The little family. Containing a variety of moral and philosophical matter. : Written for the amusement and instruction of young persons. / By Charlotte Sanders. ; Vol. I[-II]. ; [Five lines from Thomson]

The little family. Containing a variety of moral and philosophical matter. : Written for the amusement and instruction of young persons. / By Charlotte Sanders. ; Vol. I[-II]. ; [Five lines from Thomson]

Table of contents

[1]

Title page

DEDICATION.

THE LITTLE FAMILY.

CHAP. I.

CHAP. II.

CHAP. III.

CHAP. IV.

CHAP. V.

CHAP. VI.

CHAP. VII.

CHAP. VIII.

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

CHAP. IX.

CHAP. X.

CHAP. XI.

CHAP. XII. THE BIRD's NEST. A Drama in one Act.

CHAP. XIII.

[2]

Title page

THE LITTLE FAMILY.

CHAP. I.

CHAP. II.

CHAP. III.

CHAP. IV.

CHAP. V.

CHAP. VI.

CHAP. VII.

CHAP. IX.

CHAP. IX. THE LITTLE GAMESTER. A Drama in two Acts.

1

CHAP. X.

ACT II.

CHAP. XI.

CHAP. XII.

THE ORPHAN COTTAGERS.

§

§

§

[Page]

[Page]

THE LITTLE FAMILY CONTAINING A VARIETY OF MORAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL MATTER.

WRITTEN FOR THE AMUSEMENT AND INSTRUCTION OF YOUNG PERSONS.

BY CHARLOTTE SANDERS.

VOL. 1.

Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,

To teach the young idea how to shoot,

To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,

To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix

The generous purpose in the glowing breast.

THOMSON.

PRINTED at HAVERHILL, MASSACHUSETTS: BY MOORE & STEBBINS, FOR DAVID WEST, No. 59, CORNHILL, BOSTON.

1799.

[Page]

DEDICATION.

MY YOUNG FRIENDS!

TO whom can I address the following pages with so much propriety, as to those in whose pleasure and improvement I feel so tenderly interested? Yet, it was long before I had the opportunity of complying with the demand of my young friends—"Write something for us." At length that something is completed, in a history of domestic incident; which [Page] now requests a claim to your acceptance, under the title of, "The LITTLE FAMILY." Let it not engage your attention as an entire fiction, for there are, I am persuaded, MANY mothers as amiable as Madame de St. Claire, and the friendship of a FEW such I regard as a peculiar blessing of Providence. Nor look on the little Emmiline as a being of the imagination: It is a character, and the only one which I have more particularly copied from that of a darling friend, who, from her earliest youth, has been esteemed for the amiable qualities of her mind, and the goodness of her heart; to her, to you, are due my most grateful thanks, for every exertion in favor of these little volumes, [Page] which you so kindly wished should have a place in your juvenile library.

That they may obtain your approbation, and the subjects therein selected contribute to the improvement of your understanding, is the ardent wish of, my dear young ladies,

Your very sincere, and greatly obliged friend, C. SANDERS.

BATH, JULY 24TH, 1798.

[Page]

THE LITTLE FAMILY.

CHAP. I.

BUSINESS of importance requiring the presence of Monsieur de St. Claire in the West-Indies, Madame, after his departure, proposed to retire with her little family to a small mansion of their's in the mountainous parts of Switzerland. This lady, who was the best of mothers, resolved not to revisit Paris till her husband's return:

To hearts affectionately attached to each other, a separation is always painful; and such was that a Monsieur and Madame [Page] de St. Claire, who seemed to live but in each other's society, and the dear circle that formed their domestic felicity.

The business which required this separation, could not, in all probability, be settled before the expiration of two years; an interval which this amiable parent had determined to devote to the education of her family; a task she would not have resigned even to her dearest friend, believing the instruction of her children to be a mother's first duty.

Her's were lovely—but they were not without failings, and to these, a foolish fondness had never rendered her insensible.

The eldest, a beautiful girl about twelve years of age; a boy, one year younger; and a rosy sprightly darling of seven, were the whole of the "Little Family."

"I am sorry we are going to leave Paris," said Clara, as she followed her mother to the carriage, "it is so cheerful here; and in the country, where one fees no one, it will be very dull." "It depends much upon ourselves," replied [Page] Madame de St. Claire, "whether we shall find it so. We are going to a situation beautiful by nature, and I have not an idea but its delightful scenes will furnish us with a species of amusement, though very different, yet far more pleasing and instructive than any which the pleasures of this gay city could afford." "I love the country," exclaimed Henry, "and have not the least doubt of our being very comfortable." "And I am sure," cried Emmiline, "I shall be happy wherever mamma is."

For three days, they proceeded on their journey without any interruption. After having travelled a few hours before sunrise on the morning of the fourth, on passing some rugged ground, the wheel of the carriage suddenly gave way. Fortunately they received no injury from the accident, which had happened in a place where no assistance could be procured. They were some miles distant from any town, and at a loss what course to pursue; when Henry, pointing with his finger, [Page] exclaimed, "Look, mamma, I think there must be some house near; is not that smoke I see between those trees?" He was not mistaken. It proceeded from the chimney of a cottage not very far distant, whither they dispatched a servant, to know if it could afford them accommodation, while the carriage was repaired. During his absence, they seated themselves on a little hillock at the side of the road. The children amused themselves with observations on every object that became visible in the yet imperfect distance; till the rising sun bursting with new splendor on the distant mountains, and leaving the valleys beneath still almost concealed in aërial shade, attracted all their attentions: "Look, look, sister, at the sun!" cried Henry, "we should not have seen such a glorious sight at Paris. Is it not charming, mamma? for these three mornings we have seen the sun rise." "It is, indeed, a scene worthy all our admiration, nor ought we ever to contemplate it, but with hearts replete [Page] with gratitude to the Almighty for the blessings we daily receive. Let us never behold it, without thinking on Him who is the fountain of light, and source of every good!" Emmiline, who for some time had silently admired the glorious object, exclaimed, "But for what use did God make the sun?"

MADAME.

Your brother is able, I believe, to answer this question.

HENRY.

You have told me, mamma, that from the sun we derive light and heat, that without its influence we could neither have bread or fruits, for it is the sun that ripens all the productions of the earth.

EMMILINE.

Thank you, Henry. I shall never see that glorious luminary, without returning thanks to the Almighty for all the blessings it procures us.

The servant was by this time returned. "A poor place, my lady!" said the faithful Peter, half out of breath, "it is scarcely secure from wind and weather; I really almost fear it will fall about your [Page] ears; and if a poor servant's advice be worth taking, I think we had better seek a few hours hospitality elsewhere." "Well, Peter!" interrupted his worthy mistress, "but what sort of inhabitants did you meet with? Did they say we could remain there while the carriