Page 31] come under our observation. I know, ne­vertheless, of several that might be put in­to competition with this, I have just reci­ted: one in particular, at this moment, oc­curs to my remembrance."

"Dear aunt," said William, and his sis­ter, at the same instant, "do relate it?"

"The fact I allude to," said Mrs. Mills, "happened within these seven or eight years in France, at a place called Noyon. Four men, who were employed in clean­sing a common sewer, upon opening a drain, were so affected by the foetid vapours, that they were unable to return. The lateness of the hour (for it was eleven at night) rendered it difficult to procure assistance, and the delay must have been fatal, had not a young girl, a servant in the family, with courage and humanity, that would have done honour to the most elevated station, at the hazard of her own life, attempted their deliverance. This

GENEROUS GIRL,

who was only 17 years of age, was, at her request, let down seven different times, to the poor men, by a rope, and was so for­tunate as to save two or them pretty easily; but, in tying the third to a rope, which was let down to her for that purpose, she [Page 32] found her breath failing, and was so much affected by the vapour, as to be in danger of suffocation. In this dreadful situation, she had the presence of mind to tye herself by her hair to the rope, and was drawn up almost expiring with the poor man, in whose behalf she had so humanely exerted herself.

"I will answer for it," said Clara, "she had not courage to venture down for the other."

"You are mistaken," said Mrs. Mills, "far from being intimidated, the moment she recovered her spirits, she insisted upon being let down for the poor creature that remained, which she actually was; but her exertions at this time failed of success; the poor man being drawn up dead."

"Is this really a true story?" said Clara. "It is an undoubted fact," said Mrs. Mills; "the corporation of the town of Noyon, as a small token of their approbation, pre­sented the generous girl with six hundred livres, and conferred on her, the civic crown, with a medal, engraven with the arms of the town, her name, and a narra­tive of the actions. It is also said, that the Duke of Orleans sent her five hundred livres, and settled two hundred yearly on her for life."

[Page 33] "But to return," said Mrs. Mills, to our first point: these, and many more examples of the same kind, that I could prove, that when our blessed Lord commands us to love our neighbour as ourselves, he does not exact that which is beyond the ability of his creatures to perform.

"Why, to be sure," said Clara, "both the Indians and the generous girl, you have just mentioned, may truly be said to love their neighbour as themselves; but it is much more easy to admire than to imitate."

"Very true Clara," replied William, "I am sure, though I should have pitied the poor m [...]n in danger of suffocation, and the Indians who were left on the island, I never should have had courage to deliver them at the risk of my own life."

"Had you thought it your duty, my dear William," said Mrs. Mills, "to hazard your life, in such a cause, I hope God, (without whose assistance, we can do no­thing,) would have given you strength and courage to perform it. We are not all cal­led to a station of such danger, though all to display our love to our neighbour, ac­cording to our situation and ability; we who are blest with affluence, more imme­diately in acts of charity and beneficence. Nor is this alone sufficient; we must bear with the infirmities of our neighbour, re­prove [Page 34] his faults with mildness; comfort him in his affliction; and be at all times ready to rejoice in and promote his felicity. Nor are opportunities, wanting in which the poor, as well as the rich, may sh [...]w their obedience to the divine command: Peggy Bartlet, whom we had just left, is an example of this; you would scarcely credit, of what consequence that poor child is to the whole neighbourhood: If a neigh­bour fall sick, Peggy is immediately at hand, to run for the Doctor to quiet the children, or to perform any little office of kindness within her power. If she is from school, and unemployed by her mother, the wheel of Dame Grimestone, their next neighbour, who has a large family, never stood still. If any difference happen among her companions, Peggy is the first to set on foot a reconciliation; and as for the chil­dren of Robert Gould, a poor labourer, who lives within a few doors of them, Peggy has already taught two of them to read, and a third nearly to say the al­phabet. In short, she never lets slip an op­portunity, in which she can render herself useful, and by this means, does more good within her little circle, than those, whose abilities are more extensive.

"I liked her," said William, "from the very first, she looked so good▪ natured, and was so civil."

[Page 35] "Yes," returned Mrs. Mills, "and her civility springs wholly from the goodness of her heart."

"Is her father yet alive?" asked Clara.

"No," said Mrs. Mills; "he died when she was scarcely a twelthmonth old, leav­ing his widow in great distress."

"Ah!" said William' "now I under­stand; you have taken care of them ever since. Dame Bartlet told us, that, next to God, she owed every thing to you aunt."

"You are mistaken, my dear William," said Mrs. Mills, "my knowledge of Peggy and her mother has been recent. It is not more than two years since an event in which the goodness of their hearts was sig­nally displayed, recommended them to my notice, and gave rise to those little ser­vices which their gratitude so far over-rates."

"Pray, aunt," said Clara, "what was the circumstance."

"To answer your question," said Mrs. Mills, "I must enter into a detail longer than the present time will permit."

"O now," said William "you have rai­sed our curiosity. Do tell us—I know it is something interesting."

"My dear boy," said Mrs. Mills, "we are already at home—another time—"

[Page 36] Before she could finish the sentence, the gate opened, and Clara, upon entering the hall, perceived the hand of the clock upon the stroke of three; little time remained for the toilet: she hastened into her dres­sing room, and found it was possible to com­plete that which commonly took up two hours, equally as well in twenty minutes.

Dinner being over, and the desert re­moved, the young people, who had not for­gotten the subject of their last conversation again renewed it, and requested Mrs. Mills, to recount the circumstance that first re­commended Peggy Bartlet to her notice.

"My dear children," said Mrs. Mills, "since you desire it, I shall willingly satis­fy your curiosity, though my narrative may afford you small entertainment. Saying this, she began

THE LITTLE VILLAGER.

"Do not say so," said the little girl, 'I bring you nothing but what we can very well spare—and—'

"O yes," said the poor woman, 'so you would make us believe. This mattress and these blankets you can very well spare, though we know you have nothing but a rug and the ground for yourselves!'

"Do not be uneasy about that," said the child, 'we sleep much easier upon the rug than we should on the mattress, if we knew you wanted one.' Saying this, she threw off her cloak, and taking some dry sticks out of her basket, set them alight in the chimney, and prepared to boil the eggs. The door being half shut, I had continued an unseen spectator of all that passed; I now thought it time to enter, and gave a soft rap.

[Page 39] "I understood, in general terms, upon my entrance, that a series of misfortunes had reduced this unhappy pair to their pre­sent miserable condition; but it was not a time to require particulars; their situation called for immediate redress."

"And I am sure aunt," said William, "you did not refuse it."

"If I had, William, I must have been unworthy the affluence with which Provi­dence has blessed me," said Mrs. Mills; "but with respect to the poor man, assis­tance came too late; notwithstanding the humane exertions of Mr. Benson, our apo­thecary, who, at my request, went imme­diately, he did not survive till the next morning; and grief increased the fever of the woman so much, that it was not till some days after, Mr. Benson could give hopes of her recovery. Time and reflec­tion, however, composed her mind; the fever abated, and she gathered strength daily. As she had been removed to my house, I had frequent opportunities of see­ing her, and thought I observed in her something above the vulgar; not that there was any thing in her deportment unbecom­ing or inconsistent with an humble station; but her sentiments, though plain and una­dorned, were expressed with a propriety seldom met with in low life: She appeared to be well acquainted with the Scriptures [Page 40] and with several books of divinity, and an unaffected strain of piety prevailed in her discourse, that interested me very much.

[Page 46] "The grief of the poor child," said Mrs. Brown, "affected me so much, that I could not forbear mingling my tears with hers, and for some minutes, our hearts were so full, that neither of us could speak: at last, she broke abruptly from me, and taking the path toward home, I thought of seeing her no more that night; but I was mistaken, about an hour and a half after, a soft rap came to the door; I opened it, and was not a little surprized to find there Peggy and her mother, each charged with a load they could scarcely stand under; would you be­lieve it, Madam, they had brought us their mattress and blankets! and actually, till your bounty, made it unnecessary, lay on the ground themselves. I begged, and so did my poor husband, that they would take them back, but it was all to no purpose: hea­ven be praised, they said, they had found us out, and had a mattress and blankets for us. Nor was this all, I soon grew so ill, that I could not, as usual, go to work, and then Madam, we must have starved, had it not been for these good creatures, who, I am certain, often went without necessaries themselves, that they might supply us with what they fancied we could eat.

The good woman herself was obliged to keep close to work, but Peggy constantly slaved to us twice, and sometimes three [Page 47] times a-day. She never came empty-hand­ed; if it were but a few sticks she had pick­ed up by the way, to make us a little fire, she had always something: and endeavour­ed to alleviate our distress by a thousand kind attentions.

"Indeed, madam," said Mrs. Brown, "had it not been for those good people, we must have been lost for want. I can never forget their kindness."

"This account," continued Mrs. Mills, "raised Dame Bartlet and Peggy high in my esteem: I wished to see them, and one day took a ride to the village where they lived. Upon enquiry, I found, as Mrs. Brown had before told me, that dame Bart­let was the widow of a poor weaver; that by dint of hard labour, she supported her­self and child, and paid for a room, or ra­ther garret. I learnt further, that she had not always been accustomed to labour with­out doors; but that two years before, she had the misfortune to be robbed of her spinning-wheel, which before supported her, and since that time, she was glad to weed, chare, or do any thing to earn an honest penny. The cottage, which we this morning visited, happened at that time to be vacant, and I thought it could not be occupied by more worthy inhabitants. I, therefore, asked dame Bartlet, if she would [Page 48] like to remove to it? she was rejoiced at the proposal, and when, I added, I would furnish it, and purchase a spinning-wheel, Peggy and she were nearly out of their wits with joy. I need not tell you, I was as good as my word; a fortnight after, they removed to the cottage, and have since oc­cupied it. An opportunity, also, soon offer­ed of placing Mrs. Brown in a station to which she does great credit; we have a school of industry in the village, the mistress of which dying, Mrs. Brown supplies her place. Peggy attends the school, and tho' Mrs. Brown is too just to let her partiality appear at improper times, I am certain, she entertains the same affection for her, as if she were her own child."

Mrs. Mills concluded her narrative, as the servant brought in tea. A walk upon the lawn occupied the time, till the bell rung for supper, after which, the whole fa­mily being assembled, the day was as usual, concluded in prayer and thanksgiving.

The next morning, Clara rose at a more early hour, and took care to be ready to receive her aunt in the breakfast parlour. Having taken their tea and chocolate, Mrs. Mills acquainted her young friends, that she was going to visit her bees, and invited them to accompany her. They all three, then took their way to

THE APIARY.

at which, they presently arrived. Among the hives, was one different to the rest; Clara observed it, and enquired the reason?

"That hive, my dear," said Mrs. Mills, was constructed by my own directions; you see it is chiefly of glass: I spend many hours in observing the little busy people that in­habit it."

"I have been told aunt," said William, "that bees have a queen; is it true?"

"It is;" said Mrs. Mills, "and what is more, this queen has a palace, guards to attend her, and subjects over whom she reigns as absolute."

You are jesting with us, aunt?

"I am perfectly serious," replied Mrs. Mills: "In every swarm, there are three sorts of bees; the working bee, the drone which is supposed to be the male, and the queen, which is longer and more beautiful than the rest, and is the mother of the whole swarm."

But you said the queen had a palace.

She has a cell proportionable to her size, raised from a large foundation, either on the flat or edge of the comb, and different­ly formed from the rest. This I think, may, with no great impropriety be called her pa­lace. She generally keeps herself retired in [Page 50] the upper apartments of the comb, and whenever she appears in public, which is generally to deposit her eggs, is attended by several large bees, if not by the whole swarm, who flutter their wings, and ap­pear all in transport.

"You were very right indeed aunt, said William, "to say that the queen had her palace and her guards; how wonderful!"

"The attachment of the whole swarm to the queen bee," said Mrs. Mills, "is in­deed, wonderful: an author, who has given us many curious particulars concerning these insects, relates, that having once an inclination to prove, how far this surpriz­ing instinct, would influence them, he took a swarm of bees that had been hived the day before, and having shook them in a lump, on a grass plot, seperated the queen bee from the rest, cilpt one of her wings, and kept her in a box apart. A general confusion immediately took place, contrary to their usual custom, which is to cluster together, the bees immediately scattered themselves over the grass, and flew here and there in pursuit of their queen with a piteous discontented noise. When the box, in which she was confined, was opened, a different scene took place; they immediately gathered together from all parts, and in less than a quarter of an hour, the whole swarm [Page 51] clustered around it, waiting till the queen, as usual, should lead them to some place for their common preservation.

But the poor queen, was unable to rise; and her faithful subjects, chose rather to die with her, than to desert her, for tho' pinched with hunger, they would not fly to get any food. Nor was the affection of the queen less to her subjects: when sepa­rated from them, she refused the honey that was repeatedly offered her. I am sure, you will be sorry to hear, that having continued four days, without tasting any food, they all literally died by famine, except the queen, who lived only a few hours after^*"

"Ah!" said William, "how I should have grieved; it was a cruel experiment, but a convincing proof, that animals have reason.

"Hold, my dear William," said Mrs. Mills, "be cautious of falling into so gross an error. Though the order and seeming rationally, which is discerned in the animal creation, cannot fail of raising our ideas of that Being, whose wisdom is displayed in the minutest of his works, let us not imagine he has bestowed on them that superior fa­culty man alone enjoys. The little busy creatures of whom we speak, however [Page 52] wonderful their labours and economy, act by stated laws which providence has implanted in their nature: insensible of good and evil, they are impelled only to the performance of that which is necessary to their preservation, or the wise purposes for which they are cre­ated."

At this instant the attention of William was attracted by a bee returning to the hive, and he exclaimed, "look, aunt at that bee, it is so loaded, it can scarcely fly."

"It is indeed well laden," said Mrs. Mills, "but will soon be eased of its bur­den; observe, William, it is now at the en­trance of the hive, and is met by several bees, who are busily employed in assisting it to unload."

"Is that what they are about?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Mills; "they will swal­low the little pellets the other has collected, and in their stomachs they will acquire the consistence of wax, which will afterward be cast up and turned over to other bees, whose business it is to knead it, and spread it into different sheets, laid one upon ano­ther."

"Well," said Clara, "it is astonishing! but how do they collect the little pellets?"

"They collect the yellow dust of flowers in the hairs of their body? then brush themselves and form the grains into pellets. The honey is collected by a sort of trunk; [Page 53] a small part of it goes to support the bee, and the rest is preserved in a little bag, with which nature has furnished her sto­mach, to be cast up and deposited, after­wards, in magazines for the support of the community?"

"But I cannot conceive, aunt," said Clara, "of what service the wax can be; do they eat it?"

"With the wax," said Mrs. Mills, "they build their habitations, and seal up the honey in their cells; they also mix it with honey, to make bee-bread for the sup­port of their young."

"Well," said Clara, "I was never more interested in my life in any story than in the account you have given us of these dear little creatures: If they have not reason, I am sure they have a much larger share of instinct than any other creature."

"They certainly have," said William.

"A sufficient portion of this principle," said Mrs. Mills, "is visible in the meanest insect to raise our admiration of the su­preme Being. It is certain none can ex­ceed the bee, whose economy presents us with a useful lesson, and whose labours with a food wholesome and delicious; but were you to look into the history of the minutest insects, you would be sensible that this wonderful property is not bestowed parti­ally; [Page 54] each is furnished with it in propor­tion to its wants. I could mention many—O, here is one at hand to my purpose. Let us stop a moment at this rose bush, and observe with what admirable dexterity

THE SPIDER:

"A spider," exclaimed Clara, starting on one side—"I am so frightened!"

"Do not alarm yourselves, my dear," said Mrs. Mills, "I am not going to put the poor thing upon you, and I am sure it will sooner run from you, than to you."

"O," said Clara, "I am so terrified! I have such an aversion to spiders!"

"On what account, my dear," said Mrs. Mills? "Let us take the other path, and talk this matter coolly over. Tell me from what does your aversion to these in­offensive insects arise?"

"O la! aunt, I can't tell; they are such ugly creatures, the very thought of them makes me shudder."

"But, my dear child, if you have no better reason for disliking them, you must allow me to say, it is a prejudice which a little resolution would enable you to sur­mount."

"O aunt," replied Clara, "it is impossible I should ever endure the sight of a spider: [Page 55] I took a dislike to them when I was a very little girl; and I am certain, if one was to be put upon me, I should fall into fits."

"If you think so," said Mrs. Mills, "it is your duty to surmount a prejudice, acci­dent might render so fatal to you."

"O dear," said Clara, "it would be in vain for me to try; when people have such an antipathy to a thing, it is impossible to overcome it."

"If I convince you," said Mrs. Mills, "that it is possible to overcome such an antipathy, will you promise me to use your endeavours to get the better of your dis­like to spiders?"

"I have the greatest opinion of what you say, Madam," said Clara, "but I own, I do not think you will ever convince me it is possible to overcome a dislike where it is so strong as mine to spiders."

"But, if you should be convinced, will you promise me to use your endeavours?"

"If you desire it, Madam."

"Well then," said Mrs. Mills, "I will recount an anecdote that must convince you an antipathy is really to be overcome."

"O," said William, drawing close to his aunt, "I am glad we are going to have a story: I do so love stories!"

"This I am going to relate," said Mrs. Mills, "has the merit of truth: you have, [Page 56] without doubt, heard of Peter the Great, Czar of Muscovy."

"Yes," replied William; "he founded the city of Petersburg."

"He did so," replied Mrs. Mills, "and enacted many useful laws, which justly ac­quired him the surname of Great. But to my story: This great man, in his child­hood, had so great an antipathy to water, that he could not endure to approach even within sight of it."

"Well," said Clara, "that was the most strange antipathy I ever heard of: how ridiculous! to be afraid of water!"

"Pardon me, my dear girl," said Mrs. Mills, "if I cannot see any thing more absurd, in the Czar's antipathy to water, than in yours to a spider—but, however, you shall hear my story. This antipathy, which must have been an insuperable bar to all his warlike atchievements."—

"How so, aunt," interrupted William; "I do not comprehend what his dislike to water had to do with his battles."

"I see, William," said Mrs. Mills, "smi­ling, that you are no soldier; do you ima­gine he could make one campaign, without having occasion to pass a river, or at least, to encamp on the banks of it, which, was almost as dreadful to him?"

[Page 57] "To be sure he could not," said Wil­liam, "striking his forehead, what a fool I was!

"Well," rejoined Mrs. Mills, "this infirmity, which would have given his ene­mies so evident an advantage over him was happily overcome by the address of one of his courtiers."

"One fine day, Prince Galliezin, his governor, and chief favourite, persuaded him to ride into the country, upon a hunting party, without informing him, there was a brook near the place. After a little diversion, the favourite cried, what, hot weather! O that there was a river at hand, that I might jump in and bathe! How said the young Czar, would you kill yourself? Galliezin answered, I have fre­quently bathed with your father, and yet your majesty sees me alive. Nothing can be more wholesome in sultry weather. The Czar was surprized, and coldly re­plied, I have heard, that people are fre­quently drowned. Ay, said the favourite, but not in water scarcely so high as one's knees. If you please, sir, I will send some body to look for a stream, that you may see it possible to bathe without drowning. The brook was easily found; the Czar rode toward it trembling, and stopped his horse at a distance. Galliezen ordered [Page 58] some men to cross it backward and for­ward, on horseback; upon which, the Czar ventured to ride nearer. Galliezen see­ing this, rode through himself, and order­ed some of his people to cross it. They did; the Czar admired at what he saw: but, at last, had the courage to ride his own horse over: Pleased at what he had performed, he from that time, used him­self to the water, till by degrees, he got rid of this troublesome antipathy, which was occasioned by a fright, in his infan­cy." "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Mills, "is it, or is it not possible to overcome an aversion?"

"There is no arguing against facts so convincing," said Clara, "if this story is true—

It is recorded in the life of Peter the Great, interrupted Mrs. Mills, if it will afford you the least satisfaction, I will shew it you when we return to the house, nearly in the words I have related it. Dear Madam, said Clara, you cannot think I doubt what you say.

"Well then, said Mrs. Mills, I may claim your promise."

"Yes," said Clara, but I have such a dislike to a spider! I have always avoided them, and Jane, my mamma's maid, know­ing how terrified I was, was always up­on [Page 59] the look out, that I might not be a­larmed.

"These very precautions, my dear," said Mrs. Mills, "have increased your dislike; by constantly avoiding the sight of the object, which disgusts you, your imagination has painted its deformity great­er than the reality.

"La! sister," said William, "there is no harm in a spider: you may easily get the better of such foolish dislike if you try; let me go and fetch one; you shall see me handle it; I am not afraid.

"Oh for heaven sake," said Clara, catch­ing hold of him, and turning pale with ter­ror, "stop."

"Hold William," said Mrs. Mills, "be not in such haste."

"Well," said William, "I have done, I only wanted to use my sister to a spider; if once she could be persuaded to touch one, the business would be done.

"You must remember, William," re­plied Mrs. Mills, "that the courtier, who so happily cured the infirmity of Peter the Great, acted with some address; had he, instead of inviting him to enjoy the cool­ness of the river, [...]uddenly plunged him into it, 'tis probable he would have strengthened, instead of surmounting his prejudice.

[Page 60] I remember a person who had [...]its to the day of her death, from a frog, to which she had a particular dislike, being in jest, put upon her neck. People who commit this sort of violence, on the feelings of others, I am sorry to say, (I do not mean that it is your case William), are rather de­sirous of diverting themselves, than of be­nefiting their friends.

There is something very inhuman in thus sporting with the infirmities of others; but let us take the next path.

"But the spider, aunt," said Clara, alarm­ed,—"we must pass so close—indeed, I cannot venture."

"Nay, now, my dear," said Mrs. Mills, "do not yield to an idle conceit, which your better judgment must condemn; re­collect, that you are not going to encoun­ter a Hyaena, or a Rhinoceros, but to look upon an inoffensive insect, to whose exis­tence, it is in your power, in an instant to put an end, and whose ingenuity is de­serving your highest admiration."

"But may I be sure, madam, that you will not suffer it to crawl upon me," said Clara; "and that you, William, will not play me any trick?" "I will engage for William," replied Mrs. Mills, "and sure­ly, you may rely upon me, after what I have said."

[Page 61] "Well then;" said Clara, "but let me go on this side—now be sure, William, you do not play me any trick."

"Not I," said William; "but you must not be angry, if I cannot help laugh­ing to see you so foolish." They now came in sight of the bush, where the poor spider, little conscious of the terror it inspired, had half formed its curious web. When Cla­ra beheld it, with such agility, run from side to side of the branch, upon which it was weaving its subtile snare, she started back, and it was some time before she could be prevailed upon to advance: how­ever, encouraged by Mrs. Mills, and a lit­tle ashamed by the raillery of her brother, she approached so near, as to see distinctly the whole progress of its ingenious labours. At first, her heart beat—she declared it made her shudder,—she had never, in her life, looked so long upon a spider—by de­grees, she became more calm, and at length, protested, it was not so ugly as she imagi­ned—really, the body was very handsome­ly speckled, and as for the web, it was as­tonishing from whence the thread, with which it was woven, could come." "The spider," said Mrs. Mills, "has, at the ex­tremity of her body, five openings, through which she distills at pleasure, a clammy glew: this forms the thread, which length­ens [Page 62] in proportion to her distance, from the place where she first fastens it. When she closes these openings, the thread, no longer extends, and she remains suspended in the air. Observe, Clara, she makes use of the thread, for her ascent, grasping it in her paws, as we should a rope with our hands and feet."

"Well, really," said Clara, "it is very curious, I should like to see in what manner the web is first begun; this is half finished."

"It will be well worth your attention, at another opportunity," said Mrs. Mills.

"Is the web begun in the middle?" asked Clara.

"That cannot be practicable," said Mrs. Mills, "you see it is suspended between two branches, the spider, therefore, would have no resting place."

"Very true, aunt," said William, "I never thought about it before, but really, I cannot conceive, in what part of the web, the spider can possibly begin."

"It is a question," replied Mrs. Mills, "that might have puzzled wiser heads than yours William, had not experience and observations fully discovered it. When the garden spider, for there are many kinds of spiders, begins its web, it places itself upon the end of a branch, and there fastens several threads, which it lengthens to two [Page 63] or more ells, leaving them to float in the air: these threads are wafted by the wind, from one side to another, and lodged either on a house, pole, or the opposite branch, where they are fastened by their natural glew. The spider then draws them to her, to try that they be well fixed, and they be­come a bridge for her to pass and repass at pleasure; she then marches to the middle of this thread, and adds to it another, by the help of which she descends, till she meets with a solid body to rest upon, or leaves it as the first floating in the air, to the direction of chance; in the same manner other threads are drawn from the centre, and there again, as you see, crossed. But I will leave the rest to your own observation, which will imform you more agreeably."

"Well," said William, "it must be owned the spider is a very ingenious creature; I should have puzzled my head for a month, and not guessed how she began her web."

"Nor I," said Clara, "but pray Madam, what is the use of the web, when it is made?"

"Why," said William, bursting into a fit of laughter, "don't you know, that spi­ders spread their webs to catch flies?"

"If I had known," replied Clara some­what piqued, "I should not have asked the question."

[Page 64] "There is no disgrace," said Mrs. Mills, "in not knowing a thing, the disgrace is in not wishing to be informed."

"I did not mean to offend my sister," said William, "only it was so droll, to hear her ask, what spiders spread their webs for."

"You know William," said Clara, "that my mamma always ordered the ser­vants to take particular care, that I should not be alarmed, with the sight of a spider, so you need not be so very sharp upon me."

"Well," said William, "I beg your par­don, sister, I will be more careful in fu­ture."

And do spiders really feed on flies, Madam? "Undoubtedly," said Mrs. Mills.

"Well then," said Clara, "if the spider is an ingenious creature, you must allow that she is very cruel."

"Pray, my dear, what do you understand by the word cruelty?"

"Why," said Clara, "I think it is cruel to put an innocent thing to death."

"By cruelty," said Mrs. Mills, "I under­stand, that depraved inclination which cau­ses us to inflict a pang wantonly; or unne­cessarily to deprive any creature of life: now the spider seizes the prey which nature has made necessary to her existence; she cannot, than, any more be chargeable with cruelty, than other animals, man himself, not except­ed, [Page 65] for whose use innumerable creatures are daily doomed to suffer. We may grieve for the sufferings of the poor fly within the grasp of its enemy, but 'tis unjust for our re­sentment, to rise against the spider, who acts only in conformity to the stated laws, pro­vidence has implanted in its nature.

However, if you accuse the spider of cru­elty, she has one quality, which cannot fail of meeting your approbation; I mean her attention to her young, which is so great, that she will incur every danger sooner than forsake them. She carefully wraps her eggs in a web of astonishing strength, which she fastens to a wall, or a leaf, and watches with unremitted solicitude: if danger is at hand, her first care is to pull down the sacred de­posite and escape with it. There is one kind of spider, which has recourse to a very in­genious expedient for the preservation of her eggs, she suspends her bag eggs in some little aperture, perhaps of a wall, by a thread, and before them in the same manner, a little packet of dried leaves, which, by constant­ly swinging about at the entrance, prevent the birds and wasps, who are upon the watch for the eggs, from discovering them."

Well, that is indeed an ingenious contri­vance

When the little spiders are hatched, the mother carries them upon her back, and dis­covers [Page 66] her tenderness by a thousand soli­citudes: but, come my dear, let us walk on, our spider has compleated her web, and I think you are convinced it is possible to look upon one, without fainting or falling into fits.

"Indeed, Madam," said Clara, "I am; and feel so far reconciled to the sight of what I once so much dreaded, that I think, in time, it might be possible for me to see a spider crawling on my hand, with as little concern as I have felt in hearing it named."

"You see, my dear," said Mrs. Mills, "what a little resolution and proper reflec­tion will accomplish; but to this habit, which, in these cases, is often more power­ful than reason itself, must be joined by fre­quently accustoming yourself to look at, and examine a spider, when you consider that its deformities will grow familiar, and your disgust wear away."

"Well, aunt," said Clara, "I am resolv­ed, as this is the case, to pay my respects e­very day, while I am here, to the spiders that inhabit your garden."

"It is the resolution of a sensible girl," said Mrs. Mills, "but what is William exa­mining with such attention?"

"Bless me," said Clara, "what a

BEAUTIFUL CATERPILLAR!

where did you find it William?

[Page 67] "I found it," replied William, "at the foot of this tree. Pray Madam, continued he, turning to his aunt, is not this the caterpil­lar, that changes to the peacock butterfly?"

"It is," said Mrs. Mills, "and is proba­bly preparing for its change."

"It must be a very curious change," said Clara: "it puts one in mind of the trans­formations, one reads of, in the tales of the fairies."

"I know of nothing recorded in tales of the fairies," said Mrs. Mills, "more won­derful than the operations of nature, but familiarity causes us too often to view the most interesting objects with indifference."

"But pray, Madam." said Clara, "is it not strange, that one never sees a caterpillar actually changing into a butterfly?"

"When we return to the garden," said Mrs. Mills, "I dare say, William will gra­tify you with the sight of a Chrysalis."

Pray what is that?

"Why, surely," said Mrs. Mills, "my dear girl, you did not expect to see this change, wrought in an instant; the opera­tions of nature, are all effected by regular and imperceptible gradations; the oak did not on a sudden acquire its strength and stateliness, yet it was once an acorn in the bowels of the earth. Toward the close of summer, these little creatures being sati­ated [Page 68] with the verdure nature has provided for their subsistence, cease to eat, and em­ploy themselves in building a retreat, in which they quit the form of caterpillars, and give birth to the butterfly that is within them. Some bury themselves in the earth, and there rend their skin, which, with the head, paws and entrails, shrink back, and leave only a substan [...]e of an oval form called the chrysalis. This contains the butterfly, which having compleated its growth, bursts its enclosure, and comes forth. Other caterpillars involve their bodies in a texture of thread and glew, and thus roll­ing themselves over in a bed of sand, collect an incrustation of the small grains, in this manner, as an ingenious author^* observes, building themselves monuments of stone.—Another kind, pulverise the bark of the wil­low, or some other plant, and with a mix­ture of their natural glew, form it into paste, in which they wrap themselves: others a­gain, spin themselves like the silk worm, a warm covering that secures them from the rain: In short, nature has given to each, a­bilities in different ways, to secure itself a safe retreat, during the time of its inactivity.

"How wonderful," said Clara! "but pray, Madam, do silk worms undergo any change?"

[Page 69] "The silk worm," said Mrs. Mills, "changes to a moth, in the same manner as the caterpillar does into a butterfly: there is a great resemblance between the silk worm and those caterpillars which spin themselves a covering."

"Ah," said William, "but silk worms are of some use; we are obliged to them for all the fine silks we admire; as for caterpil­lars, they are good for nothing."

"I am very ready," said Mrs. Mills, "to acknowledge all our obligations to the silk worm; but should be sorry to suppose for a moment, that infinate Wisdom has formed the most insignificant creatures in vain."

"Why, madam," said William, "of what use can caterpillars be? I am sure I have heard our gardener say that they injure the trees and plants very much."

"It must be owned," said Mrs. Mills, "that our trees and plants sometimes suffer from the visits of these insects; but then a­gain it must be remembered, that the poor birds, as well those which supply our table as those which delight us with their song, would suffer still more severely from their absence."

"How so, aunt?"

"Caterpillars and worms," said Mrs. Mills, "are the food of young birds: the parents do not forsake their egg till the fields [Page 70] are replenished with these insects, which disappear when the earth is covered with grain and other provision, and the young brood has acquired strength to digest it. You must allow, that the caterpillar, who furnishes support for the young birds, has, in its turn, a title also to support; and this it finds in the plants and verdure of the earth: its depredations, to our imperfect view, may sometimes alarm, but that wise Being who formed, and knows to what use he has assigned the creature, knows when to permit and when to set bounds to its rava­ges."

Our party, mutually pleased with each other, had strolled considerably further than they at first designed: They had for some time left Mrs. Mills's enclosures, and were proceeding down a shady lane that led to the village, when their ears were assailed by the noise of several hammers which pro­ceeded from a blacksmith's shop. Mrs. Mills in vain endeavoured to raise her voice, and the young people to attend, the nearer they approached, the louder were the sounds, which encreased, till silence was at last all that could be opposed to them.

Clara, who was extremely interested in her aunt's discourse, was much disconcerted at the interuption: and, as soon as she could make herself understood, declared, with [Page 71] some impatience, that such trades were quite a nuisance, and ought not to be suffered.

"Come, come," said William, "do not be too severe, sister; the noise of a black­smith's hammer is not so bad as the smell of a tanner's pits."

"I am sure," said Clara, "no smell can be so insupportable as the horrid din of those abominable hammers; I declare, we are not yet beyond the sound of them, they have put every thing my aunt was telling us a­bout the caterpillars out of my head."

"Well," said William, "both the tanner and blacksmith are bad enough, to be sure; you would say so, Clara, if you were as con­stantly regaled with the smell of the stinking hides as we are at school: There are ta [...] ­pits adjoining to our play-ground, at Mr. Markum's. It is a shame, people of conse­quence should encourage such trades, and suffer them upon their estates."

"I am quite of your opinion, brother," replied Clara, "they are quite a nuisance."

Mrs. Mills, perceiving they had nearly exhausted their rage against the poor tanner and blacksmith, now broke the silence she had for some time kept. "You think then," said she, "that every person of consequence should dismiss the honest blacksmith and tanner from their estate?"

[Page 72] "Indeed, aunt, we do," replied Clara; trades that are such a nuisance should not be encouraged."

"I am afraid then," said Mrs. Mills, "the saw and mallet of the carpenter, the chis­sel of the mason, the grindstone of the cut­ler, and the appendages of many useful trades, will give the professors little chance of your favor, in short, were I to judge by your im­patience, at the small inconvenience you have sustained from the tanner and black­smith, I should predict that the mechanic arts, in general, would not find a warm friend in either."

"No, aunt," said William, "we do not say that we should discard all; but some, you must allow, are less useful and more dis­agreeable than others."

"All, my dear William, are useful in their turn; none more so than those which you despise: were examples wanting to prove what daily experience so clearly de­monstrates, I could relate a circumstance, in which their utility was proved in a very critical situation."

"Dear aunt, do relate it," exclaimed the young people.

"My dears, it is a narrative of some length and we are already at home."

"Nay, now you have raised our curiosi­ty."

[Page 73] "Well," said Mrs. Mills, ever ready to oblige, "when we get home, I will look a­mong my papers for an extract I made of the circumstance; and, after dinner, read it."

At this moment the door opened, and they seperated to dress for dinner.

"Well," said Clara to her brother, whom on her return, she found alone in the dining parlour, "Who could have thought that al­most two whole days could have been spent so agreeably in this solitary place, without any other company than one's aunt!"

"Ah," said William, "who could have thought it!"

"I declare I have not yet," said Clara, "found one hour tedious: My aunt is a charming woman; my papa said so, but I did not believe him. I already begin to love her dearly, she is so kind and agreeable."

"Yes," replied William, "she has always something new to tell us; but hush—.

The entrance of Mrs. Mills broke off the discourse, and dinner soon after followed.

The young people were not a little pleas­ed to see that their aunt had been mindful of her promise; the dessert being removed, she drew from her pocket, a written paper, and read to them, the following

Account of the sufferings of the unfortu­nate persons, who survived the

SHIPWRECK OF THE DODINGTON INDIAMAN^*.

On the 23d of April, 1755, the Doding­ton, a ship belonging to the East India Com­pany, sailed from the Downs, and on the 17th of July following, about one in the morning, struck on a rock distant, east from the Cape of Good Hope, about 250 leagues. Of 270 souls that were on board when the ship struck, 23 only escaped to the shore, which was a barren uninhabited rock, ap­parantly capable of affording them but a temporary succour. Their first care, was to search among the things, which the vio­lence of the sea had thrown upon the rocks, for something to cover them, and in this, they succeeded beyond their hopes. They next felt the want of fire, which was not so easily supplied: Some attempted to kindle two pieces of wood, by rubbing them toge­ther, while others were searching among the rocks, in hopes of picking up something to serve for a flint and steel. After a long search, a box containing two gun flints, and a broken file, was found; this was a joyful acquisition, but still, till something like tin­der could be procured, the flints and steel [Page 75] were useless; a further, search was there­fore undertaken, with inexpressible anxiety; and at last, a cask of gun-powder was dis­covered; but this, to their great dis­appointment, proved to be wet: a small quantity, however, that had suffered no da­mage, upon a close examination, was found at the bottom of the cask. Some of this, they bruised on a linen rag [...] which served very well for tinder, and a fire was soon made. The wounded gathered around it, and the rest went in search of other necessa­ries, without which, the rock could afford them but a short respite from destruction. In the afternoon, (for the ship struck about 3 in the morning) a box of wax candles, and a cask of brandy, were brought in, and soon after, some others of the party return­ed with an account, that they had discover­ed a cask almost full of fresh water, which was even more welcome than the brandy. The chief mate brought in some pieces of salt pork, and soon after others arrived, dri­ [...]ing before them seven hogs, which had come on shore alive. The approach of night, made it necessary to provide some shelter; all hands were employed, and a tent was at last made of some canvass that had been thrown ashore, though it was so small, for want of more sail cloth, that it would not hold them all. They were obliged to e­rect [Page 76] their tent upon the highest part of the island, from fear of being overflowed; and this was covered with the dung of a large kind of water fowl, called a gannet, by which the island was much frequented. As they had passed the day, without food, they had passed the night without rest, being sunk a foot in the fowls dung, and the fire constantly being extinguished, by the tem­tempestuousness of the night.

"And was their voyage favourable?" asked William.

"They all," replied Mrs. Mills, "happi­ly arrived, without accident, at the place of their destination."

"What a providential escape!" said Clara; "they owed it entirely to the carpenter and smith."

"Providence," said Mrs. Mills, "undoubt­edly made them the instruments of it; ac­cording to natural causes, they must have perished, had it not been for their assistance: I hope, therefore, since you see the utility of the mechanic arts, before you dismiss any one from your estate, you will first consider whether the advantage yourself or society derive from it be not equivalent to the in­convenience you suffer."

"I assure you, aunt," said William, "I shall; and I shall be less severe on poo [...] Charles Franklin than I used to be."

"I am sorry," said Mrs. Mills, "to un­derstand that you have been severe against any one; but, pray, who is this Charles Franklin?"

[Page 84] "Why," replied William, "he is one of the boys at our school; his father is worth a deal of money, but he is an ironmonger; so, as Charles is the only tradesman's son a­mong us, all the boys make game of him, and many will not keep him company; though, to say the truth, he is as genteel as any of us, and takes his learning as well."

"I am sorry," said Mrs. Mills, "to hear that you were capable of joining in such il­liberal conduct: I know of no other distinc­tion between the gentleman and the com­mon man than that of the heart, manners, and understanding."

"Why, aunt," said William, "I own I have been sometimes ashamed, but at school one must do as the others do; the great boys lead, and the little ones follow."

"I am sorry to observe," said Mrs. Mills, "that you have betrayed a very cowardly spirit, in being afraid of resisting what you know to be wrong, merely because others were ba [...]e, or weak enough to set you the example."

"But, aunt, if I had not joined in the laugh against Charles Franklin, I should have been laughed at myself."

"My dear William, never suffer a false sense of shame to deter you from doing what you think to be right: This sort of compli­ance may lead you into dangerous errors. [Page 85] To-morrow, after dinner, I will illustrate my observation, by a story, which I think will afford you some entertainment."

"O said Clara," I am glad we shall have a story; your stories, madam, are so inte­resting!"

"I am happy, my dear, they give you pleasure."

"But cannot we have it now, dear ma­dam?"

"It is nearly tea time," replied Mrs. Mills.

"Very true," said William, "and we must not forget the microscope."

"Nor must I forget," returned Mrs. Mills, smiling, "that I have not yet heard Clara touch the piano forte."

"But the miscroscope, dear madam," said Clara, "I do so long to see it!"

"Nor am I less impatient," said Willi­am, "to hear the story."

"To-morrow," said Mrs. Mills, "will be long enough for both; we must not be prodigal of our pleasures."

William and his sister were too sensible of their aunt's kindness to press her further; and the tea things being removed, Clara, unasked, sat down to the piano. Though not a proficient, she played and sung pretti­ly; and, in the present instance her readi­ness to oblige entirely covered the defect [Page 86] of her performance. Her aunt was extreme­ly pleased, and with regret observed, at nine o'clock, that it was time to separate.

The next morning after breakfast, the young people did not forget to remind their aunt of the microscope.

Mrs. Mills expressed her readiness to in­dulge their curiosity; but added, that if she might advise, a turn in the garden would be better, as the microscope would furnish entertainment when it was too sultry to walk.

The young people immediately assented, and they all three took their way to

THE GARDEN.

"What a beautiful shew of tulips!" said Clara;" I think I never saw greater variety nor more brilliant colours!"

"But what do you think of my auricu­las!" said Mrs. Mills, pointing to a beauti­ful assemblage on her left hand.

"O, they are charming!" exclaimed Clara.

"Do you think, aunt," rejoined Willi­am, "that any other country besides Eng­land can shew such a number of beautiful flowers; there is no end of their variety?"

"It is certainly very great," said Mrs. Mills; "but we must not forget that we are [Page 87] indebted to other climates for that beauty and variety."

"How, aunt," "said William; "are not these flowers the growth of our own country?"

"They undoubtedly grow here," said Mrs. Mills, "and, as you see, thrive; but no plant can properly be called the natural pro­duce of a country that will not grow with­out pains of culture, which you know few of vegetables or garden flowers will. For the auricula we are indebted to Caira; for the tulip to Cappadocia, a province of Per­sia the pink and carnation come from Italy; the lily from Syria; the tuberose from Java and Ceyland, islands in the Indian Ocean; and the delicate fragrant jessamine, which I am sure we all admire, is a native of the East Indies. The sun does not shine with sufficient power and constancy in our climate to produce such brilliant colours and pow­erful odours."

"Well, aunt," said William, "there is one thing, however, in which Old England I think may glory; and that is in her fields of corn: they are certainly her own."

"I see," said Mrs. Mills, smiling, "that William is willing to stand up for the conse­quence of his country; but, my dear fellow, rye and wheat grow wild in Tartary and Siberia, but require a deal of culture [...]re [Page 88] [...]orn, therefore, cannot be the produce of England."

"Well, aunt," said William, "I am sure neither Tartary nor Siberia can shew finer fields of corn than we passed through yesterday."

"There I agree with you," said Mrs. Mills; "the soil of Engla [...]d is extremely well adapted to the culture of corn, which it produces in such abundance, as not only to supply its own inhabitants but other countries, to which great quantities are year­ly exported, as an article of commerce. Corn is nevertheless of foreign origin, as in­deed are more of our vegetables and herb­age. The colliflower comes from Cyprus, an island in the Levant; asparagus from Asia; sharlots from Siberia; and horse-radish from China. Lentils we owe to France, and kidney-beans to the East Indies; garlic also is produced naturally in that part of the world. When America was first discover­ed, which you know was in the year 1492, by Christopher Columbus, a number of plants and flowers were found there, till then unknown to the rest of Europe, to dif­ferent parts of which they have been trans­planted. We are obliged to Brazil, a pro­vince of South America, for that excellent and useful vegetable, the potatoe."

"Well," said Clara, "I had no idea [Page 89] that all our vegetables and flowers came from foreign countries."

"The soil of each different country," re­sumed Mrs. Mills, "contains juices proper for the nourishment of the vegetables pecu­liar to it, and these, if deprived of such jui­ces, will naturally wither and die."

"How is it then," interrupted William, "that we have pinks, roses, and all these beautiful flowers and good vegetables, if they will not grow any where but in their own soil?"

"I did not tell you," said Mrs. Mills, "that they would not grow any where but in their native soil, but that such juices were requisite to nourish them."

"Well," said William, "that is pretty nearly the same."

"No;" replied Mrs. Mills, "it alters the case very much."

"You must remember, my dear boy, that it is possible for art to imitate nature; this is the province of the gardner, who by a mixture of different sorts of earth, clay, gravel, marl, chalk, &c. prepares a soil proper for the nourishment of the plant or vegetables, he means to foster, and regulates the heat according to that which nature has made necessary to it; and thus, as an ingenious author, who has, in part furnished the information I have just given you, ob­serves, [Page 90] by the industry of man, one coun­try is made to contribute to the advantage of another."

"But how is it aunt," said Clara, "that we see so many different sorts of flowers grow out of the same bed? from what you have said, I should suppose, the juices that were fit for one kind, would not be so for another."

"Every plant," my dear Clara, "replied Mrs. Mills, "is capable of choosing for it­self; the wise author of nature has provided each with a set of vessels or fibres, that ea­gerly attract and admit those juices that are proper for its nature and reject all other.

"These juices are set in motion by the air and heat, and circulate through the whole plant in the same manner as the blood does through our veins."

"Dear Madam," said Clara, "where can you possibly have learnt so many curious particulars?"

"From reading and observation, my dear, returned the lady, for which the coun­try affords ample opportunity."

"I see, Madam," said Clara, "that it is possible to pass one's time very agreably in retirement; when I came, I entertained different sentiments; I thought it impossible to be amused without cards, and public diversions, but though I have been here on­ly [Page 91] two days, I already feel things in a very different light."

"My dear child," said Mrs. Mills, "you make me very happy; be assured, nothing but habit, which will sometimes overcome nature, and eradicate the best principles, can induce us to fly for amusement, to such low irrational pleasures, while the glorious volume of nature is open to our perusal: but the sun grows powerful; and you are, I doubt not, impatient to see the wonderful effects of my

MICROSCOPE.

Saying this, she took the path toward the house, and having conducted the young peo­ple into a room, which she had previously pre­pared for their reception, produced the wing of a butterfly, and having rubbed off some of the dust, desired the young people would view it through the magnifying glass. They eagerly obeyed; and with astonishment beheld that every grain of dust was a dis­tinct feather!

They then examined the wing itself, and perceived, that when the dust was rubbed off, a thin skin only remained perforated, with little holes, the actual sockets, which contained the quills. "Well," said Clara, "this is indeed wonderful, I see the wing [Page 92] of a butterfly is as truly composed of fea­thers as the wing of a bird."

"Equally so," said Mrs. Mills, "but I have more wonders to shew you. William, go to the window, and bring hither a dead fly."

"Ay," said Clara, "let us see what kind of figure it will make."

The fly was immediately put into the microscope.

"Dear," said Clara, looking attentively at it through the glass, "its wings are a fine net work, beautifully glazed!"

"But do you observe," said Mrs. Mills, "upon its head, two little immoveable crescents, shaped like a split pea, and upon these a number of minute eyes? each is fur­nished with a set of fibres or optic nerves."

"But I do not see," said William, who now put his eye to the glass, "the use of so many eyes."

"Other creatures," said Mrs. Mills, "can at pleasure, turn their eyes, to see when danger is at hand; but the fly's being fixed and immoveable, they are placed on a round surface, some low, others high, that she may discover when danger threatens her from above, below, or on either side. Take notice, also, of her bending claws, which are defended by sponges, [...] to preserve their points, which would other­wise soon be impaired."

[Page 93] "I see them clearly, aunt," said William, "and is there not, beside, something like hair, at the end of her feet?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Mills, "she makes use of it as a brush, to clean her wings, and eyes. I dare say, you have often seen her rub one paw against the others, draw them over her wings, and conclude by brushing her head."

"Yes," said William, "but who could have thought she was provided with a little brush, for the purpose."

"Providence," said Mrs. Mills, "has provided the meanest creature with the means to render its existence comfortable. The trunk of the fly, is a very curio [...]s in­strument, composed of two parts, which fold one over the other, and are both sheath­ed in her mouth, the end is sharp like a knife, and enables her to cut, when she eats; she likewise uses it as a pump for the draw­ing up of liquors."

Clara and her brother were extremely delighted with the wonders of the micro­scope, and Mrs. Mills assured them, they would find them inexhaustible. "A grain of sand, a drop of water, the minutest leaf," said she, "will furnish you with an ample field for speculation, and lead you to adore that Being, whose wisdom shines in the mi­nutest of his works; the sting of a gnat, the point of which is scarcely discernable, in [Page 94] the finest microscope, is a case composed of long scales, one of which serves as a new case to the other three, which are sheltered in a long grove, have the sides sharpened like fine swords, and are beside barbed at the point."

"It is not surprising then," said Clara, "that it should give one so much pain; up­on my word, by the description, it appears a formidable weapon."

"I will go and seek a gnat," interrupted William, "I should like to examine the sting."

Mrs. Mills prevented the execution of this design, by observing, that it was almost time to put an end to their speculations; beside, she added, this microscope would not, I fear, magnify sufficiently, to satisfy you of all the particulars I have described, which are, nevertheless, to be clearly discerned through a glass [...]itted to the pur­pose."

"Pray," said Clara, "what is this so cu­riously pinned to a piece of paper?"

"It is the wing of an earwig."

"Of an earwig!" said William, "why, earwigs have not wings."

"Indeed, they have," said Mrs. Mills, "and, as you see, very fine ones too,"

"But, aunt," said William, "I have seen many earwigs, but I never observed that they had wings."

[Page 95] "Neither may you have observed that beetles have wings, yet it is no less certain that they have."

"How is it then," returned William, "that we do not see them?"

"Those insects," said Mrs. Mills, "whose wings are of such a delicate texture, that the least friction would tear them, have, as in the above instances, two strong scales, which they rise and fall like a pair of wings, but which are no more than a case to the real ones. The wing of the earwig is curi­ously folded beneath a little scale, and with the assistance of a fine pin, may readily be discovered."

Clara and her brother, reluctantly with­drew from a speculation that afforded them so much pleasure; but a recollection of the story, their aunt had promised to relate, prevented their soliciting, a renewal of it that day; in the afternoon, therefore, Mrs. Mills read aloud

THE EXCURSION, A MORAL TALE.

"At the close of a delightful summer, Mr. Weldon, a worthy clergyman, went in­to Lincolnshire to take possession of a small liv­ing, in the gift of Sir John Bentley; to whose notice his excellent character soon recom­mended [Page 96] him. Mr. Weldon had a wife, four daughters, and a son with the latter of whom Sir John was so pleased, that he pro­posed, if it met his father's approbation, to educate him with his own son. The offer was too advantageous to be rejected, it was embraced with the warmest gratitude, and Charles, a few weeks after, having taken a tender farewel of his parents and sisters, set off with the son of his patron for a seminary some miles distant. Young Bentley was at this time nearly two years older than Charles, who had just entered his twelfth year; he was the sole surviving hope of his family, and from his cradle had been spoiled by flattery and indulgence; unaccustomed to restraint, his passions had gathered strength, and though he had naturally good sense, and a heart hu­mane and affectionate, he seldom listened to the suggestion of these, but sacrificed every worthy principle to the whim that actuated him for the moment. He was, beside, tur­bulent and haughty, and a great share of ob­stinacy was visible in his disposition.

"Charles, on the other hand, had an ex­cellent heart, and an understanding capable of the highest improvement; but he had one failing, that constantly counteracted the good effect these would naturally have produced on his conduct; this was an easiness of tem­per, carried to such excess, that his conduct [Page 97] seemed rather to depend on those with whom he associated, than on the approba­tion of his own heart or the principles instil­led into him by his father.

"Ah, Catharine!" said Charles, kindly [...]ing her by the hand, "I little thought [Page 99] to have seen you reduced to this miserable state!"

"You see, my good young master," said the poor woman, "what sickness and pover­ty can bring one to. Thank heaven I have little to reproach myself with. I am still honest, and as long as I was able, was glad to work: but it has pleased God, for some wise end, to afflict me, and I submit with patience."

"But where do you live Catharine?" said Charles. "Are you in place? Have you been long a cripple?"

"You know, master Charles," said Catha­rine, "that I left my master's and came up to town, thinking to better myself; but I repented it since. I soon got into place, in­deed, and was liked very well by my master and mistress; but when I was seized with this rheumatism, and could no longer do their business, it was not to be expected they would keep me: So I took my lodging down the street, you see yonder, where, by degrees, I parted with all my cloaths to support myself. My mistress was, indeed, very kind, and gave me money at different times; but, as I was not able to work, it was soon gone. I have not a great stomach, master Charles, but indeed I have many times known a want of the little I could have eaten."

"Poor soul!" said Charles, his eyes filling [Page 100] with tears, "Why did you not let my fa­ther know of your distress? But is there no hope of your ever being restored to the use of your limbs?"

"None, sir," returned Catharine, "un­less I could go to Bath: the charitable doc­tors who give me advice, say, that is the only thing that can restore me: but it is not for such a poor miserable creature, as I am, to think of so long a journey. Where should I find money to bear the expence!"

"How I wish," said Charles, "that it were in my power to assist you! How much money, do you think, would take you to Bath?"

"Ah! sir," said Catharine, "I am so helpless I could not attempt so long a jour­ney with less than a guinea and a half: for nobody you know, master Charles, in a strange place, would take me in, without I could first pay down the money for a lodg­ing."

"And do you think," said Charles, "that a guinea and a half would do, Catha­rine?"

"Yes, sir," replied Catharine, "I could make that do very well. You must know, master Charles, there is a poor widow who lodges upon the same floor that I do: she has been very kind to me in my distress. God knows I must have starved if it had not been [Page 101] for her. She is now going to live with her daughter, who keeps a shop at Bath. To be sure I was very selfish; but indeed, ma­ster Charles, it almost broke my heart when I heard I was to lose her. It then came into my head, that if I could but raise a little mo­ney to bear the expence of the journey, I might go with her, and stand a chance of recovering the use of my poor limbs: and in case I was not so happy, I considered that, let the worst come to the worst, I was a: likely to get a little needle-work there as here. This made me very anxious to go; and, at last I took heart, and determined to ask my good mistress once more to stand my friend: But what do you think, sir, when I went to the house, I found the whole family in grief and confusion: My poor mistress, two days ago, suddenly dropt down dead. My last resource, therefore, has failed, and I am sensible that it is my duty to submit patiently to the will of my Creator."

"But your friend is not gone!" said Charles, eagerly.

"She sets out in the waggon to-morrow night," returned the poor woman with a sigh.

The expressive eyes of Charles sparkled on this intelligence: "How happy am I," said he, "that I met you, and that it is in my power to assist you! Set your heart at rest, [Page 102] my good Catharine, you shall go with your friend—I have a guinea and a half—How rejoiced I am that I saved it!" Saying this, he put his hand to his pocket; but recollect­ing himself, "I have unluckily," he added, "changed my waistcoat this morning and have not the money about me. I will step home for it now; or, if it will make no dif­ference, bring it to you in the course of a few hours."

"Oh! my dear young master," said Ca­therine, "you are too good.—But your pa­pa and mamma, will they give their con­sent?"—

"My father and mother," interrupted Charles, "are not in town; if they were, I know they would assist you more than I can.—As to the money I speak of it is my own, and I may do as I like with it. I sav­ed it to spend in presents for my sisters, when I returned into the country; but I know they will be better pleased to hear you have it, than with any presents I could take them."

"And will you, indeed, be so generous?" said the poor woman, whose cheek was flushed with hope, "will you be so generous to a poor creature, who can make no re­turn?"

"Say no more, my good Catharine," said Charles, "I am sure the pleasure I shall have [Page 103] in assisting you, will be greater than that you can conceive from the trifle it is in my pow­er to appropriate to your use. Tell me your direction, and depend upon seeing me in a few hours."

"Ah! sir," said Catharine, "God who has sent you to my relief, will not suffer your goodness to go unrewarded." Then having pointed out to him the house where she liv­ed, she added, a thousand blessings go with you; and Charles having bid her farewel, was returning to the toy-shop, when stepping back a few paces, "you appear to walk in great pain, Catharine," said he, "let me guide you over this crossway; rest upon my arm—there, do not hurry yourself."

"Oh! how good you are, master Charles," said Catharine,—"there are few young gen­tlemen like you."

"Nay," said Charles, "there is surely no­thing singular in being commonly humane, and wishing to take care of one who has of­ten guided and taken care of me."—Then having conducted her to the end of the street where she lived, he added, "good bye, Ca­tharine, depend upon seeing me before night."

Charles now, in reality, repaired to the toy-shop, where having executed his friend's commission, he returned home.

"Charles, my boy," said Edward, upon [Page 104] his entrance, "I have just hit on an excel­lent scheme!"

"Have you," replied Charles, who was always happy when his friend was pleased: "what is it?"

"Why," said Edward, "you know my father and mother went out early this morn­ing: they are sent for to a friend who is sick, ten or fifteen miles off; so we may be sure they will not return till late in the even­ing."

"And what then?"

"It has just come into my head, Charles, that we may have a nice canter."

"A canter;"

"Yes," returned the young gentleman, Lightfoot, my papa's hunter, is in the stable: I can ride him, and you can have the little black poney. Nothing could have happen­ed more lucky; there is a review at Black­heath; it will be a nice ride: and"—

"But have you asked leave, Edward?" interrupted Charles.

"That would have been to no purpose," returned the young gentleman; "you know my mother would have been frightened out of her wits at the thought of my mounting Lightfoot."

"Then how can you think of such a thing," said Charles; "besides, I now recollect hear­ing Sir John and my lady both desire you [Page 105] would stay at home to be ready for Mr. Ma­son, the miniature painter, who, you know, is this afternoon to take your picture. I am sure they would be extremely displeased were you to be out of the way."

"There now," said Edward, "I knew you would raise some objection: I never set on foot any thing that you do not oppose."

"You do me great injustice, Edward," returned Charles; "you know I am never so happy as when I can oblige you; but I love you too well, not to tell you when I see you do wrong; and, indeed Edward, you are much to blame to think of going out af­ter the strict charge Sir John and my lady gave you to the contrary; and to take Light­foot will make it ten times worse. You say your mother would be frightened out of her wits were she to know you mounted him—What do you think she will say, when she hears of your disobedience?"

"She will know nothing of the matter," said Edward, "we shall be home long e­nough before she, or my father, or even the painter comes, and I warrant I will stop George's mouth: he will go with us, and will not blab for his own sake."

"You have very indulgent parents, Ed­ward," said Charles, "and there is some­thing very mean in betraying their confi­dence; and then to draw the servant in"—

[Page 106] "I think," returned Edward, somewhat piqued at his friend's freedom, "that I know my duty as well as yourself. Was it any thing of consequence, I should be as scru­pulous, for I think I love my father as well as you do your's."

"I do not dispute that," said Charles; "nor mean, my dear Edward, to offend you; but merely to prevail upon you to give up this foolish scheme. There will probably be another review before the holidays are over, and then, I dare say, your father will not have any objection to take you to it; but were you now to go, your pleasure would be interrupted by the recollection that you are doing wrong, and the fear of being found out. You may meet somebody you know; or twenty things that you do not think of may happen to discover it to Sir John."

"What a coward you are, Charles," re­turned Edward; "you have no spirit, you are such a chicken-hearted fellow"—

"I have spirit enough, Edward, when I know my cause is good"—

"Well," interrupted the young gentleman, "I am sure this is not a bad cause: as I told you before, if it was matter of consequence, I should be more scrupulous; but what harm can there be in taking Lightfoot for a few hours? You know I have rode Mr. Shepherd's black Caesar before now, and I am sure he had spirit enough."

[Page 107] "You are deceiving your parents, Ed­ward," returned Charles, "and you must allow there is harm in that; but it does not signify arguing, if you are bent upon going, I cannot prevent you; but I assure you I shall, on no account whatever, think of going with you."

"Nay, now, my dear Charles," said Ed­ward, "I do not often ask a favour of you—Do oblige me this once, I will never again, I promise, desire you to do a thing without my father's knowledge."

"This is always the way," returned Charles; "you know it hurts me to refuse any request you make, and you take advan­tage of my weakness. You have drawn me into many things against my inclination, but I am determined not to be prevailed upon in this: it is such a wicked thing to deceive your parents, and to draw the servants in to tell lies—I am surprised you can think of it."

"There will be no occasion," returned Edward," to tell any lies; we shall be back long enough before either father or mother returns. Now, Charles, I have done many things to oblige you; do not deny me such a trifle: There will be no other review be­fore we go to school, and I have set my heart upon seeing one."

"Say no more, my dear Edward, you [Page 108] know it distresses me to disoblige you; but indeed I cannot countenance you in such a bad action: Do, let me entreat you, think no more of this wicked scheme."

"Look you, Charles," said Edward, "all you can say will be to no purpose: I am de­termined to see the review, whether you go or not; so it will make no difference in that respect, only I shall in future know how far I ought to rely on your friendship: As long as you can keep your neck out of the noose, you do not care what becomes of me."

This last observation piqued the pride, and wounded the friendship of our hero, who began to utter his refusals with less confi­dence. Edward perceived it, and continu­ed to solicit, till Charles, notwithstanding all he had said, was weak enough to be over­come, and actually consented to accompany him.

George, the stable-boy, was prevailed up­on, with a bribe of half a crown, to attend them, and to keep the secret, and our two young gentlemen, the one on Lightfoot, and the other on the black poney, set forward on their

IMPRUDENT EXPEDITION.

Edward, who, no more than his friend, had, been much accustomed to ride on horseback, tho' extremely elated with his station, found [Page 109] some difficulty in keeping it; Lightfoot being a very spirited horse, and not much accustomed to the tight rein; however, by the directions of George, he managed to keep his seat, and arrived in high spirits at Black­heath. But here a disappointment a waited them; the review they understood was defer­red, owing to the indisposition of some of the Royal Family, who were to be present. Ed­ward was much disconcerted; as also was his companion, who, notwithstanding the uneasy sensations he felt from acting so con­trary to his principles, would not have been displeased, as he had gone thus far, to behold an exhibition entirely new to him; but they were fain to submit.

"Well," said Edward, having comment­ed on their ill luck, "we will not come thus far for nothing: George, do you think you can find a house were we may have some refreshment?"

"Yes, Sir," replied George; "there is one just across the heath, beyond that cluster of trees, where any thing may be had, if you have money."

"Yes, yes," said Edward, "I will find money." Saying this, he gave Lightfoot a touch with the whip, and away they all went. "Well," said Edward, recovering his spirits, which the disappointment had somewhat damped, "this is delightful! I [Page 110] am glad we came; it is worth something to ride Lightfoot! Charles could not forbear thinking the pleasure was purchased very dearly, and was just going to reply, when Edward exclaimed, upon seeing two youths advance, "I do think here is Master Jones, the son of my fathers tenants! How do you do, my dear William," said he, finding he was not mistaken, "what can have brought you here?"

Master Jones enquired respectfully after Sir John and Lady Bentley, and replied, that he was at school at Lewisham.

"But it is holiday time," said Edward.

"My father," returned Master Jones, "lives so far off, that I have holidays only once a year."

"Well," said Edward, "I am delighted to have met you. We came to see the re­view, but finding it is put off, are going to take some refreshment. You and this young gentleman shall go with us—I insist upon [...]t."

"We are much obliged to you, Master Bent­ley," returned the young gentleman, "but we cannot stay without our Master's know­ledge; we came out merely for a walk."

"My servant," said Edward, "shall go, and tell where you are; and then, I dare say, he will not be angry."

The young gentlman readily, upon these conditions, consented, and George was dis­patched [Page 111] to Lewisham, while our party, highly pleased with their rencounter, proceeded across the heath. Edward, who now felt himself of great consequence, a­lighted at the inn, and giving his horse to the care of the hostler, entered with an air of importance, ordered a fire to be lighted in the best room, and something to be dres­sed as expeditiously as possible for dinner. These orders were presently executed, and the young gentlemen, mutually pleased with each other, set down to a couple of fine fowls and custards. The cloth being removed, Charles took an opportunity of reminding his friend, that it would be prudent to think of returning; but Edward declared, he was determined to make out the day, for he knew his father and mother would not re­turn till late in the evening, and as to the painter he might go to Guinea.

Charles was going to expostulate, but Ed­ward, turning to his new companions, "What say you, my boys," said he, "to a game at cards?"

All, but Charles, seemed highly to approve the motion; but he, sensible of the impru­dence, once more drew his friend aside to expostulate; Indeed, Edward, said he, you had better not set down to cards, you know, how time passes, we had better go home: For my part, I have had no peace since I [Page 112] have been out, and I am sure, I shall have none till I get home.

"You are a cowardly fellow," said Ed­ward, "I tell you, there is plenty of time, we shall be home long enough before my fa­ther and mother."

Saying this he broke from Charles, and calling for cards, began to settle the preli­minaries of the game.

"For my part," said Charles, "I would prefer to set by, and look on; you know, Edward, I am not very partial to cards, and you are going to play higher than I can af­ford."

"What a stingy fellow you are, Charles," said Edward, "to be afraid of loosing your money."

"I am not stingy," returned Charles, "but I should be sorry to loose more money than I could pay."

"O, never fear," replied Edward, "I will help you out; but I know you will win."

"I neither wish to win nor lose," said Charles; "but, unable to withstand the half smile of ridicule, which he observed on the faces of his companions, he sat down with the rest, though it was to stake part of the money he had appropriated to the ne­cessities of poor Catherine. At first he won, but, as is generally the case, his fortune, at [Page 113] length, took a turn, and he not only lost all he had gained, but a considerable part of the money he had promised to poor Cathe­rine: this thought made him desperate; [...]in proportion as he lost, his eagerness to conti­nue the game encreased: his life or death seemed attached to every card: he no long­er watched the sun, nor perceived that it de­clined fast towards the west: regardless of the consequences, he thought only of reco­vering the money he had lost, and which he considered the property of another."

Master Jones and his friend, however, see­ing the evening come on apace, at length, took their leave; declaring they dared not stay any longer, and Edward himself thought it necessary to call for the bill: contrary [...] to his expectation, it amounted to more than his pocket could discharge. In this dilem­ma, he applied to his friend Charles, who, with a pang not to be expressed, but certain­ly not more severe than his imprudence de­served, disbursed the last remaining seven shillings of the guinea and a half he had so faithfully promised, before night, to carry to poor Catherine! As for Edward, as long as he had it, it signified nothing to him where it came from, he paid the reckoning, and mounting his horse thought only of getting home as fast as possible. Charles, also, once more ascended the black poney, and with a [Page 114] heavy heart followed his friend. Though in­excusably imprudent, he had not an unfeeling heart; the thought, therefore, of disappoint­ing the poor creature, to whom he had giv­en hopes, and who looked up to him as her only resource, filled his mind with unspeak­able anguish, and he continued his way, ab­sorbed in the most gloomy reflections, till roused by his companion, who suddenly checked his horse, and exclaimed, "O heaven, Charles! what will become of me? I have lost my father's diamond ring!"

This was like a thunder bolt to Charles; he was willing to hope, he had not heard right; till his friend added, "fly George, fly, see if it be not left at the inn."

George needed not this command to be repeated, he spurred his horse, and was out of sight in an instant.

"Feel in your waistcoat pocket," said Charles, "perhaps it may luckily have fall­en from your finger there."

"No," returned Edward, "it is certain­ly lost, unless you have picked it up."

"I!" said Charles, "I never saw it but up­on your hand at dinner, and I thought more than once to ask, whether Sir John or my lady, had given it you."

"No," said Edward, "I saw it just be­fore we set out lie upon my mother's dress­ing [Page 115] table, and it unluckily came into my head that I would put it on."

"How could you be so imprudent!" said Charles.

"Indeed," returned Edward, "I cannot tell what possessed me, nothing could ever be so unlucky, I never in my life before thought of such a thing—Dear, what a time George stays! one might have been twice there and back before now—let us go and meet him—O here he is."

By this time George was come up, and his sorrowful countenance bore sufficient te­stimony to the ill success of his embassy: the ring was not to be found.

The reader may easily form an idea of the distress of the whole party upon this con­firmation of their misfortune: Edward, who, on every occasion, was accustomed to follow the bent of his passions, was quite frantic, and declared that he dared not see his father without the ring, which he knew he particu­larly valued, on account of its once belong­ing to his grand-mother. Charles' feelings were not less acute, though unwilling to add to the distress of his friend, he confined them within his own breast: George, too, was not the least affected upon this occasion; sensi­ble that the blame would fall heavy upon him for taking the horses out without Sir John's orders, he was equally alarmed at an event [Page 116] that threatened a discovery, and ventured to reprove his young master: "La! sir," said he, "how could you think of taking my master's ring! what shall we do—I am sure I shall lose my place; and that will be very hard for my good nature—if it had not been for the ring,"—

"Well," interrupted the young gentleman impatiently, "talking is of no use now; the ring is lost, and there is an end of it."

A silence of some minutes now ensued, and our travellers, with a slow pace pro­ceeded homeward; each reflecting with bitterness on the share he had in the adven­ture. As for Charles, this unexpected mis­fortune had entirely banished all thoughts of poor Catherine, and the resentment of his patron was the only object that now pre­sented itself to his mind. Edward, in the mean while, who had been revolving all the circumstances in his mind, at length broke silence: "I tell you what, Charles," said he, "the best way to get out of the scrape, will be to deny that we know any thing of the ring."

"To deny it!" said Charles, with astonishment; "to deny it! can you think of such a thing?"

"Why," returned Edward, "I am sure, if my father knows the ring is lost, I shall never hear the last of it."

[Page 117] "But what can be so bad," said Charles, "as the standing in such a falsehood? you said, when you prevailed on me to come with you on this imprudent excursion, that, were it a matter of consequence, you would be more scrupulous in deceiving your father."

"Well, well," interrupted Edward, impatiently, "to be sure I did so; but I did not then think I should ever have been in such a scrape; desperate diseases re­quire desperate remedies—and, my father's knowing who lost the ring, will not bring it back."

"Very true, master Edward," said George, "and if he knows about the ring, all must come out, and I shall lose my place, which will be very hard for my good-nature; for you know, Master Edward, I did it all purely to oblige you."

"You are very wrong George," said Charles, "to encourage Master Edward, in any thing so wicked; we have certainly all done wrong, but let us not attempt to excuse one fault by committing a greater: The only thing we can do now, is to con­fess all, and, submit to what punishment Sir John thinks fit to inflict. I assure you, Edward, I will not assent to such a falsehood."

[Page 118] "Well," returned Edward, if it will give you pleasure to make a breach between my father and I—if—"

"I am certain," interrupted Charles, "that you have a father too indulgent to be in any fear of that sort; though he will, no doubt, be displeased, he will not be ir­reconcilable."

"I know my father," returned the young gentleman, "better than you do; he is very indulgent, when I do nothing to displease him, but if I do, he is very pas­sionate, and I know will punish me with the greatest severity; but I see it will give you pleasure to make me miserable."

"Nay," said Charles, "you know I incur the same danger as you: the resent­ment of Sir John will fall equally upon me; but I assure you, I would rather suffer every thing than tell such an unpardonable false­hood.

"As you are so very conscientious, Charles," said Edward, "there is one way that you may oblige me, and yet avoid tel­ling a lie: you know the ring was never off my finger, so you may safely say, when my father asks you, that you never touched it, that will not be a lie."

"My dear Edward," said Charles "an equivocation is the very first species of lying; because, as my father has often [Page 119] told me, it is covering falsehood with the most plausible resemblance of truth: how­ever, we may flatter ourselves, he used to say, that we do not incur the displeasure of God by this sort of play upon words; the lie is already formed in our heart, upon which he looketh, and equivocation is only a more specious method of imposing it upon others. It is true, according to the literal sense of the word, I might safely tell Sir John, I did not touch the ring; but if by this, I mean to convey that I know nothing of it, I am equally a liar, as if the same idea were conveyed in different words."

"Well," said Edward, impatiently, "it is not a time to preach now: I see you are determined not to oblige me—but I know the reason: you said no longer ago than yesterday, that you had forgot all past differences, but I see now that you are glad to retaliate, and would rather get into a scrape yourself, than not be re­venged."

This was a turn Charles little expected; he indeed repeatedly suffered from the tur­bulent and arbitrary temper of Edward; but such was the affection he entertained for him, that a kind look, a word of con­cession, was ever sufficient to efface from his mind every trace of resentment or dis­pleasure; he was therefore, inexpressibly [Page 120] hurt that his friend should suspect that he was actuated by so mean a motive, and en­deavoured to convince him that he acted from a disinterested regard to truth, which he had been taught to venerate as the basis of every virtue. Edward, who was not without art, perceiving his suspicions touch­ed him to the quick, pretended to be but the more confirmed in them, thinking it would be the most effectual means to attain his ends.

"Yes, yes," said he, "I see you are glad to retaliate; I relied too much on your pro­fessions: It is true, I may not be able to boast of a temper, at all times, so equal as yours; but Charles could not seriously have asked a favour, that I could have refused: my temper may be warm, perhaps violent, but I am equally warm in my attachments, I cannot be a cool friend."

"I am not a cool friend," replied Charles, with tears in his eyes, "I am sure, Edward, you never found me so: [...]y my friendship in any thing that will render you a real service, and you shall see with what readiness I will prove it, at all hazards."

"O!" said Edward, with a sneer, "it is easy to be bold when danger is afar off: I ask the proof now, and from henceforth shall know the value I ought to set on your friendship."

[Page 121] "What would you have me do?" said Charles, who was weak enough to be moved by his friend's pretended suspicions; "'tis true, it is not the first time, I have been so weak as to be prevailed upon by your entreaties, to enter into things that I knew were wrong; but this is of such serious consequence, indeed, I cannot; beside, when we have told this falsehood, do you suppose your father will believe we know nothing of the ring?"

"O!" said Edward, "'tis a hundred to one if he misses it; he does not wear it once in seven years: he will think it has been swept away, or that he has lost it off his finger; for I heard him say, the last time he wore it, it was so large he could scarcely keep it on; but, however, if your friendship will not suffer you to make so small a sacrifice—I can only say, it cannot be very strong, and that I shall, in future, know how to value it."

Charles really entertained the sincerest friendship for the son of his patron; this was piqued by the pretended suspicions of the artful boy; who, observing that he began to utter his refusals with a less reso­lute tone of voice, took advantage of his weakness, and by dints of entreaties and tears, though he did not convince his reason, worked so far upon his affection, that, in [Page 122] the end, his integrity gave way, and I am ashamed to say, he consented to connive at the falsehood his friend had projected.

The reader will judge, that the uneasi­ness of the whole party encreased the nearer they drew toward home; the day had for some time closed, and they were alarmed, lest Sir John and his lady were returned: However, their fears on this head, were soon dissipated, neither of them were at home, and Edward learnt, with great satisfaction, that the portrait painter had sent to put off his attendance till the next day: he exulted extremely upon the occa­sion, and so far recovered his spirits, as to banter Charles a great deal upon his cowar­dice. "I told you," said he, "we should come off safe; I dare say, my father will not be at home this hour." He was however deceived in his calculation; for Sir John and Lady Bentley arrived within a quarter of an hour: Charles, who was but young in the art of deceiving, sickened at the thought of meeting Sir John; he, therefore, took the first opportunity of sneaking to his chamber, where, with grief and vexation, he called to mind all the

EVENTS OF THE DAY.

From the excursion to Blackheath, he reflected on the loss of the ring, and not with less bitterness on the loss of his money: The situation of poor Catherine returned fresh to his remembrance: "I am the only friend," said he, "to whom she can look in her distress: I have pledged myself to assist her, she is, without doubt, now liste­ning anxiously to every foot, in hopes 'tis mine. What a disappointment, when she finds I do not come! What a wretch I must appear! Who knows, perhaps she may think I meant to make a jest of her misfor­tunes. I have heard of such things; and all this is through my own folly; what oc­casion had I to play at cards with money that was not my own? for it certainly was not, when I had promised it to another person. What can I do? if I could but borrow the money! but it is vain to think of that, for I know Edward has not a six­pence left. What can I do?—If I could but think of a way to raise it! if I had but any thing I could sell for the money—my watch—but that will be missed directly; and besides, where can I sell it—I suppose it is not customary for shop-keepers to pur­chase such things—and yet poor Catherine, [Page 124] one would almost hazard every thing to keep one's word.—It is so shameful, so in­human, to give her hopes, and then disap­point them. But what will Sir John say, when he sees me without the watch he so generously gave me? What can I say? he will certainly miss it—suppose I have sent it to be mended—but that will be a false­hood—I am already involved in one—I am grown very wicked! what would my father say! And yet poor Catherine! The watch, I am sure, cost four guineas—if I could sell it for two, I could keep my word, and at least ease my mind of one burthen—I am almost tempted; the holidays are now nearly half elapsed: Sir John may not miss the watch—and then, I will save every farthing I get for pocket money, to replace it before the next—I will get up early to­morrow morning, and go into the first watch-makers I come to; if I can sell it, I will—I must not think of the consequen­ces—I am very miserable, one would hardly think how many faults one false step leads one to commit! There is Sir John's ring—but I will think no more, I have promised Edward, and I must keep my word." Saying this, Charles undressed himself, and went to bed, but the anxiety of his mind kept him long awake, the night was far spent before he fell asleep. Morning re­newed [Page 125] his cares, and he began afresh to re­volve the project of the watch—sometimes he thought of going to Catherine and acknowledging the truth, but this measure his pride forbad—then he thought of writing, but that was as irksome—in short, reflection only involved him in fresh per­plexity; the watch was at last doomed, and Charles repaired with it to a shop; where, with a confusion that did not escape obser­vation, he offered to sell it. The watch­maker, having looked attentively on Char­les, and then on the watch, asked what he demanded." Charles replied, "that he thought it worth three guineas; but was very glad to take two and half, which the shop-keeper offered. With this, he hastened to Catherine; and putting a guinea and a half into her hand, "There, Catherine," said he, "is the money; I am sorry I disappointed you last night, but I could not help it."

Poor Catherine's eyes sparkled with joy; she called him her preserver—her good angel, and could not find words to express her gratitude.

"I hope," said Charles, "that it will answer the purpose you wish, and that it may please God to restore you." Then, disengaging himself as soon as possible, he proceeded homeward. The happiness he [Page 126] had communicated to poor Catherine con­veyed such joy to his heart, that for a time he seemed to forget the means he had taken to procure it, as also the disagreeable business in which he was involved with Edward. He sauntered on, enjoying the coolness of the morning, till, in passing a shop-window, his eye was insensibly, at­tracted by the prettiest etui he had ever seen.

"What a Charming present," said Char­les, "that would be for my mother! if I had but money to purchase it: but there is the vexation," continued he, with a sigh, "without money, one cannot come at any thing." Then Charles began to think of the guinea that remained of the sum he had gained for the watch: This he had firmly resolved to hoard carefully, and to add to it every penny he could get, till he had accu­mulated sufficient to replace Sir John's pre­sent; nevertheless he was tempted to go in and ask the price of the etui. It was eight shillings: Charles thought it too much; but when the shopkeeper assured him it was a very great bargain, and shewed him others of higher price, which in his opinion, were not half so pretty, his resolution was shaken; he began to reflect that it would not be so very difficult to raise the value of the watch he wished to replace, even though he should [Page 127] purchase the etui: "In a few days," said he, "I shall visit my god-mother, who never fails to make me a present; and Sir John, I am certain, will not suffer me to leave town without marks of his genero­sity; then there will be my weekly allow­ance, I can save that." In short, he pur­chased the etui: and, while the shopkeeper was counting out the change, his eye was unfortunately caught by a pretty little net­ting-case. His sister Mary, who was a great netter, immediately was present to his mind; it was impossible to resist—the net­ting-case was purchased; but Charles would not have left the shop quite pennyless, had not a small pocket-case of instruments for drawing attracted his notice. This could not be resisted; it was so small—so neat—so compact—the very thing he wanted. The watch was for the moment forgotten, and the case of Instruments added to the etui and netting-case.

"Though Sir John Bentley possessed one of the most humane and benevolent hearts in the world, his manners were austere and reserved. It so happened, that on this mor­ning, upon the appearance of Charles at the breakfest-table, he addressed him with a greater share of complacency than usual: such is the effect of guilt, that Charles could not summon resolution to look his bene­factor [Page 128] in the face: Every kind word Sir John addressed to him, seemed a reproach to his dissimulation; every time he met his eye, it seemed to penetrate into his inmost thoughts. As for Edward, who was more hardened in vice, his feelings were less susceptible: he exulted mightily in the thought of having so cleverly tricked his father: the ring indeed sometimes gave him uneasiness, but then it was for fear the truth, by some unlucky accident, should be discovered; as long as it remained concealed, he was happy; if it were possible for guilt to be so.

"Things remained in this state three days, during which time Charles heartily repented his imprudence, but foolishly thought that he had gone too far to retract: his conscience continually upbraided him with his conduct, and he was in hourly fear of being interrogated concerning the ring or the watch, which last he resolved to say he had sent to the watchmakers to be set to rights. The dreadful moment, however, at length arrived; Charles was sent for into the study of Sir John, which he entered with a beating heart, though with more confidence than usual. Let the reader judge how every fear was awakened, when he perceived there the very man to whom he had sold the watch, and the iden­tical [Page 129] watch in the hand of Sir John! The person to whom Charles had sold the watch was the very same of whom Sir John had purchased it. The watchmaker knew the watch, and observing the confusion of Charles, whom he had frequently observed pass his shop, in company with Master Bentley, when he offered it to sale, suspect­ed something more was in the matter than Sir John knew: unwilling however, to proceed on uncertain grounds, he resolved to pay the price, and keep the watch till he had an audience with Sir John, who, the reader will conclude, was much surprised at the unfolding

THE AFFAIR.

The first question that naturally arose from the subject, when the culprit appeared before him, was the cause of a proceeding so extraordinary? Charles could make no reply, but shame and confusion were strongly pictured in his countenance. Sir John repeated the question, but Charles was still silent; the fear of bringing Cathe­rine into trouble for having received such a sum, without the knowledge of his pa­rents or patron, made him prefer any subter­fuge to that noble candour, which alone could have excused his errors. Being no [Page 130] longer able to oppose silence to the repeated interrogations of Sir John, he replied, "That he met a poor woman in the street, and that he assisted her with part of the money." "But," replied Sir John, "three days ago you had, to my knowledge, a guinea and a half in your purse; you could therefore have followed the dictates of humanity without making such a sacrifice: What did you do with that money?" This was a que­stion Charles did not expect, and was un­prepared to answer, without divulging the expedition to Blackheath. He hesitated—he did not know what to say—and at last produced the etui, the case of instruments, and the netting-box.

"Sir John was extremely displeased: "I fear, Charles," said he, "I have been de­ceived in the opinion I first formed of you; for a boy who can, unpressed by necessity, proceed to such lengths, must necessarily be unbounded in his desires, and consequently unworthy my countenance and protection."

"Charles threw himself at the feet of his benefactor, and entreated to be forgiven; but Sir John, highly incensed at his conduct left the room with indignation, and from that time behaved towards Charles with a coolness and reserve that wounded him in the tenderest part; as it convinced him he [...]ad entirely lost the confidence and good [Page 131] opinion of his patron. Nor was this all; the story of the watch was circulated through­out the whole house and indeed the whole neighbourhood: every one censured him; every one exclaimed against his ingratitude, in setting so little value upon a watch the gift of his benefactor; and suspected, as he had discovered such a want of principle in one instance, that other faults of the same nature remained behind, yet undiscovered. Charles now sincerely repented his folly, but was still weak enough to believe he had gone too far to retract. All he had cou­rage to do was, repeatedly, to solicit Ed­ward to acknowledge the expedition to Blackheath, and its consequences respecting the ring; but Edward, encouraged by its remaining so long concealed, was deaf to his entreaties; and to confess the truth, Charles himself was so much intimidated by the dis­grace he had already suffered, that he had not courage to press his friend home to a confession, which he was sensible must in­volve him in further. A fortnight elapsed before the dreadful time of enquiry arrived; but the ring was then missed, the servants interrogated, and every corner of the house searched.

"The question of enquiry was then put to our two young gentlemen: Edward, I am shocked to relate, declared with a firm [Page 132] voice and unblushing cheek, that he had not seen the ring, nor knew even the place where it was kept. Charles did the same; but that agitation, which will ever be the attendant on guilt, where the heart is not wholly corrupt, joined to the ill opinion entertained of him on account of his late dis­grace, conspired to fix the suspicions on him. Sir John, judging from the affair of the watch, was persuaded he had either lost or sold the ring; and having in vain endeavoured to draw from him the truth, confined him to his chamber, with orders that he should have no other food than bread and water, till he confessed. Edward's fears were, up­on this occasion, seriously awakened: he doubted not but Charles would now be brought to discover the whole, and repent­ed having so strenuously denied the truth, which he was sensible would incense his fa­ther more than the fault itself: he resolved, therefore, to exert the influence he well knew he possessed over his friend, to prevent the consequences he so much dreaded. With this view, he went with him; and having condoled with him on his disgrace, assured him, if he could have thought his father would have laid the blame on him, he would have confessed the truth at first; but he add­ed, that now he had so strenuously denied it, he could not recant without incensing his fa­ther [Page 133] to the last degree. By these artful a­pologies, he so far won upon Charles, that he was weak enough to persist in the falsehood, the discovery of which, Edward artfully hinted, would not only ruin him, and more deeply involved himself, but also ruin poor George, who had acted entirely from his persuasions.

"In the mean while, Sir John having advertised the ring in the public papers, without success, fully convinced that Charles was no stranger to its fate, resolved, since neither the punishment he had inflicted, nor the entreaties he used, would induce him to discover the truth, to try what effect the dis­grace of being dismissed his family would produce; a measure which he adopted the more readily, as the conduct of Charles, in this instance and in that of the watch, made him appear by no means a proper compa­nion for his son.

"Words cannot describe the feelings of Charles upon this occasion: the thought of being thus shamefully dismissed the family of his patron, operated so forcibly on his mind, that he resolved, let the consequence be what it would, to confess every thing.—He was making his way with this design to Sir John's study, when, in crossing the hall, he unfortunately encountered Edward, who stopped to enquire whither he was going in [Page 134] such haste? Charles, with a sorrowful countenance, owned, that, unable longer to support the displeasure of Sir John, he was actually going to confess the truth.

[Page 136] "Unhappy boy," said Mr. Weldon, hav­ing listened attentively to the detail, "the flexibility of your temper has undone you. Into what a labyrinth of disgrace has it not plunged you!"

"O father," said Charles, in a voice in­terrupted by tears, "I see my errors; but it is now too late: I have lost the favour of Sir John—disgraced myself in the opinion of every one—made you miserable—." He could say no more.

"Mr. Weldon perceived, and even piti­ed his anguish;" you have indeed, my child, said he, "done all this: it remains only now, to make all the reparation in your power: Sir John must immediately be acquainted with the truth; the

POST SETS OUT!"

"O father," interrupted Charles, "in­deed I cannot acquaint Sir John—I have promised Edward—I have suffered a great deal for his sake—and after all, to betray him! indeed, father, I cannot."

"Truth," said Mr. Weldon, "is the only reparation you can now make, and you owe it equally to Sir John—your friend Ed­ward—and yourself."—

"Edward," said Charles, "would, I am sure, never forgive me! he had denied it so often to Sir John—it would so expose him."

[Page 137] "If Edward," said Mr. Weldon, "suc­ceeds in concealing this fault, it will encou­rage him to commit greater; from one step he will proceed to another till, in the end, he will not stop at the worst of crimes. Would you, Charles, to save your friend a momentary chagrine, expose him to a seri­ous evil?"

"I am sure, father," replied Charles, "if Edward has suffered the tenth part of what I have, he will never more be guilty of a falsehood—if I had but confessed the truth before I left London, I should have been happy—but now, indeed, father, I cannot; it will appear just as if I had left Edward to bear the whole weight of Sir John's displea­sure, and had neither courage nor friendship to share it with him."

"I will not say," replied Mr. Weldon, "that it may not have that appearance, but the mortification you may suffer, on this, and every other point, is a just punishment for the obstinacy with which you persisted in the falsehood you had once told."

"But Father,"—

"Say no more," said Mr. Weldon, "in a tone of authority, that had never yet failed to excite the obedience of his son, no time is now to be lost; the post sets out at nine, and truth, as I observed before, is the only atonement you can now make for your past errors."

[Page 138] "Charles ventured not to reply; he fol­lowed his father in silence to the study, where, being furnished with pen and ink, he sat down, and with a trembling hand, wrote a circumstantial account of the train of e­vents, that had brought on his present dis­grace; generously taking every opportunity in the course of the narrative to palliate (tho' frequently at his own expence,) the faults of his friend. This letter was immediately dispatched to Sir John, and Charles, though in other respects, eased of a burden that had long oppressed his heart, was for a week, on Edward's account, a prey to very pain­ful sensations; at length, one day, as he stood at a window that looked into the road, he saw a coach, which he knew to be that of his benefactor, draw up to the gate. Sir John alighted, followed by his son, and was received by Mr. Weldon and his Lady, with every mark of respect and friendship, though the recollection of their son's disgrace, gave a check to that cheerfulness, which his presence usual­ly inspired."

Charles, alone, wanted courage to ad­vance, till Sir John, compassionating his em­barrassment and confusion, encouraged him by a smile of invitation.

"Ah, Sir," said he, "with diffidence, ap­proaching, my faults are too great to be for­given: [Page 139] I am unworthy—" and here he stopped.

"As I am willing," said Sir John, "to believe your repentance sincere, and although late, you have made for your errors, all the atonement in your power, by an avowal of the truth, I will not add to those stings, guilt will ever bring along with it, by re­proaches: I will do more, I will endeavour to forget the past, so saying, he held out his hand to him, in token of reconciliation."

"Ah, Sir," said Charles, "I am unwor­thy this goodness: I am entirely unworthy of it: it wounds me more than the severest reproaches. Then turning to his friend, Edward, said he, we have both done wrong—can you forgive me?"

"Dear Charles," said Edward, "embrac­ing him, I ought to ask forgivness of you, I have led you into many errors: had it not been for me."—

"Do not excuse yourself," interrupted Charles, "I only am to blame; had I, with a proper firmness, resisted your solicitations, reflection would have recalled you to your duty."

"You have been both to blame," said Sir John, "but I hope your past errors will teach you the advantage, that truth will e­ver have over falsehood: had you stopped at the first fault, how much disgrace would [Page 140] you not have spared to yourselves, and an­guish of mind to your friends!"

Sir John, then to the joy of all present, acquainted them, that he had recovered the diamond ring, which Edward had lost, you have, without doubt, said he, addressing Mr. and Mrs. Weldon, heard that I adver­tised it in the public papers: I gained no in­formation concerni [...]g it, till about half an hour after the departure of Charles, when it was brought to me by a woman, who said, she had found it about a fortnight be­fore, upon Blackheath. As one of my prin­cipal motives for wishing to recover the ring, was, that I might be enabled to dis­cover, by whom it had been detained, I made some enquiries, which led the woman to in­form me, that having shewn the ring to a man who kept a public house upon Black­heath, he said, he doubted not, but it was the same, two young gentlemen who spent the day at his house, a few days before, had lost; and that he was persuaded it would be advertised."

"Resolved," continued Sir John, "to pursue my enquiry further, I set out for Blackheath, and by the description, the publican, at my request, gave of the lads, to whom he alluded, I was persuaded, I had been imposed on by my son. I reproached him on my return, with his duplicity, and [Page 141] drew from him a full confession of his guilt."

"You, my dear Weldon, who are your­self a father, can alone judge, what I felt, when my suspicions were changed into cer­tainty."

"Edward beheld the anguish of my mind; my sufferings, I believe touched him; his tears flowed abundantly—I hope they were sincere—but can we trust him, who has once deceived us?"

"O Father," said Edward, bursting in­to tears, "my punishment is great; but is just; while I possessed your confidence, I a­bused it—I esteemed it lightly; now, only that I have forever lost, am I sensible of its true value."

"Your conduct, Edward," said Sir John, "has given to mine, and to your mother's heart, a wound, which time only, and your reformation can heal; in the hope of that, as much as possible, will we obliterate th [...] remembrance of the past; but neither must yourself or Charles, expect to possess the con­fidence we formerly reposed in you, till a long course of rectitude has proved the sin­cerity of your repentance."

"Charles and his friend, sighed deeply; never were they before so completely hum­bled; Charles especially, whose feelings were more acute than those of Edward, when he [Page 142] reflected, how low his conduct had sunk him in his own and in the opinion of all around him, was inexpressibly hurt, and in bitterness lamented his folly: "O my dear Edward," said he, grasping the hand of his friend, "let us, from henceforth, invariably adhere to truth; let us be cautious of deviating in the smallest degree from the path of duty, out of which, I am convinced, there is no happi­ness."

"Ah! Charles," replied Edward, "had I listened to your advice, we had both been happy."

Sir John concluded, from the contrition that appeared in the countenance and expressions of his son and Charles, that his discourse had made the impression he wished, entered upon other topics, and having chatted half an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Weldon, took his leave, telling Charles, at parting, to hold himself in readiness, as Edward would set off for school, in a few days. This hint, which signified to Charles, that he was to accompany his friend, joined to the thought, that a possibility still remain­ed, of regaining one day, however distant, the confidence he had lost, inspired him with a joy, to which, since the moment of his transgression, he had been a stranger. Two days after, his heart dilated with another pleasure: Catherine, in a letter, she address­ed [Page 143] to Mrs. Weldon, setting forth her obli­gations to Charles, acquainted her, that she doubted not being able in a few weeks, to engage in a service.

This letter, communicated joy to every part of this worthy family, and to none more than to Charles, who, with pleasure, saw a parcel made up from the wardrobe of his mother and sisters, dispatched to her, with a little purse, to which, each of the young ladies contributed to their ut­most.—

The day in which the young gentlemen were to depart for school, at length, arriv­ed; when Mr. Weldon addressed his son to this effect:—"My dear Charles, do not forget that your errors have originated from the instabiliy of your mind: had you posses­ed that noble firmness, which, if not the ba­sis, is the safe guard of every virtue, you would not, against your reason, and better judgment, have consented to accompany your friend, upon an expedition, which your heart disapproved: this exposed you to a temptation, which was the consequence of another error; I mean, that of risquing, a­gainst your principle and inclination, mo­ney, which being promised to another, was no longer your own; to repair this error, another was committed; your watch, the gift of your benefactor, was sold, and to conceal this a lie followed."

[Page 144] "But what shall I say to that weakness which led you, in complaisance to another, to impose on your benefactor, by a lie, which though ever of a heinous nature, was, on this occasion, aggravated: could you assure yourself, that the suspicion of theft, might not fall upon an innocent person? Fortu­nately you was yourself, the victim of your weakness and duplicity: the mind of Sir John, already prepared by the mystery that hung over the watch, readily entertained suspicions to your disadvantage: he believed you no stranger to the fate of his ring, and was persuaded, if you had not taken it with an intent to wrong him, you had inadver­tently lost it, and were too obstinate to own your fault. Your faultering voice, and guil­ty countenance, confirmed these suspicions, and you were justly punished, by a disgrace­ful dismission from the family.

"A gentle and complying temper, my dear Charles, is amiable, but unless accom­panied by discretion, will lead you, as you have proved by experience, into the most dangerous errors: to yield, where we know it is our duty to resist, is a weakness for which it is difficult to form an excuse: first, be assured that your principles are just, and then let it be your glory, to act in conform­ity to them—but, I see the coach at the door; adieu my dear boy; let my words [Page 145] sink deep into your heart, and remember, that the affection you entertain for a father, whose happiness or misery, it is in your pow­er, in a great measure, to constitute, can only be proved by the rectitude of your fu­ture conduct."

Charles had scarcely time to assure his fa­ther, he would treasure his admonitions, be­fore he was summoned to attend his friend Edward; he, therefore, in haste, affection­ately embraced his father—his mother—his sisters—and departed for school. There, by the rectitude of his conduct, he, in pro­cess of time, (for bad impressions are not easily effaced) obliterated, the remembrance of his former errors, regained the confidence of his patron, and became the pride of his parents, and the delight of all around him.

Edward, too, pursuing the example of his friend, became eminent for his virtues, and found by experience that the highest happiness is that of performing our duty.

"I shall make no comment," said Mrs. Mills, "on my story, as I am persuaded if it has failed to amuse, you have too much good sense not to profit by the moral it con­tains."

The young people assured her they were [...] edified and a [...]sed; and William [...] lesson to him, when he [Page 146] returned to school, not to suffer himself, as he had often, to be laughed or persuaded out of what he knew to be right. Tea was then brought in, and the young people, after their evening walk, retired to rest, perfectly satis­fied with the amusements of the day.

The next morning Mrs. Mills, having some business at a neighbouring farm, pro­posed a ride thither to her young friends, who every hour more charmed with the society of their aunt, expressed the pleasure they felt in the thought of attending her. The car­riage was therefore ordered, and soon after breakfast they set out for the farm; the mi­stress of it, who was the picture of neatness and good-humour, with a train of little ones, came out to meet them. Mrs. Mills, with her usual affability, enquired after the rest of her family, and said, she had brought her nephew and niece to see the farm.

Mrs. Goodman replied, she should be hap­py to shew the young lady and gentleman the little that was worth their notice; but added, that she hoped Mrs. Mills would per­mit them first to take such refreshments as the house afforded. Saying this, she con­ducted her guests into a neat parlour, and set before them some home-baked bread, curds and cream, and cowslip wine, a repast which was extremely agreeable to the young people whose appetites were sharpen­de by the ride.

[Page 147] Afterwards the good woman, at the re­quest of Mrs. Mills, conducted them into an adjacent meadow, to view a brood of beau­tiful ducklings. Clara admired the delica­cy of their plumage, and as she saw the lit­tle creatures enjoying the coolness of the running stream that watered the meadow, expressed her surprise that their feathers did not appear wet.

"Providence," said Mrs. Mills, who em­braced every opportunity of informing the minds of her young friends, "has furnished birds, and especially water-fowl, at the extre­mity of the body, with a little bag, contain­ing a kind of oil with which they anoint and dress their feathers, to render them im­penetrable to the wet. You must certainly have observed how frequently all kinds of birds draw the bill over their feathers: it is a very necessary employment; for, with­out it, their flight would be obstructed by every shower of rain, as the feathers, by im­bibing the water, would become heavy and un [...]it for use. It is observed, that poultry which live under a covert are provided with a less quantity of this oil than those birds which inhabit the open air."

From hence Mrs. Goodman took them to her granary—her dairy, which was neatness itself—her hay ricks—nor did she forget her pig-sties, which were perfectly clean, and [Page 148] littered with straw, wishing her guests to ob­serve a fine [...] sow, which lay basking in one of them, with a litter of pigs, scarcely a fortnight old.—She next conducted them to the poultry-yard, where, taking a basket, she scattered some corn, and called the feather­ed tribe about her. At the well known sound, they came trooping from all parts; but scarcely were arrived, when a candidate of a different kind put them to flight. This was no other than a tortoise-shell cat, which made way for a fine white hen that followed her. The hen without ceremony, fell upon the grain, and puss, like a faithful guard, stood by to keep off intruders, till she had eaten her fill: after which, she walked off in triumph with her charge, leaving the coast clear to the rest of the poultry, which immediately succeeded. This scene was not more new to the young people than to Mrs. Mills: that an animal should discover such affectionate solicitude for a creature it was its nature to destroy, surprised her, and her surprise was not lessened by the account the farmer's wife gave of this

EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCE^*.

"You must know, madam, said she, "that our p [...]ss has been the nurse to that fowl: When first hatched, it was a poor little puny [Page 149] thing; I took it from the hen, seeing it did not thrive, wrapt it in a bit of flannel, and kept it in a basket by the fire, hoping the warmth would revive it. I took a world of trouble, but it grew worse and worse, till at last its poor eyes closed, and I really thought it dying. I was so vexed to think of the time I had spent upon it to no purpose, that I threw it in a pet to the cat, who lay asleep by the fire, in my husband's arm-chair. I thought, to be sure, she would have [...]apt it up, and put it out of its pain in a moment; but, would you believe it, madam? she lift­ed up her leg, and received it as though it had been her kitten! Yes, madam, she pur­red over it, and the little creature seemed to revive by her warmth. I was so surprised that I could scarcely believe my eyes; and my husband was not less so, when he came home from work, to see the cat nursing the chicken, with as much tenderness as if it had been her kitten. You may be sure, Madam, we did not take it from her except to feed it, which was a part of the business puss could not perform. In short, she seemed to receive it in the place of a litter of kittens we had just before drowned, and grew fon­der and fonder of it every day. You see, madam, the chicken is now grown to a fine hen; puss still continues her attention; you have just seen a proof of it. She no sooner [Page 150] hears me call the poultry than she appears with her charge, which attends to her voice as it would have done to the cluck of the hen, and will not suffer one of the other fowls to touch a grain till her favorite hen is satisfied, when she walks off, and leaves the rest in quiet possession of what remains."

"Well," said William, "I am amazed, I could not have believed a cat capable of such tenderness; I always thought them malicious and revengeful, and at school have played them many a wicked prank."

"I have been told," said Mrs. Mills, "that cats furnish much cruel diversion to school-boys; but surely not to my William! he cannot tyrannize over a poor animal, mere­ly because it has no power to defend itself, and delight in tortures at which every heart, not callous to the feelings of humanity, must recoil."

"I cannot deny," replied William, "that I have joined our boys in many wicked prank they played, especially in hunting of cats; but indeed, aunt, I never reflected on what the poor animal must have suffered. I thought only of my own amusement; but, I assure you, I will never again join in such cruel sports."

"Remember, my dear boy," said Mrs. Mills, "that God commands you to be merciful to all creatures, and that he hears the cry of the weakest animal: then reflect [Page 151] on the happiness which results from commu­nicating pleasure, and I am sure you will not seek it in inflicting pain."

"But, aunt, I always thought cats very malicious and revengeful."

"Cats, William, like other animals, are sensible of good or bad treatment: if you use them well, they will carress you; if ill they will endeavour to retaliate."

"But they are certainly less faithful than dogs," replied William.

"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Mils; "but there are many instances which prove them not deficient in point of attachment. I re­member, a few years past, reading in a magazine of a cat, which discovered so strong an attachment to a dog, that, seeing him one day engaged with ano­ther, before her master's house, she flew into the street, and fell upon the antagonist of her favorite with such fury, that she forced him, in the sight of numerous spectators, to quit the field."

"But is there not," said Clara, "in gene­ral, an antipathy between cats and dogs?"

"It appears so," replied Mrs. Mills: "but when they are bred together, it seems to sub­side, and I have known many instances in which it has given place to cordial affecti­on, which makes me the more readily give credit to the anecdote I have just related: but, without forcing nature from her general [Page 152] course, repeated instances prove that cats are capable of very strong attachments."

"Well, aunt," said William, "though you are such an advocate for cats, you must allow, after all, they are of little use."

"I could tell you," said Mrs. Mills, "of cats that were taught to hunt and destroy serpents; for so it is recorded they did in the island of Cyprus; but the services they render us in England are, in my opinion, sufficient to exalt their fame, and entitle them to kind treatment."

"I do not," said William, "recollect any service they can do us, except the killing of a few rats and mice."

"Do you not think that," said Mrs. Mills, "an essential service?"

"Truly, aunt," returned William, "if cats can render us no greater service, I do not think we have so much reason to value them. What harm can such insignificant creatures as rats and mice do us? To be sure, they make free with a little of our bacon and cheese—but that is not worth the think­ing of."

"Very true, William," said Clara.

"These insignificant creatures," said Mrs. Mills, "as William calls them, may be more formidable than either of you imagine: I once knew a gentleman whose house, in Scotland, was undermined, and the founda­ons shakened by rats."

[Page 153] "Indeed!"

"Yes; they came from a ship that touch­ed at the port, and infested his house in such numbers, that the foundation of it actu­ally gave way: and the damage he sustained from them, in this and other instances, was estimated at upwards of five hundred pounds."

"Was it possible!" said Clara.

"There was scarcely a chest or a drawer in his house into which they did not pene­trate: The linen was gnawed in holes—and as to the provisions! sugar—meat—bread—rice—corn—nothing escaped the rava­ges of those merciless spoilers."

"Well," said William, "could one have thought it possible for so small an animal as a rat to do such mischief!"

"So it was," said Mrs. Mills, "and you cannot but confess the utility of the cat, which preserves us from creatures which are capable of being so formidable."

"I see," said William, "that Mrs. Puss is of more consequence than I thought her."

"But, as I have acquainted you," said Mrs. Mills, "with the plunders of these mischievous animals, I must not forget the ingenuity with which some of them were executed: What do you think of their con­veying eggs, unbroken, from the top of the house, which was three stories high, to the bottom?"

[Page 154] "Why, I think," said William, it was, absolutely impossible."

"I should myself," said Mrs. Mills, "have thought so, had I not been told it was a fact by my friend and his lady, upon whose ve­racity I can place the firmest reliance."

"Well," said William, "I think it could be effected by nothing less than a miracle: do tell us, aunt, how it was."

"I am myself," said Mrs. Mills, "igno­rant how the business was performed; I can only tell you that, at the season of the year when eggs are plenty, my friend, as it is customary in the north, greased a number and put them into a large stone jar, to pre­serve them sweet for use. A short time after, she was much surprised to find the eggs, which were in the jars at the top of the house, considerably diminished, though none had been used in the family. It was thought impossible this could be the work of the rats; but so it proved: On a strict examinati­on, the eggs, in part whole and part shells, with the contents sucked out, were found in burrows made by the rats, at the bottom of the house."

"How could they possibly carry them, without breaking?" said Clara.

"That is a mystery▪ my dear," said Mrs. Mills, "I cannot explain; I can only as­sure you, upon authority I cannot doubt, that the fact really happened."

[Page 155] "They must have rolled them down the stairs," said William.

"Nay," said Mrs. Mills, "in that case, they must inevitably have broken."

"Oh," said William, "I have just thought how they managed the business; I remember hearing my papa tell of a friend of his, who once watched and saw one of these ingenious gentlemen hop down stairs, upon his hind legs, with some corn which he had taken from the garret, in his fore paws; I dare say, the rats you have been telling us about conveyed the eggs down in the same manner."

"It is very likely they might, said Mrs. Mills; "but I think it equally probable that the business was effected by combination; that is to say, that more than one was con­cerned in it, though I cannot say whether performed exactly in the same manner AEsop represents in his fable of the two rats and the egg. Since I have known the anecdote of my friend's eggs, it has more than once occurred to me that it is possible the fable in AEsop might be founded upon a fact; I am persuaded, that all animals have a lan­guage or sign, by which they understand each other, as far as it is necessary for their mutual benefit and preservation; and that rats have a language, and act in concert is evident from a curious anecdote that I will relate to you:"

"A gentleman having a present of some [Page 156] Florence oil, the flasks were set in his cellar, in the bottom of a shallow box: the oil not being wanted for use, they remained there some time; when the owner, going one day by chance into the cellar, was surprised to find the wicker work, by which the flasks were stopped, gnawed from the greater part, and, upon examination, the oil sunk about two, or two inches and a half from the neck of each-flask. It soon occurred to him that it must be the work of some kind of vermin; and being a man of a specula­tive turn, he resolved to satisfy the curiosity raised in his mind; he accordingly found means to watch, and actually detected three rats in the very act: but how do you think they managed to get at the oil? You know the neck of the flask was long and narrow; it required therefore some contrivance.

"Indeed it did," said William; "but I dare say the rats found out a better expe­dient for themselves than I should for them."

"I told you three rats were engaged in the business," resumed Mrs. Mills: "one of these stood upon the edge of the box, while another, mounting his back, dipped his tail in the [...] flask, and presented it to a [...] places, [...] [Page 157] was his turn to act the porter, and he took his station at the bottom. In this manner the three rats alternately relieved each oth­er, and banquetted upon the oil, till they had sunk it beyond the length of their tails."

"Well," said Clara, "if they were e­qual to such a contrivance, they could beat no loss to convey the eggs to their burrows without breaking: one may believe them capable of any thing: but is the story really to be relied on?"

"I had it from the mouth of the gen­tleman who was himself witness of the fact he was a man of character and speculation, upon whose veracity I can rely."

"Well," said William, "it is a most ex­traordinary story, but nothing can surprise me after puss and her chicken, that exceeds every thing I ever heard of."

"It was a singular circumstance," said the Lady, "but I think Mrs. Goodman told us puss had just lost a litter of kittens?"

"Yes, madam," said the farmer's wife, who had been listening with silent attention to the discourse, "she had kittened a few days before, and my husband had drowned the litter."

"This circumstance, then," said Mrs. Mills, "accounts in some measure, for an attachment that appears otherwise, so fo­reign to the nature of the animal; we can [Page 158] find no difficulty in supposing, that the in­stinct, which nature had awakened in the cat, for the preservation of her own young, deprived of its object, was easily transferred to the chicken, upon which it acted with equal force."

"Well," said William, "whatever might be the cause, it was a droll sight, to see puss march up the yard, with her fea­thered attendant; I declare it was worth riding five miles to see her."

Mrs. Mills, now thinking it time to take leave of their obliging hostess, wished her a good day, and stepped into the carriage, followed by her young friends, who return­ed extremely pleased with the farm, and its inhabitants, in whose countenance Clara thought she observed more happiness and content than she had ever experienced in the possession of those gaities she had, three days ago, considered as the chief blessings of life.

After dinner, Mrs. Mills asked the young people, in what manner they would amuse themselves, till the time of their evening walk? "Here is the piano forte; you are fond of music, my dear Clara—or shall we retire to the study? I have some books that I think will entertain you; or suppose we amuse ourselves in

THE PICTURE GALLERY.

This last proposal was preferred; for though Clara and William had every day passed through the gallery, to and from their chamber, they had not stopped to ob­serve one of the pictures; the entertainment, therefore, was new to them; and Mrs. Mills, with her usual kindness, rendered it doubly agreeable, by pointing out to them the beauties of each picture, and the diffe­rent subject it represented: "That engag­ing figure," said she, pointing to a piece on her right hand, "represents Mahommed Akbar, Emperor of Indostan; he is de [...]c [...] ­ed by the historians of his country as pos­sessed of many virtues; but no part of his conduct shines more amiable than that which respects his Minister Byram, whom you see represented in the same piece. By­ram, to whom Akbar's father, in a great measure, owed his restoration to the throne, from which he was banished by the treach­ery of his brothers, was appointed Regent of the kingdom during the minority of Ak­bar, who, though only fourteen when he as­ [...]ded the throne, gave an early Instance of his wisdom and confidence in this great man; for, finding his kingdom involved in dangerous wars, he called Byram [...]o him, [Page 160] and addressing him by the title of Noble Baba, that is to say, father; he told him, "that he reposed his whole trust in his pru­dence and good conduct, and desired he would take whatever measures he thought necessary for the defence and support of his kingdom; at the same time assuring him, in the most solemn manner, that he would give no attention to any malicious insinua­tions that might by his enemies be suggest­ed to his prejudice."

"This prudent conduct of the young Em­peror could not but engage the affections of Byram, by whose exertion he was soon set­tled peaceably upon the throne, and his kingdom in a flourishing state: but, though Byram was an able statesman, and an expe­rienced warrior, his disposition was suspici­ous and vindictive; he grew jealous of the favours bestowed by his master upon others, and began to suspect his affection estranged from him. On the other hand, the king in­censed at some acts of severity and injustice which he had committed, by power of his authority, though he still personally respect­ed Byram, thought it time to take the go­vernment of the kingdom upon himself, which he accordingly did, and the minis­ter was dismissed from the regency.

"This so offended Byram, that he fell from his allegiance, and assembled troops, [Page 161] with an intent of conquering some part of his master's dominions, and founding an in­dependent kingdom. The Emperor, hear­ing his design, sent troops to quell his rebel­lion, and a battle ensued, in which Byram was defeated, several of his principal officers killed, and himself obliged to take refuge in the mountains. Where, reduced, at length, to the greatest distress, he sent one of his slaves to represent his unfortunate si­tuation, and to implore the king's mercy.

"It was, on this occasion, that the cha­racter of this young monarch shone forth in its full lustre; he instantly dispatched one of his omrahs, to invite Byram to court; and that no mark of favour and distinction might be wanting, a considerable number of chiefs, were, by the orders of Akbar, sent to meet him half way, and conduct him into his presence. When Byram appeared before the Emperor, he hung his turban round his neck, in token of humiliation, and threw himself in tears at the foot of the throne. Akbar instantly raised, and placed him in his former station, at the head of the omrahs; then, as a mark of peculiar honour, presenting him with a splendid dress: "If the Lord Byram," said the gene­rous young King, "loves a military life, he shall have the government of Calpe and Chinderi, in which he may exercise his mar­tial [Page 162] genius; if he choose rather to remain at court, our favour shall not be wanting to the great benefactor of our family; but should devotion engage the soul of Byram, to perform a pilgrimage to Mecca, he shall be escorted in a manner suitable to his dig­nity."

Byram replied, "The royal confidence and friendship for me must now be dimin­ished; nay, lost: why then should I remain in the presence? the clemency of the king is enough for me, and his forgiveness of my late errors, a sufficient reward for my for­mer services. Let then the unfortunate Byram turn his face from this world to ano­ther, and pursue his pilgrimage to Mecca."

"The Emperor assented to his request, and ordered for him a proper retinue, with 50,000 rupees a-year, to support his dignity. Byram, however, did not enjoy the bounty of his master, being basely assassinated, in his way to Mecca, by one, whose father he had killed in battle."

Clara and William thanked their aunt for the information she had given them, and expressed their admiration of a conduct so noble as that of the young Emperor.

"I am particularly pleased," said Mrs. Mills, "with that part of his speech, which reverts to the services of his minister: "our favour," says Akbar, "shall not be [Page 163] wanting to the great benefactor of [...] fami­ly," with the view, no doubt, of softening the poignancy of Byram's remorse, and les­sening the weight of the obligations, with which he was overwhelming him."

"It was indeed very generous," said William, "how Byram's heart must have smote him, when he found how generously he was treated."

'Undoubtedly,' said Mrs. Mills, "it did; we may he assured that the kindness of his master wounded him, more than the sever­est reproaches. The painter has in the piece before us described, in lively colours, the shame, grief, and admiration, that By­ram must have felt when introduced into the presence of his master, and treated with so much generosity: on the other hand, what generous pity and benignity beams in the countenance of the young Prince, as he raises the prostrate minister, to place him in his former dignity!—but as we are speaking of the heroes of Indostan, observe the pic­ture which is opposite: the principal figure is Durgetti, queen of Gurat, celebrated for her beauty and accomplishments."

"She is clothed in armour," observed Clara, "and mounted on an elephant."

"Yes," said Mrs. Mills, "it was former­ly the custom of many eastern nations to use elephants in war; but since muskets and [Page 164] cannon have been introduced, the ele­phants, being frightened at the noise of ar­tillery, prove more dangerous than useful in battle.

"The extent of Durgetti's dominions were very small, not exceeding three hun­dred miles in length, and one in breadth▪ but so flourishing was this small tract, that it comprehended more than seventy thou­sand towns and villages, well inhabited. Asaph, the governor of a neighbouring pro­vince, allured by the riches of this kingdom, marched against it; the queen, with a force equally powerful, prepared to oppose him. She led her troops to action, as you see the artist has represented in the picture, clad in armour, and mounted on a castle upon an elephant, with a bow and quiver lying at her side, and a lance in her hand. Her troops were in general unacquainted with war, but the noble example of their queen, and the love of their native independence, inspired every breast with courage, and they repulsed the enemy with such fury, that they left six hundred horsemen dead on the field, and pursued the rest, with great slaughter. Night coming on, the queen halted with her army, and gave orders to her troops that they might be ready to make an attack upon the enemy before they re­covered from their consternation: but her [Page 165] ministers and chiefs opposed this measure, and insisted upon returning to the field of battle, to bury their friends. The queen reluctantly consented; and after the bodies of the slain, according to the custom of the country, were burnt, again solicited her chiefs to accompany her to storm the Mo­gul camps. They, however, wanting her courage and prudence, vainly imagined the enemy would of their own accord evacuate the country, and refused to second the dar­ing enterprise of their queen. Fatally were they deceived. Asaph attacked them the next morning with his heavy artillery, which he had the day before left behind on account of the badness of the roads. The queen advanced, upon the approach of Asaph, to a narrow pass, to oppose him; but he quickly opened himself a way into the plain beyond, where the army was drawn up in order for battle. Prince Biar, the queen's son, a youth of great hopes, ex­hibited prodigies of valour; till being wounded, he became faint with the loss of blood, when his mother, who was mounted on an elephant, in the front of the battle, seeing him ready to fall from his horse, call­ed to some of her people to bear him from the field. The loss of the prince, and of many who quitted the field with him, struck such a panic into the rest, that the unfortu­nate [Page 166] queen was le [...]t only with three hun­dred men in the field. She, however, no ways affected with her desperate situation, stood her ground, with her former fortitude, till she received an arrow in the eye; in endeavouring to extricate it, part of the steel broke short, and remained behind. In the mean time, another arrow passed through her neck, which she also drew out; but nature sinking under the pain, she faint­ed: recovering, however, by degrees, a brave officer of her houshold, who drove her elephant, singly repulsed numbers of the enemy, wherever he turned the out­rageous animal. He begged permission, as the day was now irretrievable, to carry the queen from the field, a proposal which she rejected with disdain."

"It is true," said she, "we are overcome in war, but shall we ever be vanquished in honour? shall we, for the sake of lingering out an ignominious life, lose the reputation and virtue we have been so solicitous to ac­quire? no; let your gratitude repay the service for which I raised you, and which I now require at your hands: haste, let your dagger save me from the crime of put­ting a period to my own existence."

"Adhar, which was the name of the officer, burst into tears, and begged, as the elephant was swift of foot, that he [Page 167] might be permitted to carry her from the field, to place of safety. In the mean time, the queen finding the enemy crouded fast around her, suddenly leaned forward, and seizing Adhar's daggar, plunged it into her bosom, and expired.

"The death of the queen rendered Asaph's victory complete. A few days after he beseiged the fortress of Jora, where all the treasures of this noble family had been preserved for ten generations. The young prince, a little recovered from his wounds, bravely exerted himself, and lost his life in defence of his kingdom, and independence."

"What a pity it is aunt," said William, "that there is such a thing as war! how many it makes miserable."

"In the present state of the world," re­plied Mrs. Mills, "war is sometimes necessa­ry; but then it must be undertaken in de­fence of our lives, property, or indepen­dence. We turn with disgust and horror from the individual, who, hurried on by an insatiable thirst of wealth or power calmly sacrifices thousands of his species in pursuit of idols, which, when attained, can afford an imperfect, and at best, but a transient, satisfaction. We feel very differently inte­rested for Asaph, whose sole object was the riches of the kingdom of Gurat, and for the queen who so nobly exerted herself to pre­serve [Page 168] the independance and property of the subjects."

"Certainly we do, aunt," said Clara; "but pray, do you think the queen of Gurat did right to kill herself?"

"Can you ask such a question?" replied Mrs. Mills; "it is an action which sullies all her former glories: The ignorance of the age and country in which she lived, where it was held more noble to die than to suffer the ignominy of captivity, might palliate the crime, did it not appear from the words she addressed to her faithful offi­cer, 'Haste, let your dagger save me from the crime of putting an end to my existence,' that she did not err entirely through igno­rence. Let us, therefore, in paying a just tri­bute of praise to her courage and magnani­mity, draw a veil over her errors." Saying this Mrs. Mills called the attention of her young friends to other pictures, and having entertained them with several pleasing anec­dotes that occurred to her, upon review­ing each: "That," said she, "is Alfred, one of our British kings, disguised as a har­per in the Danish camp."

Clara enquired the cause of his disguise?

"The Danes," replied Mrs. Mills, "had usurped his kingdom; he, therefore, used this stratagem to inform himself of their situations and designs".

[Page 169] "Pray, aunt," said William, "was it not Alfred who first divided England into coun­ties?"

"It was," replied Mrs. Mills; "long wars had introduced such disorders into the kingdom, that vagrants every where abound­ed, who, having no settled place of abode, after committing all sorts of outrages, by shifting their quarters, easily eluded justice. To prevent this, Alfred divided the whole Island into counties, the counties into hun­dreds and the hundreds into tythings. This done, every inhabitant was obliged to be­long to some tything, otherwise he was con­sidered as a vagabond, and the owner of the house where he lodged, in case of his escape, became responsible for any misde­meanour he might commit."

"It was a very wise regulation," said William; "Alfred was a great king!"

"He was not only a great king," replied Mrs. Mills, "but a good man: his charac­ter is the most perfect handed down to us by historians; especially, if we consider the obscure age in which he lived: he protect­ed his country by arms, polished it by arts, and enacted many useful laws for the happi­ness and future welfare of his people. He was the fifth king of the Saxon line.

"That picture," said Mrs. Mills, point­ing to one on her right hand, "is a view of [Page 170] Gibralter, which you know, William, was taken from the Spaniards by the English, in the reign of Queen Ann, and was bravely defended by General Elliot (afterwards Lord Heathfield) in the [...]ast war.

"The next piece deserves your particular attention, not only from the masterly style in which it is executed, but from the useful lesson it contains. I need not, I dare say, tell either of you, that the principal figure represents Richard the Second, who, by his admirable presence of mind preserved his own and the lives of his whole reti [...]."

"I am quite unacquainted with the sto­ry," said Clara.

"Have you not read the history of Eng­land?" rejoined Mrs. Mills.

"O yes, madam."

"It is astonishing then that you should not call to mind a circumstance so generally known, and in itself so remarkable: The reign of Richard the Second was disturbed by many civil commotions, and among others by an insurrection of the common people, on account of the pole-tax, headed by a blacksmith, known by the name of Wat Tyler. This rebellion became so formida­ble, that it was thought adviseable to offer terms, which being repeatedly rejected by the mutineers, the king proposed a confer­ence with their leader, which took place accordingly in Smithfield▪ but, in this in­terview, [Page 171] the insolence of Tyler, who brand­ished his dagger with an air of authority, so incensed Sir Thomas Walworth, mayor of London, that suspecting his design was to stab the king, he stunned him with a blow of his mace, and another of the king's reti­nue run him thro' the body. The rebels, seeing their leader fall, immediately prepa­red to revenge him, and bent their bows for this purpose; when the king, though at this time not sixteen years of age, rode up to them, and in a resolute tone of voice: 'What, my friends,' said he, 'will you then kill your king? be not concerned for the loss of that traitor; I myself will be your leader; Follow me, and I will grant you all your reasonable desires.'

"The magnanimity of the young king struck the multitude with such awe, that they changed their first purpose, and, as if mechanically led, followed him into the fields, where they laid down their arms."

"What an astonishing instance of courage and presence of mind!" said Clara, "How surprising, that it should not strike me, when I read the history of England! but I suppose I was thinking of something else."

"To be thinking of one thing and doing another," observed her aunt, "is the cer­tain way to preclude improvement; and of all ignorance, none is so disgraceful as [Page 172] that which relates to the history and geogra­phy of our own country."

"To say the truth, aunt, "replied Cla­ra, "I always thought history very dry and uninteresting: When Miss Smith, therefore, who was for some time my governess, used to oblige me to read it, I generally sat down with an ill-will, and paid very little atten­tion: but I certainly deprived myself of great pleasure, as well as improvement; for I am convinced, from the entertainment you have given us, madam, this afternoon, that, had I attended to what I read, I should neither have found history dry nor uninter­esting:—but pray, madam, what is the subject of the opposite piece?"

"It is Regulus at the gates of Rome," replied Mrs. Mills: "you remember the story, William?"

"Yes," replied William, "I have read it many times!"

"I am very ignorant," said Clara, with a sigh, "there has not been one, among all the stories you, madam, have mentioned with which I am the least acquainted."

"Since time once past, my dear, cannot be recalled, let us," said Mrs. Mills, "think only of improving the future: William, tell your sister the story of Regulus."

"My sister," said William, "would be more entertained to read it in Dr. Gold­smith's [Page 173] Romon History: but I will relate it as well as I can:

"All the Romans were rejoiced when they heard that Regulus was returning to Rome: but he, with a settled melancholy, upon his arrival, refused to enter the gates, saying, that he was a slave to the Cartha­genians, and unworthy the honours his country would bestow on him. So he stayed without the gates; and when the Senate assembled there (as was usual, to give audi­ence to the ambassadors) he made proposals for a peace, as the Carthagenians had di­rected him. The Senate were very much inclined to accept them, and it remained [Page 174] only for Regulus, who had great influence with his countrymen, to give his opinion; which, to the surprise of every one, he did for a continuance of the war. The Senate, though convinced by his arguments, could not resolve upon a measure that must end in the ruin of a man who had acted so nobly; but Regulus, fearing they might be biassed by any personal concern for him, relieved their embarrassment, by breaking off the treaty, and rising to return with the ambas­sadors to Carthage, which, in spite of the entreaties of the Senate and his dearest friends, he did, though he well knew the tortures he should undergo: but nothing would prevail upon him to break the pro­mise he had given to the Carthagenians, who, I am sorry to tell you, were so enrag­ed, when they heard from their ambassa­dors that Regulus, instead of hastening a peace, had given his voice for the conti­nuance of the war, that for three days they tortured him in the most cruel man­ner, and at last left him to expire in a bar­rel stuck with spikes."

"What wretches they must have been," said Clara, "to punish him for acting so no­bly!"

"Their conduct," replied Mrs. Mills, "was indeed truly despicable; but of what enormities will not rancour and revenge render human nature capable!"

[Page 175] "Porsenna," said William, "behaved very differently toward Mutius, upon a similar occasion. How generously he act­ed!"

"His conduct," said Mrs. Mills, "was indeed very different—Your sister, William, looks as if she wished to hear the anecdote. You can oblige her."

"If you please, sister," said William, "I will repeat to you an abridgement our usher made of this story; it was one of my tasks a few weeks before the holidays:

"When Tarquin the proud was expelled Rome, he engaged in his interest Porsenna, one of the kings of Eturia, who laid siege to Rome, and reduced the inhabitants to the greatest distress. Mutius, a youth of undaunted courage, resolving to deliver his country from an enemy so oppressive, enter­ed the camp of Porsenna, in the habit of an Eturian peasant, resolved to assassinate the king, or to perish in the attempt. With this resolution, he made up to the place where Porsenna was paying his troops, with his se­cretary by his side; but mistaking the lat­ter for the king, stabbed him to the heart, and was immediately apprehended. When brought into the royal presence, and asked by Porsenna the cause of so heinous an acti­on? Mutius informed him, without reserve, of his country and design, and thrusting his [Page 176] hand into a [...] that was burning upon an altar before him, held it there, and addres­sing Porsenna, with a stedfast countenance: 'You see,' said he, 'how little I regard the severest punishment you can inflict; a Ro­man knows not only how to act, but how to suffer. Three hundred youths like me have conspired your destruction.' Porsenna, possessed a mind too noble not to acknow­ledge merit, though found in an enemy; struck with the courage and magnanimity of the young man, he ordered him to be safely conducted back to Rome, and offered the besieged terms of peace, which, being neither hard nor disgraceful, were readily accepted."

Clara thanked her brother for obliging her with the extract: and observed, in her turn, that the conduct of Prosenna formed a striking contrast to that of the Carthage­nians: "How noble," said she, "to forgive the young man who had attempted to kill him!"

"You see," said Mrs. Mills, "that gene­rosity and clemency exalt a character [...]s much as injustice and cruelty deba [...]e it. The generosity of the Eturian king has hand­ed his name down to posterity with honour, while the depravity of the Carthagenians must ever reflect an indelible stain on theirs: but, my dears, we have already exceeded the usual hour for tea."

[Page 177] "For tea, madam!" exclaimed Clara, "is it six o'clock?"

"It is full half after," replied Mrs. Mills, looking at her watch.

"Well," said Clara, "I am astonished! is it possible that we have been here three hours?"

"Time, my dear Clara," said Mrs. Mills, "seems long only to those who know not how to improve it."

They now left the gallery, and tea im­mediately followed. In the course of their evening walk, Mrs. Mills called upon seve­ral poor villagers, who, from various causes, stood in need of her assistance, and she was much pleased to observe, that neither Clara nor her brother were insensible to the plea­sure of conferring happiness; their purses were immediately in thir hand, and they bestowed with a kindness and modesty that very much enhanced the gift.

As they returned, Mrs. Mills told the [...] that she had an excursion in contemplation for the next morning: "About three miles from hence," said she, "is a very fine aviary; the gentleman to whom it be­longs is now in London, but we can see the birds, which I think will afford you enter­tainment."

The young people were extremely pleased, and having completed their walk, retired [Page 178] to rest, fully occupied with the thought of the pleasure they were to enjoy the next day. But a disappointment awaited them; a continued rain put a stop to the jaunt. Clara, who, though much improved by the conversation of her aunt, had not yet ac­quired philosophy to bear a disappointment without murmuring, began to be a little out of humour: she concealed it as much as pos­sible from her aunt, whose good opinion she was very ambitious to attain, but could not forbear thinking they should pass a very dull day, and, during breakfast, was so intent upon watching the clouds, that she could scarcely attend to any thing that passed, till Mrs. Mills, having observed how necessary it was to accustom ourselves to bear disap­pointment, added, that though the weather for the present had put a stop to their in­tended expedition, she doubted not, as her young pupils seem pleased with the contem­plation of nature, that she could supply them with amusement equally agreeable. Clara and William, who wished much to have seen the aviary, were unwilling to believe this, till Mrs. Mills, taking them into her dressing room, opened

AN INDIAN CABINET,

The contents of which was a large collecti­on of the most beautiful shells, arranged [Page 179] in exact order, according to their several classes. This was indeed an agreeable sur­prise! The young people no longer regretted the aviary, but thought their aunt had sup­plied them with amusement, if not for the whole day, at least for a considerable part of it. Mrs. Mills, as usual, heightened their entertainment by a variety of curious parti­culars, which she gave them of the little tribe that had once occupied the shells. They were particularly attentive to the ac­count of the purple-fish, which she told them had upon its back a little folded tunicle or bag, containing a white liquor, which dyed wool of a deep and unfading purple, and was supposed to be the same used by the an­cients for their purple dye; but she added, that the quantity of this liquor in each fish was so very small, that an immense number were necessary to dye one piece of stuff, which caused the ancients to set a very high value on their Tyrian dye, so called, pro­bably, from its being first discovered or used by the people of Tyre.

Clara and her brother were also much en­tertained with the account she gave them of the [...]ker, [...] mother of pearl, and with her description of the manner in which the negroes dive, to furnish us with the pearls contained in the body and beautiful shell of the [...].

[Page 180] This cabinet having for some time fur­nished entertainment, Mrs. Mills unlocked ed the folding door of another, which stood in a niche opposite, and contained a mi­scellaneous collection of natural curiosities. Clara's eye soon fixed on an American hum­ming bird, which, though dried, preserved a great share of its natural beauty. She took it from the cabinet with wonder, admi­red the lustre of its plumage, and above all its size, which did not greatly exceed that of a humble bee.

"Dear," said she, "what a beautiful lit­tle creature! though so small, the feathers, wings, talons, every part of it is as perfect as those of the largest birds: how I should like to see one alive?"

"In America," said Mrs. Mills, "hum­ming birds of various sorts are constantly seen fluttering about the flowers, from whence they extract the honey that sup­ports them. The motion of their wings is so rapid, that it produces a humming sound, from which their name is derived."

"I thought," said William, "it was im­possible they could feed upon seed and ber­ries, as other birds do, the beak is so small; it is not larger than a fine needle!"

"Small as it is," rejoined Mrs. Mills, "it renders them very formidable to larger birds, and especially to one called the [Page 181] goosbee, which attempts to surprise the young humming birds in the nest, but flies off on the appearance of the mother, who pursues the invader close, and fastening her little talons under his wing, pierces him with her pointed beak, till she has entirely disabled him. Here is the nest of the hum­ming bird; have you examined it."

"Well," said William, "this is indeed a nest in miniature! and, as I live! two little eggs, not bigger than a small pea!"

"How small," said Clara, "the pretty creatures must be when they are first hatch­ed!"

"They are said to be about the size of a large blue fly," replied Mrs. Mills.

"Well," said William, "it would be worth taking a voyage to America to see a humming bird.

"And pray," rejoined his aunt, "what do you think of a trip to the coast of Gui­nea, where deer are said to be found no big­ger than kittens!"

"Is that true?"

"Here is the leg of one," resumed his aunt; "it is a common article in the cabi­nets of the curious: nay, I have seen them made into tobacco stoppers."

"Dear," said Clara, "how small! How I should like to have a Guinea deer and an American humming bird!"

[Page 182] "And so should I," said William; "but pray, madam," continued he, "what is this? to judge from its appearance, it should seem unworthy a place among so many ra­rities.—It is so dried and shrivelled, it is im­possible to say what is the form or colour."

"It is," replied Mrs. Mills, "a leaf of the Papyrus, a large plant which grows wild in Egypt amidst the stagnate waters, after the inundations of the Nile. The Egypti­ans and Romans formerly used a part of this plant for the purposes we do paper. The intermediate part of the stalk was cut and separated into different plates or laminae, which were laid together upon a smooth board, so as to form sheets. They were then moistened with water, which dissolved a kind of glew that was in the pores, which served as a cement. The sheets thus form­ed were dried, pressed, and kept for use. The Romans afterwards invented methods to bring it to further perfection. They beat it with hammers, to render it thin and less porous, polished it with ivory, and, by a sort of calendar, gave it a shining gloss.—It is from this plant that the paper of our day takes its name. The Egyptians, also, used the roots for firing, and many other purpo­ses; built little boats of the plant itself, and formed the inner bark into sails, mats, gar­ments, coverlids, and cordage; they also [Page 183] chewed it, and swallowed the juice as a great dainty. You see, therefore, William, that the intrinsic worth of this plant gives it a just title to observation."

"It certainly does, aunt," said William, "I see it is not right to trust always to ap­pearances; but what is this [...] bless me, 'tis a stone tree!"

"It has that appearance," said Mrs. Mills, "it is a petrifaction. Certain springs abound with sparry particles, which being, by time, insinuated into the pores of the sub­stance put into them, suppose, for example, a vegetable, as in the instance before us, form a crust round it, which gives it, as you see, the appearance of stone."

"I have heard," said, William, "of those petrifying waters, but always under­stood they actually changed the things that were put into them to stone."

"No," said Mrs. Mills, "that is a mis­take, the vegetable undergoes no alteration; the stony particles of the spring, only, by adhering to it, in the manner I have told you, acquires the exact form, while the ve­getable it has enclosed decays."

"These petrifying waters," said Clara, "are, I suppose, very dangerous to drink."

"I am not," said Mrs. Mills, "suffici­ently acquainted with their physical proper­ty to tell you, whether or not they be [Page 184] wholesome. But as no petrifaction can hap­pen in a vegetable, where there is a circu­lation of the juices, it follows, I apprehend, that no immediate bad effect, can occur from the drinking such waters, the blood being in constant circulation throughout our body."

"Here is another petrifaction," said Cla­ra, "taking up a little stony branch, but it is different from the other."

"That," said Mrs. Mills, is coral, which is now ascertained to be a regular vegetati­on, though once thought by many learned men to be nothing more than a petrified sub­stance. It grows with the top downwards, in little caverns, or the jutting out of rocks, at the bottom of the sea. On the branches are small tumours, containing a sort of milk, and pinked in the form of stars, from whence little flowers have been observed to shoot, but they withdraw upon being exposed any time to the air. This is the mandrepore, another stony sea plant.

"It is in the form, you see, of a little tree, the branches of which are studded with several holes; but there are different sorts of the mandrepore."

Mrs. Mills here ceased—and looking at her watch, rose and shut the cabinet.

The young people thanked her for their entertainment, and were retiring, when [Page 185] Clara stopped to examine a fine piece of embroidery that hung over the chimney.

"That piece," said Mrs. Mills, "is the work of my God-daughter, Miss Elinor Reeves: I am indebted to her kindness and ingenuity for most of the pieces that furnish this room; if I am not mistaken, you are no strangers to each other."

Clara replied, "that she had several times been in company with Miss Reeves."

"Then," rejoined Mrs. Mills, "I am sure you will look with pleasure upon these little essays of her skill; for I will venture to affirm, no one can know my dear Elinor without loving her. Her disposition is truly amiable."

Clara made no reply; accustomed from her infancy to flattery, the praises of ano­ther were never welcome to her ear: wish­ing therefore, to change the conversation, she turned to a landscape that hung on the op­posite side of the room; and having enquired from what part of Europe the view was tak­en, observed, that it was a very fine engrav­ing."

"An engraving!" said Mrs. Mills, "upon my word, you pay Elinor a great compliment; 'tis executed with the needle."

Clara was disappointed—she was vexed she had taken notice of the piece, and was again silent.

[Page 186] "I am not a judge of needle work," said William, "but I think that fruit (pointing to a piece of embroidery that hung near) is very natural. Do not you sister?"

"Yes," said Clara, "it is not amiss; but, in these things, the praise is rather due to the person who designed, than the person who worked the piece. The effect does not altogether depend upon the needle."

"Very true," said Mrs. Mills, "the nee­dle cannot make a bad design, a perfect pic­ture, but it can add great beauty to a good one; and with respect to these before us, their chief beauty is derived from the nee­dle: observe those cherries and that peach; how admirably the colours are softened one into another—with what judgment the shadows are thrown—one could almost fan­cy it possible to take them from the basket. This is reckoned one of Elinor's most capi­tal performance, and you must allow it excellent."

"O!" returned Clara, "I do not say, it has not merit, but your partiality, aunt, (ex­cuse me) makes you blind to the imperfecti­ons.—Now I think, had more colour been thrown into the peach, the effect had been better—and are not the stalks of the cheries a trifle too long?"

Mrs. Mills beheld with concern the envy that gave rise to these observations. "Well, [Page 187] my dear," said she, "if you will not allow your friend merit, as an artist, you must con­fess that her disposition is truly amiable."

"Why," said Clara, "she may be very amiable, but I own, I do not think her quite so faultless as you seem to describe."—"But, Madam," (continued she, wishing to put an end to a conversation from which she ex­perienced so little pleasure,) "is it not time to dress for dinner?"

"I will detain you no longer, my dear," said Mrs. Mills, especially as I have a little search to make for a manuscript, which it has just now occurred to me, will furnish entertainment for the afternoon."

"How good you are, Madam," said Clara, "you are always thinking of us. Then ob­serving that William had left the room, she set off in pursuit of him to communicate the agreeable news."

William was rejoiced, and after dinner, when the cloth was removed, listened, as did also his sister, with the utmost attention, to

THE EXPLANATION, A TALE.

"Charlotte Graves, and Maria Wilmot, were nearly of the same age: Their parents were intimate friends, and near neighbours, [Page 188] which caused the children to be much toge­ther, strengthened the affection, which, in the tender years of infancy existed between them; but this friendly intercourse was early i [...]terrupted; the declining state of Mrs. Wilmot's health rendering it necessa­ry she should breathe her native air. Mr. Wilmot purchased an estate in Wales, to which he shortly retired with his family. Maria was at this time eight years of age, and her friend Charlotte just twelve months younger. The little girls shed many tears at parting, promised to love each other al­ways, and as they had both been for some­time in joining-hand, to write to each other often.

"The year after the retirement of Mr. Wilmot, Charlotte had the misfortune to lose her mother, who died suddenly, and a person from France was engaged to superin­tend her education. Had this lady been worthy the trust reposed in her, all had been well; but, unfortunately, no one more improper could possibly have been chosen. Her manners were indeed polished; her ad­dress was insinuating, but she was wholly without principle or sentiment; beauty, splender and riches, were in her estimation, the chief blessings of life, and if she had a view beyond her own interest, which she endeavoured to promote, by flattering her [Page 189] follies, it was to polish the manners of her pupil, rather then to cultivate her under­standing or to form her heart.

"At the early age of nine, with a mind little turned to reflection, it is not surprising that Charlotte should imbibe the follies and prejudices of her governante; she readily be­lieved, that providence, in giving her beau­ty, had bestowed on her its choicest blessing; and while she spared no attention to embel­lish her person, suffered her understanding to lie wholly neglected. Vain, frivolous, fond of admiration, her follies, by indul­gence, swelled into vices; among which, envy and detraction were not the least con­spicuous; her heart sickened at perfection in another, and her tongue was ever ready to depreciate the excellence she could not attain.

"Maria, in the mean while, was rapidly improving in every amiable virtue and ele­gant accomplishment. She, too, had lost her mother, but the kind attention of her father, who dedicated the chief of his time to her improvement, and the tenderness of a maid­en aunt, who resided with them, softened the severity of her misfortune: she already perfectly understood three languages, was mistress of geography, played incompara­ply on the pedal harp, and discovered a great taste for painting; but these accom­plishments, [Page 190] though joined to a handsome person, constituted but a small part of her perfections. Her piety, her respectful affec­tion to her father and aunt, her sweetness of temper, her gentleness, her humility, added a superior lustre to her character; every one loved, every one admired, every one esteem­ed her. Her accomplishments and virtues, at length reached the ear of her friend Charlotte, who, at first paid little attention to what she heard; but when two or three families, who had made excursions into the part of the country where Mr. Wilmot liv­ed, thinking to give her pleasure, was lavish in the commendations of her old friend, she felt a pang that she with difficulty conceal­ed, and from this moment such are the bale­ful effects of envy, experienced a decline in the affection she had, till now, entertained for Maria.

"During five years that had elasped, since their separation, letters had constantly past between them, but the correspondence on the part of Charlotte now became less pleasing: The most affectionate epistles lie unanswered for months, and at last excited only a formal apology; this was by degrees omitted, and in the end the correspondence ceased.

"Among Mr. Graves' friends was an old Baronet, remarkable for his cheerfulness [Page 191] and good-humour; though upwards of se­venty, he was always the first to promote a party of pleasure for the young people, and had for some time promised to give them a ball. The day was at last fixed, and all his young friends invited. Charlotte, among the rest, was not a little pleased, to receive a card of invitation; she immediately flew to consult with her governess upon what dress she should appear in, being determined, she said, not to be outdone by any in the ball room. Mademoiselle applauded her resolu­tion, and tapping her on the cheek," said, "it would be ashame, if, with that pretty face, she did not out shine every one there." The important matter was then entered upon, and supplied conversation till the hap­py day arrived; when, with all the advan­tages an expensive dress could give to a per­son really handsome, though spoilt by affec­tation and self sufficiency, she cutered the ball-room, where a croud of young people, with happy countenances, were assembled.

"The minuets being over, and country dances proposed, a young lady of the most engaging aspect was presented by Sir Willi­am (for so the gentleman who gave the en­tertainment was called) to Charlotte for a partner. They went down several dances, to their mutual satisfaction, when Charlotte, understanding that her partner was a little [Page 192] indisposed with the head-ache, proposed that they should desist. This the young lady refused, till repeatedly assured it would be equally agreeable to her companion, when she consented, and they sat down.

"What delightful dancers," observed Miss Shirley, for that was the name of Char­lotte's partner, "are those two young ladies! It is impossible to imagine any thing more graceful than their movements; I have not been able to keep my eyes off them the whole evening."

"Whether you think them fine dancers or not," replied Charlotte, "I will answer for it they think themselves so."

"There is nothing," returned the young lady, "assuming in their deportment, they appear to be perfectly modest and unaf­fected."

"Psha," said Charlotte, "it is easy to put on an air of modesty; but I have known them long, and could always through that discover a great deal of arro­gance and self-conceit."

"We should endeavour to judge favora­bly of every one," said Miss Shirley; per­haps you wrong them?"

"No," replied Charlotte; "I am seldom deceived in my opinion. They are twins; pray, do you think them handsome?"

[Page 193] "Yes," replied Miss Shirley, "especi­ally she in the white lutestring; her eyes are beautiful."

"Why, yes," rejoined Charlotte, "her eyes are certainly fine; but do you not think there is a little of the vixen in them? I have always observed, that where there is so much fine, the temper is turbulent."

"It is illiberal," returned Miss Shirley, "to form your opinion upon such proof; how often do we find an amiable dispositi­on concealed under the most irregular fea­tures, and the reverse where the counte­nance promises every thing amiable?"

"Your argument," replied Charlotte, "may hold good in some cases; but, de­pend upon it, Mary Danvers is a vixen."

"You are very severe," said Miss Shir­ley; "but pray, do you not think the young lady, who stands next, very hand­some?"

"Yes," said Charlotte, "if we give her credit for the white and red of her com­plexion."

"What do you mean?" said Miss Shir­ley.

"You know," replied Charlotte, "there is such a thing as rouge and white paint."

"I have heard so," returned the young lady.

"I have been told," said Charlotte, [Page 194] "that Miss Fairfax sometimes pays a visit to her mamma's paint boxes."

"And can you believe it?" said Miss Shirley. "How absurd to suppose a girl of thirteen or fourteen (I am sure she does not appear to be older) would paint, or that her parents would permit her."

"Such things," returned Charlotte, "do however happen: Why now, perhaps, you think the flaxen ringlets of her partner pure nature."

"They appear to be so," said Miss Shir­ley.

"Ah," said Charlotte, "appearances are often deceitful."

"You are very satirical," said Miss Shir­ley; "but here comes one in whom I think you must allow beauty of person and good sense to unite.

"Do you mean Lady Eliza Elwin?"

"The same," said Miss Shirley; "you must confess that she is very amiable and ac­complished, and as to beauty of person few can, I think, exceed her."

"Why, Lady Eliza," returned Char­lotte, "is certainly affable; her conversa­tion too is what the world terms agreeable; though, in my opinion, not [...] [...] ­ture of the female pedant, which [...] allow is horrid; but, as to [...] though regular, they want [...] laugh when I say, I never [...] [Page 195] without thinking of a pretty wax doll, with cherry cheeks and glass eyes—Speak­ing of eyes; pray, do you really think Lady Eliza's so fine? For my own part, I am not fond of those sleepy downcast eyes; I al­ways suspect that something more is conceal­ed under them than people are aware of. Between you and I, I have heard it whis­pered, that Lady Eliza, with all that softness, is not the best tempered; but some people take a malicious pleasure in scandalizing their neighbours."

"Who," said Mrs. Shirley, "may hope to escape, if Lady Eliza is censured so un­justly! She last year passed some weeks in Radnorshire; I had, therefore, frequent op­portunities of meeting her, and, assure you, I found her a most amiable accomplished young lady; and as to her temper, I have been told by her most intimate friends, that few can boast one more equal."

"I see," returned Charlotte, "that she is a favorite of yours—we will, therefore, change the subject. Pray, did not you men­tion Radnorshire? Do you reside in that part of Wales?

Miss Shirley replied, that she did; and added, it was scarcely a week since she left it.

"You are then acquainted, perhaps," re­turned Charlotte, "with Miss Wilmot?"

"Miss Wilmot?" exclaimed the other, "I am—"

[Page 196] "O, you are intimate," interrupted Char­lotte; I am rejoiced! I shall be glad to ask a few questions about her—Pray, is it true that she is so very accomplished, and so very handsome?"

"I am an improper person," replied Miss Shirley, "to give you information upon this point; for—"

"Nay," interrupted Charlotte, who lov­ed the sound of her own voice better than that of any one's else, "since you are ac­quainted, I could not have asked one more proper. I see she is not so great a favourite as Lady Eliza; but no matter, you have, I dare say, your reasons; one cannot you know, be wholly blind to the faults of one's friends: in truth, we have all faults; some of one kind, and some of another, though none is, to be sure, worse than a covetous temper."

"Do you mean," said Miss Shirley, "that Maria Wilmot is covetous?"

"Somewhat that way inclined," return­ed Charlotte; "but, as I observed before, we have all our faults."

"But my dear Miss," said Charlotte's part­ner, "with earnestness, tell me, have you reason for entertaining such an opinion? Surely, no heart, that is not lost to every no­ble sentiment, can harbour so despicable a vice as covetousness."

Why, one would think so," returned [Page 197] Charlotte: but it is I believe too true, that covetousness is poor Maria Wilmot's failing; what is your opinion?"

"I never thought it so," replied Miss Shirley, "but 'tis possible I may be blinded by partiality."

"Depend upon it," replied Charlotte, "you are; I could give you twenty instan­ces of her stinginess: Would you believe it, she has never had a cap nor mantua made in London since her father retired into Wales! Now, as to taste, I have been told she has a great deal; therefore it can only proceed from her stingy disposition.

"But she is at present young," returned Miss Shirley, "and it is possible may not conduct these matters herself."

"O, I beg your pardon," returned Char­lotte, "her father is so extravagantly fond of her, that he does not contradict her in any thing, and, I have been credibly in­formed, suffers her to draw on him for any money she pleases."

"If that be the case," returned Miss Shirley, "it behoves her to be cautious of abusing the confidence he is so generous as to repose in her."

"I dare say, she does not think of that," said Charlotte▪ "no; I am persuaded she is [...] ▪ I will give you another instance of her [...] covetous temper; I seldom assert any [Page 198] thing but upon pretty clear proof: Last year, she accompanied her aunt, who you know, poor old soul, is troubled with the gout, to Bath: Well, would you believe it, I was credibly assured, by a friend of mine who was there at the time, that she never, du­ring the whole season, once put into a raffle nor touched a card!"

"I have been told," replied Miss Shirley, "that cards, and also raffling, as being a species of gaming, were two things to which her mamma had a particular objection."

"But her mother has been dead these three years," replied the ungenerous Char­lotte, "it is, therefore, very unlikely she would be so scrupulous on that account: No, no, depend upon it, she does not love to part with money. I'll tell you another anecdote I heard, upon authority equally as good, which proves her meanness beyond all dispute. Would you believe, that, be­fore a whole room-full of company, she re­fused to subscribe to a concert, at which Mara sung! I declare I would not have let myself down so, had it been the last five gui­neas I had in the world; and what makes it worse, it seems she pretends to be fond of music, and, they say, plays finely on the harp; not that I believe every thing of this sort that I hear, for all who pretend to give their opinion are not judges of good play­ing. [Page 199] In short, you see she is naturally covet­ous and mean."

"I hope," said Miss Shirley, "you do her injustice; but, if she be really so, it would be kind to point out this as a part of her cha­racter, standing in need of amendment."

"It would be a glorious task," said Char­lotte, "to set about reforming the world. Why now, Maria Wilmot and I have from our infancy been friends, and till within these last two years correspondents; but I—"

Miss Shirley looked astonished—"Is it possible," said she, "that you can be Miss Graves, the friend and correspondent of Ma­ria Wilmot?"

"The very same," returned Charlotte; "but you seem surprized."

"I," said Miss Shirley, "am really Ma­ria Wilmot, your old friend and correspon­dent. My father has changed his name, on account of an estate that has been left him on that condition, which is the reason I am called Shirley. I was told you were upon a visit in the country; I had, therefore, till now, not the slightest idea that I was con­versing with my old friend."

Let the reader imagine what was the con­fusion of Charlotte, who had been unjustly stigmatizing her friend with so despicable a vice! She seemed rooted to the place [Page 200] where she stood, incapable of articulating a word either to vindicate or excuse her con­duct.

"Miss Shirley pitied and wished to relieve her embarrassment; but at this moment Sir William, accompanied by her father and Mr. Graves, who had just entered, came up to them. They soon understood that an ex­planation had taken place between the young ladies, and told them, that having a mind to heighten the pleasure of their meeting, after so long an absence, by the surprise, they had purposely introduced them to each other as strangers, and did not intend that the eclaircissement should have taken place, till they were all assembled at supper: "but," continued Mr. Graves, in a jocular strain, "I find there is no possibility of keep­ing a secret where girls are concerned: you were determined to be before hand with us."

"Charlotte was too much chagrined to relish [...]he jest: her cheerfulness was fled for the remainder of the evening, during which her behaviour appeared aukward and con­strained. She wished to apologize to Miss Shirley for the improper licence she had given her tongue; but what could she say? what excuse could she frame for an attack on her character, so unjust and unprovoked? She attempted more than once to enter up­on [Page 201] on the subject; but her voice faltered—she knew not where to begin, and at length, having for some hours laboured under the most uneasy sensations, she returned home full of shame and vexation. When retired to her chamber, she had leisure to reflect coolly on the occurrences of the evening, and could not but admire the conduct of Maria, who during the whole course of it, had generously endeavoured, by every kind and polite attention, to dissipate her chagrin, and convince her she harboured no resent­ment on account of the past. "Maria," said Charlotte, "is certainly very generous; how unfortunate that I should not know her! If I had, this would not have happen­ed; I shall in future be very cautious to whom, I express my sentiments.—Let me reflect.—What was it I did say?—O, that she was covetous—Well, there is no great crime in that; because it is very likely to be true: but then, as she was my old friend, I should not have pointed out her faults to another, and especially to one who appear­ed to be a stranger to me. I am persuaded she is stingy; but let her be what she will, she has certainly behaved to me this evening like an angel: how she might have mor­tified and exposed me to every body! I am sure, had I been in her place, and she in mine, I should have taken all the revenge I could, [Page 202] I wish I had made some apology—I have a great inclination to go to-morrow morn­ing, and tell her I am sorry for what I said. I never did make concessions to any one be­fore: but somehow I am uneasy; I don't know what possesses me: I am half-inclined to love her—I wish I had not heard so much about her beauty and accomplishments: it is a sad thing to be envious!"

"Fortunately for Charlotte, Mademoi­selle had for some time left the family, and was gone to reside with a relation in France: those good impressions, therefore, which Charlotte had in her infancy imbibed, from the precepts and example of an amiable mother, and which, though stifled by flat­tery and ill advice, were not eradicated, had time to operate. She rose early in the morning, and prompt by a natural impetu­osity, which hurried on every impulse of her mind, whether it was good or bad, she set off, attended only by her maid, to Mr. Shirley's.

"Maria happening this morning to rise later than usual, on account of a slight in­disposition, had not left her chamber: Char­lotte, therefore, on her arrival, was shewn into her friend's dressing room, when she waited half an hour.

"Though not very studious, the subject of her present visit afforded such disagreea­ble [Page 203] reflections, that for once, in her life, she cast her eyes around, in pursuit of a book: not finding one to her purpose, she so far in­fringed the rules of good-breeding, as to open a drawer, the key of which was turn­ed, and in it found a ladies memorandum book: nothing could have suited her taste better; she unclasped it, with an intent to peruse the songs and enigma's, but in turn­ing over the leaves for this purpose, some memorandums in the hand-writing of Ma­ria caught her eye, and I am sorry to say, she was so indelicate to peruse, among ma­ny other of the same kind, the following:

Though Charlotte had suffered envy and many other vices to predominate in her char­acter, she could not withhold the approba­tion due to the benevolence that shone thro' [Page 204] these simple memorandums: she blushed at the thought of her own injustice, which had ascribed to avarice an oeconomy, which e­vidently appeared to proceed from the most generous of motives: Vanity had hitherto been a leading feature in her character, but when, in every instance, she compared her own conduct with that of her friend, she could not but feel her inferiority. Absorb­ed in thought, sometimes looking on the memorandums, and sometimes reflecting on the striking contrast they formed to her own, she continued with the book in her hand, till the entrance of Miss Shirley re­called her to a sense of the impropriety of her situation, and revived in her mind all the circumstances for which she came to a­pologize.

"Maria received her with a look full of complacency and kindness, and thanked her for so early a mark of her attention.

"Charlotte was again embarrassed; again at a loss when to begin: at length, "ah, my dear Miss Shirley," said she, "if you wish to reconcile me to myself, be less kind and less generous, for how, otherwise, can I forgive myself the injury I did you last night?"

"Think no more of it," my dear said Maria, "my own conduct, in the instance to which you allude, was by no means free [Page 205] from blame, I certainly possessed myself of your sentiments, by means that were very unjustifiable: I should not have suffered you to remain in an error I could easily have rectified: but I own, the desire of knowing upon what grounds you accused me of a vice my soul detested, induced me to take an advantage which I am sensible was un­generous, let us, therefore, since we are perhaps neither of us free from blame, mu­tually forgive each other."

"You are very generous," said Char­lotte, "but my conduct was unpardona­ble."

"Think no more of it," said Maria, "per­haps you thought you had reason for what you said; but time will, I hope, justify me in your opinion."

"O, my dear Miss Shirley, my dear Ma­ria," said Charlotte, "this (pointing to the memorandum book) proves you to be every thing that is great and amiable: yet, even your justification covers me with shame, how mean must I appear in thus indelicately satis­fying my curiosity!"

"A modest blush animated the blooming features of Maria, when she understood, that memorandums, which were designed for her own perusal, had been exposed to the view of another. Both, though from differ­ent motives, appeared confused—and a si­lence [Page 206] of some moments ensued: it was at length broken by Maria: "Your curiosity, my dear," said she taking Charlotte by the hand, "is its own punishment, since my pocket-book contained so little to gratify it. With respect to myself, I am sorry the peru­sal of a few insignificant memorandums should expose me to encomiums of which I am so wholly undeserving."

"I sincerely," said Charlotte, "ask your pardon for my indelicacy; but I cannot, in this instance, repent it. The perusal of your memorandums, my dear, has taught me a lesson, which, I hope, will be of service to me throughout my whole life. O, Ma­ria, what money have I not lavished in dress, trinkets, cards, and I know not how many frivolous things of the same kind, yet at this moment, cannot call to mind one single action capable of affording me a pleasing re­flection!"

"Perhaps," said the gentle Maria, "you examine your actions with too great severi­ty; my poor mamma used often to observe, that we all owe something to the world, and to the character we support in it: The large sums, she would say, daily expended on the table, wardrobe, and numerous retinue of a person of fashion, would, it must be owned, more than decently support many worthy indigent families, yet these, in the present [Page 207] state of the world, are considered as the ne­cessary appendages of a high station, nor are they, when proportioned to the fortune of the individual, at all hurtful to society; they are, on the contrary, beneficial, as they fur­nish the means of subsistance to the subordi­nate ranks of mankind."

"How kind!" said Charlotte, "to re­collect this observation of your mamma, to apologize for my extravagance!"

"Yet you," my dear Maria, "are con­stantly, I see, depriving yourself of plea­sures that you may distribute comforts to others."

"You are mistaken," said Maria, "I sometimes give up a lesser pleasure to enjoy a greater, that is all."

"Do you then," said Charlotte, "set no value on dress, and a thousand other enjoy­ments, the money you appropriate to others, would purchase?"

"Such low and frivolous enjoyments," said Maria, "acquire all their value from our ignorance of higher; when once we have tasted the pleasures that spring from acts of kindness and benevolence, be assured, my dear Charlotte, all other must fail in the comparison."

"How few girls of our age," said Char­lotte, "are there who think like you! yet how amiable do you appear! till compared [Page 208] with yours, I never saw the deformity of my own conduct; I thought, if indeed I thought at all, that it was irreproachable; but you have undeceived me."

"You ascribe to me, my dear," said Ma­ria, "much more merit than I deserve; with respect to you and I, all that can be said is, that we differ in our ideas of pleasure; you have, perhaps, been told, that it is to be found in company and public amusements, and I was early taught to seek it in retire­ment, books, the society of select friends, and especially in contributing to the happi­ness of others."

"I too," said Charlotte, "will from this moment cease to look for it elsewhere; you, my dear Maria, shall be the model by which I will endeavour to form my future con­duct."

"You have chosen one very imperfect," said the modest Maria.

"Ah!" said Charlotte, "what would I not attempt to regain your esteem and affec­tion; I once possessed it, but the ill return I have long since made to your kindness, and above all the recollection of my conduct last night, must, in spight of your generosity, cause you ever to despise me."

"Do not," replied Maria, "wrong me or yourself by such a supposition: I should, I own, be guilty of great insincerity, were I [Page 209] to pretend, that my sentiments in this re­spect, were the same last night, as they are at present: No, my friend; though willing to frame excuses for a failing into which I was sensible, I might myself have fallen, had it not been for the admonitions of a watch­ful mother, and, after her death, to those of a father, who has made it the study of his life to form my heart and cultivate my un­derstanding, yet, my dear Charlotte, pardon my freedom, when I found with what plea­sure you pointed out blemishes in, and heard you indiscriminately asperse the most fault­less characters, I own I felt an indignation and disgust, of which I thought myself in­capable; but your candour, in thus frankly acknowledging your errors, must surely efface the remembrance of them, and entitle you to the esteem of generous minds."

"You, my dear Maria," said Charlotte, "who are generosity itself, may forgive me, but how can I ever be reconciled to myself! poor Miss Fairfax, whose only fault, in my eyes, was that of being too lovely, what pains have I not taken to depreciate your beauty, by attributing to art what was pure­ly the work of nature! How often have the elegant the unassuming Danvers' been the sport of my unbridled tongue! The charm­ing Lady Eliza Elwin too! whom envy it­self must surely admire, she could not escape [Page 210] the slander I indiscriminately cast upon all! and you, my truest my best friend, how readily did I ascribe to covetousness an econo­my which arose from the most worthy of motives!"

"Do not," said Maria, seeing Charlotte overwhelmed by the bitterness of these re­flections, "distress yourself by reverting with a severity too great on your past errors; it is enough then you are sensible of them, and mean to make atonement by your fu­ture conduct; remember them now only as they may be necessary to secure you from a relapse, and to teach you, while you perse­vere yourself in the path of rectitude, to view with an eye of pity and compassion the failings of others. Detraction is certain­ly a detestable vice: my father has often ob­served to me, that it comprehends many vices, particularly those of envy and injus­tice; "I never knew a person," says he, fond of detraction, that was not envious, nor did I ever find such a one, in the least scrupulous, whether he indulged this vice at the expence of innocence or guilt."

"Surely," said Charlotte, "I shall never more be guilty of it! 'Tis indeed odious! but I have so long indulged it, that, I fear, I shall find it difficult to overcome. You, my dear Maria, must be my constant mo­nitor."

[Page 211] "Alas!" said Maria, "I am myself much in need of a monitor, but we will mutually assist each other."

This interesting conversation was here broken off by the entrance of Mr. Shirley, but Charlotte took the earliest opportunity of renewing it: from this moment, she stu­diously sought to cultivate the friendship of Maria, by whose friendly admonitions she learnt, in time, to view the perfections of others, without envy, to enjoy the world, without being enslaved by it pleasures, and to ensure her own happiness by promoting that of others.

"Clara, who, in the character of Char­lotte, saw her own strongly depictured, doubted not, but that her aunt had selected the story she had just finished to reprove and admonish her: she was, therefore, silent, not knowing what to say; till her brother observed, what an odious character Char­lotte's was, and applied to her for her opin­ion: she then broke silence, and replied, "I am ashamed to express my hatred of a vice from which I myself am not free." Then looking significantly at her aunt, "Ah, madam," she added, "I fear I have lost your good opinion—I was indeed very illi­beral—I was too much like Charlotte in the story—The only fault I could find in Miss Reeve's work was, that it had too much merit."

[Page 212] "My dear child," said Mrs. Mills, "how I love this charming frankness! it is the presage of every thing great and good: yes, my dear, I saw you were not uninfluenced by envy in your observations, and selected for the entertainment of the afternoon a story, which I thought might serve to set so vile a passion in its true odious colours."

"I see," said Clara, "that envy is indeed a dreadful vice; I hope I am not so envious as Charlotte; but I own I do not like to hear other people praised."

"That, my dear child," said Mrs. Mills, "be assured, is a certain sign that you are not without envy; be particularly cautious, therefore, of suffering it to take root in your heart; the first impressions may be easily ef­faced, but envy arrived at a certain height, is difficult to eradicate; a proper regimen may check the approach of a disease which, if suffered to gather strength, will baffle the skill of the ablest physician. The most ef­fectual barrier we can oppose to envy is a generous interest in the welfare of others; accustom yourself, my children, to listen to the praises of your friends and acquaintances, point out their several merits and perfec­tions, and, if you feel a tendency to envy, check it by reflecting that it springs from the most mean and base of all principles, self-love."

[Page 213] "I will endeavour, madam," said Clara, "to follow your councils; for I am sensible that envy is an odious vice."

"I do not," said William, who, during this time, had listened with the utmost at­tention to the conversation of his aunt and sister, "recollect that I was ever displeased with any of my school-fellows for excelling me: I always wished to get up to them, and, if I could, before them. I hope, aunt, there is no harm in that."

"No, my dear boy; what you experi­enced was emulation, a very noble passion, which prompts us to aspire at excellence: Emulation, it is somewhere observed, strives to excel by raising itself not by depressing others."

"I shall be very careful, aunt, however," said William, "lest I should be envious; I shall remember what you say, and when­ever I am angry at hearing another praised, think it is high time to be upon my guard."

"Dear William," said Mrs. Mills, "be assured you will find an advantage in this; could young people know the pain and mi­sery they would spare themselves, by thus early checking the approach of envy and such base passions, no persuasions would be necessary to lead them to adopt so salutary a course."

The conversation now took a new turn, [Page 214] and different topics occupied the time till tea; after which, Mrs. Mills caused a large pair of globes to be brought, and entertain­ed her young friends with a variety of cu­rious particulars, concerning the earth on which we live: she described to them the customs and manners of its various inhabi­tants, and how, in the space of twelve months, it performs its revolution round the sun, causing the variation of the seasons, and, by constantly turning on its axis, the change of day and night: she the [...] [...] them, on the celestial globe, the [...], which, in stated periods, also [...] re­volution round the sun; and [...] them the fixed stars, which she to [...] were suns, supposed to enligthen [...] worlds, in the same manner as the sun we daily see enlightens ours.

No entertainment had ever been more agreeable to the young people than this, espe­cially to Clara; to whom it was quite new; the many interesting truths, of which Mrs. Mills convinced her, the sciences of geo­graphy and astronomy were capable of in­forming her, created in her mind a strong desire to study them; and she went to bed, fully resolved, when she returned home, to request her father to let her have a mas­ter.

Clara and William were extremely pleas­ed [Page 215] the next morning to see that the sky was clear, and the wet dried from the ground; all nature seemed revived, and nothing was new thought on but the expedition, which the rain had the day before prevented.

The coach was accordingly ordered, and [...] conveyed them to the seat of the gen­ [...] [...] to whom the aviary belonged: Here they were for some time highly entertained with the view of a very [...]ine collection of [...] the greater part of them from foreign countries. The beauty and variety of the [...] delighted the young people, [...] Clara, who being asked on her way home (for Mrs. Mills, at the request of her young friends, had consented to return on foot) to purchase a linnet or a blackbird, observed to her aunt, that the boy had cho­sen a very unlucky moment to offer his birds; for, said she, after the beautiful creatures we have just seen, one cannot condescend so much as to look at a blackbird or linnet.

"I am sorry," said her aunt, "to hear you pay so ill a compliment to the songsters of your own woods."

"Nay, aunt," said Clara, "you cannot think blackbirds and linnets, and such com­mon birds, worthy to be compared with the beautiful foreign birds we have seen in the aviary."

"Their plumage may be inferior to ma­ny," [Page 216] replied Mrs. Mills, "but what they want in feather, is amply compensated by the melody of their notes; for my part, I do not envy the inhabitants of the east, the glittering plumage of the peacock, bird of paradise, nor many more, while my ear is delighted by the charming melody of my native woods."

"To be sure," said Clara, "our birds sing delightfully; but you must allow, there is more to be admired where a beautiful plumage and a fine song is united."

"That my dear," replied her aunt, "sel­dom happens: those birds which have the most beautiful plumage are generally found to be defective in song; while others whose colours are less splendid ravish us with the most delightful melody—You see how equal­ly Providence distributes its gifts."

"I should like extremely," said William, "to make a collection of foreign birds, to observe the curious things related of them. Do you know, madam, I yesterday read, in a book that lay on your dressing-table, of a bird that has a pouch under its bill and throat, large enough to contain ten or fif­teen quarts of water! I have forgotten the name of it."

"It is the Pelican," said Mrs. Mills, "a native of Africa and America; the pouch you mention is a reservoir for its provision, [Page 217] which it afterwards casts up and devours at leisure. This peculiarity gave rise to the fabulous story, that the pelicans fed its young with its own blood."

"Well," said William, what a charming study is

NATURAL HISTORY!

I should like extremely to have a collection of foreign birds: what a number of curious things one should have an opportunity of observing!"

"You undoubtedly would," said Mrs. Mills; "but as many foreign birds will not exist in our climate, and others must be pur­chased at a large expence, I would remind you, that your own country will afford you no inconsiderable field for practical knowledge; I have given you more than one example of this."

"Yes, Madam," said Clara, "what you related of the bees was indeed very cu­rious, and the microscope discovered many wonders."

"Very true," said William; "but birds are not like insects, we can see them without a microscope; and as to thrushes and lin­n [...]s, and such birds, they are so common, it is impossible not to know every particular about them."

"You have then I suppose, William," [Page 218] said Mrs. Mills, "since these common birds are so familiar to you, observed the con­struction of their nests: Tell me, do you think you could form any thing so admira­bly fitted to the purpose for which they are designed?"

"The nests," said William—"The nests—Why really I don't know—To be sure, I have taken many, but I never paid much attention to any thing but the birds that were in them—I know they are made of grass or moss, or something of that sort."

"Thus it is," said his aunt, "that we daily pass over a thousand objects, which, if less familiar, would excite our highest ad­miration! But, my dear William, had I known you had ever committed so cruel a theft, I should not have suspected that you had ever considered attentively the con­struction of a bird's nest, and consequently the labour it must have cost the little war­bler you deprived of it."

William hung his head, and was silent—and Clara took this opportunity of enquiring whether all the birds of our woods built their nests in the same manner?

"All of the same species," Mrs. Mills re­plied, "build invariably alike, but they vary according to their different kind: The wren, for example, builds her nest in the form of a sugar loaf, leaving a hole about [Page 219] the middle for a passage in and out, through which she not only supplies her young with food, but conveys out all their dung, which would otherwise soil the nest.—The tit­mouse curiously interweaves its nest with moss, hair, and reeds—The black-bird, lapwing, and many others, rough cast the inside of the nest, with a lay of mortar, and by the help of a little flue or moss, with which they temper it while soft, form a complete wall within.—Many birds connect the different parts of their nest with a thread, which they weave from hemp or hair, but more commonly from the webs of spiders.—When the swallow has occasi­on to build her nest, she wets her breast up­on the surface of the water, and shedding the moisture over the dust, works it up with her bill, and thus forms a plaster or cement, of which she constructs a commo­dious habitation for her young family. The martin does the same, but covers her nest at the top, leaving a hole at the side, for a passage in and out."

"There is indeed," said William, "great ingenuity in all this—it must cost the little creatures great trouble and fatigue—I never thought about it before, but it is cer­tainly cruel to deprive them of their little ones, after they have taken such pains to pre­pare for their reception."

[Page 220] "You would say so, William," said Mrs. Mills, "if you knew all the cares they un­dergo; as soon as the eggs, which are to produce the young birds, are laid, the male and female brood over them by turns, with the most painful perseverance, and when the young family make their appearance, encounter every danger and fatigue to provide for their subsistence: they are constantly in pursuit of provisions, first one and then the other, and sometimes both together, and distribute the food they bring home with the greatest equality."

"I thought," said Clara, "that all the care of hatching and rearing the young brood fell to the female."

"It principally does," said Mrs. Mills, "but the male has his part also: he allevi­ates the fatigue of his faithful mate by a thousand tender assiduities: while she is con­fined to the eggs, he brings her food, occa­sionally takes his turn in brooding them, and, when the young birds appear, shares equal­ly with her the fatigue of providing them food: I had a male Canary bird, which per­formed the office of a very kind father to some young linnets."

"To some young linnets madam!" ex­claimed the young people.

"Yes," said Mrs. Mills, "I'll tell you how it happened. I had once a nest of lin­ne [...] [Page 221] brought me by a gardener, who, being lately come into my service, was not ac­quainted that the feathered tribe are per­mitted to build unmolested in my grounds. As the mischief could not be remedied, I admonished him as to the future, and took the young nestlings under my protection. The nest had not been long in my dressing-room, before I observed that the chirping the little creatures made, either for food or the warmth of the mother, was answered by a fine Canary bird, which hung in the room, with that soft sort of twittering birds usual­ly make to their young. This inspired me with the thought of trying whether he would rear the young linnets: I according­ly put the nest into the cage, and found the experiment succeed; my little Phily, for so I called my Canary bird, instantly left his perch, and brooded over the young linnets, as the mother would have done. I then put some proper food into the cage, and had the pleasure of seeing him drop first a morsel in­to the mouth of one, then another, till he had satisfied the whole family, which he actually, in this manner, supported till they were capable of providing for them­selves."

"How I should have loved the pretty creature!" said Clara; "I have two fine Canary birds at home, I should like extreme­ly [Page 222] to get a nest of young birds, and try if they would do the same."

"Be cautious," said Mrs. Mills, "of trying the experiment, lest the young birds suffer. 'Tis true, it has once succeeded, but that is no reason it should always; tho' you have seen a cat foster a chicken, such another instance may not occur in the course of your life."

"Pray, madam," said William, "would Canary birds do you think live in our woods?"

"By no means," rejoined Mrs. Mills, "our climate is by far too cold, great at­tention and care is requisite in the breed of them even in houses."

"But in the Canary Isles," said William, "I suppose they are as common as black­birds and thrushes are with us?"

"Probably they are," said Mrs. Mills; "but their colour there is a dusky grey, and they are so different from those seen in En­gland, that many people have doubted whe­ther they are of the same species. The Canary birds we see here are imported from Germany, where they are bred in great numbers, and sold to different parts of Europe."

"I have heard my dear mamma say," said Clara, "that she once saw a Canary bird perform a number of curious tricks,— [Page 223] it fired a little cannon, fell down as if it were shot, and what was more wonderful, shewed the color of every person's gown in the room."

I saw the same exhibition, but, I assure you, with more pain than pleasure.

"Dear Madam," said Clara, "you sur­prize me very much! I think it must have been a very entertaining sight."

"It was beyond all doubt a miracle," rejoined Mrs. Mills, "but such a one as the thinking mind could not contemplate with pleasure; form to your idea the sufferings of the little creature before it could be brought to perform [...]eats so infinitely above its nature: The man who shewed it owned that he had killed thirty by the severity of the discipline, before he could bring one to the perfection we saw."

"Indeed!" said Clara, "I never heard that."

"Sights of this kind," said Mrs. Mills, "never afford me pleasure; an animal act­ing in conformity to its natural instinct is, in my opinion, an object far more capable of exciting agreeable sensations, than when tortured by the caprice and ingenuity of man, beyond the limits prescribed to it by infinite wisdom. At this moment they ar­rived at a neat white house:

[Page 224] "I have more than once," said Mrs. Mills, "promised that you should [...] our"

SCHOOL OF INDUSTRY

"I will now gratify your curiosity: say­ing this, they entered, and were conducted by Mrs. Brown, whose story their aunt had related to them, into the school room, where they saw a number of little people assembled, some spinning, others sewing, others knit­ting, and others reading; among the rest they observed Peggy Bartlet, seated at the top of the first form, a distinction which marked the superior merit of those who obtained it.

"Mrs. Mills, with her usual affability, enquired into the different merits of the young people, and was extremely pleased, when Mrs. Brown replied, they were in general very good children: Observing one of them, however, set apart from the rest, she enquired into the cause, fearing perhaps that all was not so well as it should be."

The little girl, who was the subject of the enquiry, hung her head; her cheeks were immediately covered with blushes, and Mrs. Brown replied, "that Polly Ben­net was doing penance for a fault she had committed three weeks ago, added, that she had reason to hope she sincerely re­pented."

[Page 225] The little girl upon this, burst into tears, and assured her mistress and Mrs. Mills, she would never more be so wicked as to tell a lie.

"I am sorry," said the lady, "to hear that you have ever been guilty of so great a crime; but as your present tears, and what your mistress tells me, leads me to hope you are fully sensible of it, I shall not mortify you by any reflections."

Clara and William, who were affected by the poor girl's tears, interceded for her very warmly, and requested Mrs. Brown, to mitigate her punishment, which they un­derstood, was to set apart from the rest three weeks longer.

"My good young lady and gentleman," said Mrs. Brown, "I am sorry to refuse any request you can make, but I am sure, when you reflect on the greatness of the fault, and are told, that Polly Bennet had contracted a habit of telling untruths, you will think her punishment, in comparison, very light."

"The little girl said, she was sensible, she deserved to be punished, and that she should not mind what she suffered, if she could but once gain the good opinion of her mistress and school fellows; the latter of whom, she said, shunned her as much out of school as they did in."

"Mrs. Mills said, she did not doubt, but by persevering in her good behaviour, she [Page 226] would; but observed, that if she had con­tracted a habit of telling untruths, it was not to be wondered at that she was shunned by her companions: she then took an op­portunity of observing to the children, that, though she highly commended the abhor­rence in which they held Polly's fault; yet she wished to remind them that it was not generous to insult their companion in her distress, nor to add to the mortifications she already suffered by any slight or unkindness on their part, especially as her repentance and resolution to amend appeared to be sincere."

Mrs. Mills and her young friends then wished Mrs. Brown a good day, and pur­sued their way toward home. Notwith­standing what had been said, Clara and her brother could not forbear thinking that Mrs. Brown had acted with great severity toward the little girl; for, said William, "I did not understand that the untruth she told was meant to injure any one." "Per­haps not," replied Mrs. Mills, "but an un­truth is criminal, be the occasion what it may. There is a noble simplicity in truth, for the absence of which, the most brilliant accomplishments cannot compensate; while, on the other hand, it adds lustre to the brightest talents, and ennobles the most ob­scure origin."

[Page 227] Our present conversation brings to my mind a story which I will read to you this afternoon.

"How good you are to us, my dear ma­dam," said Clara, "we shall always remem­ber, with gratitude, the week we have spent with you—it has indeed been a week of plea­sure—but, bless me! is not to-day Saturday—did not my papa say he would return to morrow?"

"Yes," said William, "we shall have no more stories."

"How I wish," said Clara, "that we could persuade papa to let us stay another week! how happy we should be! that is to say, if it be agreeable to you Madam, said Clara, addressing her aunt."

"My dear children," said Mrs. Mills, "what higher pleasure can I enjoy, than the society of those so dear to me! but we will talk of that when your papa re­turns, at present let us quicken our pace. They did so, and were soon at home. Dinner soon followed, and after the desert, Mrs. Mills read aloud,

THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH, A TALE.

"Emily was the acknowledged child and heiress of Sir James Golding, a wealthy ba­ronet, in the west of England:

"Amiable in her temper, gentle in her manners, beloved and admired by all who knew her, she had reached her thirteenth year, a stranger to care or misfortune: then, for a while, the calm was interrupted, and she was unexpectedly involved in a scene of trouble and perplexity.—A servant, for whom Emily had conceived a strong affection, had for sometime been declining in her health, and, at last grew so bad that her life was despaired of.

"One day, as Emily was sitting at her bed side, she heaved a deep sigh, and pres­sing the hand of her young mistress, with a look that bespoke a mind disturbed and agonized," "my dear child," said she, "I have something heavy at my heart, which I wish, yet dread to communicate—I have been very wicked, but what is done cannot be undone."

"Emily begged she would be composed, and tell her if there were any thing she could do to relieve her mind."

[Page 229] "Promise me," said Alice, "that you will not discover to any one what I am now going to tell you; you are young, but have discretion above your years."

"If it be a secret, that I can keep with honour," said the prudent Emily, "depend upon my silence.

"Alas," said Alice, "it is of moment to your future peace and welfare; but tell me first, had you a mother, poor, mean, friendless, would you not turn from her with disgust and aversion?"

"My good Alice," said Emily, "whither does this question lead: I was never so hap­py as to know a mother; but, if I were, can you suppose that poverty would not en­dear her to me?"

"Amiable child!" exclaimed Alice, "in me then"—and here she stopped—‘in me then behold that unhappy mother.’

"These words were incomprehensible to Emily; she looked on Alice in silent ex­pectation of what was to follow—but find­ing she did not proceed—"Alice," said she, "what does all this mean? you are not light-headed, nor am I surely in a dream, yet how can I understand you! Did you not say something of mother?"

"I did," said Alice, "I am indeed your unhappy mother."

[Page 230] "Impossible!" exclaimed Emily, "my mother died when I was scarcely a fortnight old: you have some secret view in this un­truth, and want to impose on my credulity; my father, as soon as he returns, (for Sir James was out upon a journey) must be ac­quainted with this." Having said thus, Emily was rising with indignation, to leave the room, when Alice, collecting all her strength, caught hold of her gown, and en­treated to be heard."

"When Emily was alone, and began cooly to reflect on the events Alice had un­folded, her mind was still more disordered and perplexed:" "What a change," said she, "has a short hour made! but now I thought myself the child of Sir James Golding, heiress to a vast estate—what am I now? I am afraid to think—Alice, had in­deed reason to say the secret was of impor­tance! Should Sir James discover it, what will become of me—of my poor mother—I tremble at the thought—but who will ac­quaint him! Alice says my father is dead, no one but she and myself know the truth—I will, therefore, think no more about it." Saying this, Emily went into the garden. and began to busy herself about her flowers; from thence she visited her birds, hoping, by these means to divert her anxiety, but her thoughts insensibly returned to the sub­ject [Page 233] of her inquietude: "How can I," said she, "look my dear father, for she could not forbear using the appellation, in the face, while I am possessed of such a secret. Every kind word or look he addresses to me will reproach me—What can I do? Confess the truth to Sir James?—he is all kindness and indulgence now—but then—he will no longer love me, when he finds I am not his own Emily: I shall forever lose his affection; that is hard, yet what is so bad as falsehood and deceit; it is cer­tainly my duty to confess the truth; and how often, as my dear father told me, there is no satisfaction equal to the performing of it.—But will Alice consent? she is my mo­ther, and I ought to obey her. I will try if I cannot prevail upon her."

"When Emily returned to the chamber of Alice, she took her hand affectionately between her's," how is it, my poor mother" said she, "are you more composed than when we last parted—have you slept?"

"Alice replied, that it was long since she had known composure;" "the injustice I have done," said she, "presses heavy on my heart, and I find, too late, that guilt brings along with it its own punishment."

"Well my poor Alice," said Emily, "make yourself easy, there is still a remedy—confess the truth to Sir James, his child [Page 234] still lives, and he is very generous and kind—I am sure I have always found him so."

"What is it I hear!" exclaimed the un­happy woman; have you considered—"

"I have considered every thing," said Emily, "it is the only reparation you can make; and indeed you owe it both to Sir James, and Patty."

"Think," said Alice, who little expect­ed such a proposal, "what you will suffer, should Sir James, which he certainly will, withdraw his protection from you; think how his confidence has been abused; in what a tender point he has been injured—indeed, my child, there is no hope of his forgiveness, though innocent, he will not consider you less the cause of the imposition which has been passed upon him, and will drive you out to share the poverty of your unhappy mother."

"I do not fear poverty," said Emily, "for riches cannot afford satisfaction, if ac­quired unjustly; but I own, the thought of losing my dear father's, I mean Sir James's affection, affects me sensibly;" yet, my dear mother, it is our duty to acquaint him with the truth, and let the consequence be what they will, to perform it."

"Alice seemed much agitated; for mine, if not for your own sake," said she, "I charge [Page 235] you to keep the secret I have unfolded: I, at least, must be the victim of Sir James's resentment, and think what would ensue, were [...], in this weak state, to be turned friendless into the wide world."

"This suggestion touched the tender heart of Emily: no, said she, "Sir James is generous; I will throw myself on my knees before him, and soften him in your behalf—if I fail, I will console you, work for you—and share your poverty; I would not enjoy affluence, were it in my power, while my mother was in misery."

"Alice was affected, and half persuaded, by these artless arguments. Emily observed it with joy, but fearing a continuance of the discourse, would be too much for her, in her present weak condition, she pressed her for the present, no further, but promis­ing to return in a short time, left her to re­pose."

"Though the mind of Emily was dis­tressed by a thousand contending emotions, she fe [...]t a peace arise from having thus far performed her duty, that she would not have exchanged for all the advantages riches could bestow; and was enjoying the reflec­tions that arose upon this subject, when a servant entered to acquaint her, that an alarming change had taken place in Alice. Emily hastened to the chamber, and was [Page 236] inexpressibly shocked, to find her speechless, the physician was immediately sent for, but before he arrived the unhappy sufferer had breathed her last.

"Emily was shocked at this unexpected event; but it consoled her to reflect, that she had, in the last interview, apparently rendered her mother sensible that it was her duty to make the reparation that was still in her power, though Providence had so ordered it that she did not live to accom­plish it; that task now devolved upon Emi­ly, and she resolved, painful as it might be to fulfil it—'Tis true she was more than once tempted to pursue the opposite con­duct: "Patty," said she, "cannot feel the loss of what she never possessed, and does not know she has a title to possess; when I am a woman, and have it in my power, I can be kind to her, and provide for her, and that will make her just as happy—Then, as to Sir James, he believes me to be his child, and I am sure loves me as well; and with respect to myself, I think, I may ven­ture to say, Patty could not love and honour him more than I do."—These suggestions, added to the fear of losing Sir James's affec­tion, which was inexpressibly dear to her, tempted her to confine the secret to her own breast; but truth, which she had from her infancy been accustomed to prize as the [Page 237] most valuable possession, soon suggested bet­ter thoughts, and she resolved to hazard all, rather than unjustly support a character which did not belong to her. She, there­fore, met Sir James upon his return the next day, fully resolved to disclose all, but with an embarrassment, arising from the uneasi­ness of her mind, that did not escape his ob­servation. He enquired, with affectionate solicitude, if any thing material had happen­ed in his absence?

"Emily blushed, and replied, in a tre­mulous voice: "Poor Alice, Sir, is dead."

"Sir James was surprised, and enquired when she expired?

"Last night, Sir," said Emily, "in my arms—" She could say no more, notwith­standing all the fortitude she had endea­voured to assume; she burst into tears.—

"My dear child," said Sir James, em­bracing her, "I do not blame this amiable tribute to the memory of poor Alice; but death is a debt we must all pay; I see your spirits are low, and for this the best remedy is employment: I have brought you a geo­graphical game; let us see which of us will make the best and most expeditious tour of Europe." Saying this, he spread the map upon the table, and took out the totum and counters.

[Page 238] "Emily, at his desire, sat down, and en­deavoured to attend to the rules of the game, but her thoughts insensibly wandered, and her absence of mind was so visible, that Sir James was displeased.

"Emily," said he, "your concern for a faithful domestic is certainly amiable; but it should not cause you to forget the attention and respect due a parent, who loves and studies every thing to make you happy."

"This was too much for the tender heart of Emily, already oppressed with a weight of grief entirely new to her; she burst into tears, and throwing herself upon her knees, and hiding her face with both her hands, entreated him to forgive her.

"Sir James, astonished at the agitation of her whole frame, raised, and pressing her to his bosom: "Is it possible, my dear child," said he, "that what I have said should affect you so powerfully!"

"Ah, Sir," said Emily, somewhat reliev­ed by the tears she had shed, "do not call me your dear child; indeed, I am unworthy that name."

"Sir James was surprised; but knowing the ingenious disposition of Emily, judged that her words alluded to some trifling fault she had committed in his absence, and as­sured her of his forgiveness.

[Page 239] "I am very unhappy," said Emily "but thank God I have nothing to reproach my­self with: O, my dear father!" (for, ac­customed to this epithet, she unconsciously used it) "I am very miserable—I fear you will never again call me your dear Emily.—Indeed, indeed, papa, I am not your own child."

The reader will easily conceive what must have been the astonishment of Sir James: when Emily, as well as the agi­tation of her mind would permit, related all the particulars before mentioned, and put into his hand a letter his lady had ad­dressed to him a few days before her death, and committed to the care of the treach­erous Alice, who had withheld it, on ac­count of its describing a particular mark which was visible on the forehead of his child, and would naturally have been sought for by Sir James.

"His astonishment and indignation arose to the highest pitch—For some time he walked the room in the utmost perturba­tion of mind—Then turning to Emily, who sat in trembling expectation of the event, not daring to lift up her eyes to Sir James: "My dearest child," said he, "my thoughts are at this moment too much disturbed to pay, as I ought, the just tribute to your noble conduct—Leave me for the [Page 240] present—In the morning we will meet as usual."

"Emily withdrew to her chamber, much comforted by these kind expressions, which left her no room to apprehend the resent­ment of Sir James, and gave her reason to hope for a continuance of his favour.

"When Emily the next morning was summoned to the breakfast table, the con­sciousness of the new character in which she must appear to Sir James gave a timi­dity and restraint to her manners that fully informed him of all that passed in her mind: "My dear Emily," said he, taking her hand in the most affectionate manner, "why this reserve? Can you imagine that an event in which you have borne no part, but what has served to reflect on you the highest ho­nour, can have lessened my esteem or af­fection? No, my dear, my noble girls, it has rather increased than diminished both: From henceforth you can have no RIVAL in my affections, and Emily is too generous not to admit a partner."

"As soon as breakfast was over, Sir James dispatched Rugby, a faithful domes­tic who had grown old in his service, to a village about ten miles distant, where Alice had placed Patty during her residence in Sir James' family, with orders to pay the money due for her board, and bring her [Page 241] home.—Emily, in the mean while, re­tired to her chamber, to enjoy the agreea­ble reflections that arose upon her happiness. How sincerely did she rejoice in the con­duct she had pursued! had she acted with less integrity, how bitter had been her re­flections! For, with no small surprise, she learnt that the discourse which had passed between her and Alice had been actually overheard, and when she retired the even­ing before, related to Sir James by Rugby, whose chamber was only divided by a thin partition from Alice's. Had Emily, there­fore, acted upon principles less noble, the very means she had taken to secure to her­self the fortune [...]nd esteem of Sir James had irretrievably deprived her of both. She looked up, therefore, with gratitude to the Supreme Disposer of events, who had inspired her with resolution to hazard the loss of every worldly consideration, rather than purchase them by duplicity and injus­tice. From such reflections her thoughts naturally turned upon Sir James; on his ge­nerosity and kindness—and then on Patty; "I am afraid," said Emily, "she is very illiterate, perhaps as ignorant and vulgar as our washing-woman's poor child: how it will vex and mortify my dear father—I wish he were not to see her till she had been at school a few months. But that cannot [Page 242] be—If it were but possible to make her ap­pear a little genteel before he sees her—Let me see—Could not she wear some of my cloaths—To be sure—we are just of an age."

"Emily was delighted with this thought—the moment she saw Rugby, from the window, enter the court yard, she flew to beg he would for a few minutes conceal his arrival from Sir James: Then, over­joyed, she hurried with Patty into her chamber, where she put on her one of her finest muslin frock and a dimity skirt—and would have added a cap, had she not been unwilling to conceal her beautiful auburn ringlets, which she thought a greater orna­ment.

"The artless simplicity of Patty who viewed every thing she saw with wonder and rustic admiration, and the generous anxiety of Emily to embellish the person of one, who, in a mind less noble, might have excited sentiments of envy or jealousy, formed the most interesting contrast.

"The business of the toilet being com­pleted, Emily led Patty to Sir James, who awaited her arrival with impatience. Upon her entrance, he was struck with the strong resemblance she bore to her mother, and embraced her with the tenderest affection, shedding abundance of tears.

[Page 243] "Patty was quite ashamed to be kissed by so fine a gentleman: She had been told that Sir James was her father—but the distance that appeared between them, for the present, entirely excluded every ten­der feeling the name might be supposed to awaken, and glad would Patty have been to hide herself in any corner from Sir James.—This bashfulness, however, in a few hours, wore away, and, in her artless observations, Sir James discovered a mind replete with good sense.

"What a mind," exclaimed Sir James, "is here lost for want of culture!" Some more words he let fall that expressed the keenness of his sensations on this subject, which being observed by Patty, "Pray, Sir," said she, looking in his face, with a sweet simplicity, "do not be angry with me—To be sure, I cannot read—nor write—nor play on the music, as Miss Emily can—but indeed I will love you—indeed, Sir, I will."

"Sir James was affected by these artless expressions: "Do not, my sweet child," said he, "imagine I shall love you the less for the want of knowledge you have not the opportunities of acquiring: no, if you be good and teachable, you will be equally dear to my heart as if you possessed the most brilliant accomplishments, which after [Page 244] all, acquire value only from the virtues by which they are accompanied."

"How happy it would make me," said Emily, "to communicate to Miss Gold­ing the knowledge you, Sir, have been so kind as to give me! Will you permit me, (I will not say to be her tutoress, because I am sensible I am in need of one myself) but to assist in so agreeable an employment? Patty has promised to accept my services."

"My dear children," said Sir James, "nothing in this world can afford me such heartfelt satisfaction as to see you amicably united: Yes, my dear Patty, if you would secure my esteem and affection, Emily must be the pattern by which you must from your conduct."

"Emily's eyes glistened with grateful sensibility at so high a mark of Sir James's approbation; and Patty, taking her hand, said, "Indeed, Miss Emily, I will mind whatever you say—and will love you dear­ly, for I am sure you have already been very good to me;" (alluding to the change Emily had made in her apparel, a change which, as it gave another proof of Emily's noble sentiments, had neither gone unnoticed nor unacknowledged by Sir James.)

"From this day Emily became the pre­ceptress of Patty, whose attention and ap­plication was such, that she improved [Page 245] rapidly; her mind unfolded by degrees, and every day discovered new beauties; her bashfulness changed into a becoming modesty, and in a few years the rustic cot­tager was lost in the elegant, the accom­plished Miss Golding.

"The particulars of Emily's birth was known, but to few; she was still considered as the daughter of Sir James, who divided his affection and fortune equally, between her and Patty. The friendship of the young ladies, being, in the mean while, founded upon reciprocal virtues, was strengthened by time, and proved as last­ing as it was warm and sincere."

Thus was the virtue of Emily recom­pensed by the approbation of her own heart—the esteem of her benefactor—the ac­quisition of a true friend—and the prosperity of her future life—illustrating this useful precept; that it is no less our interest, than our duty, to adopt and encourage good principles.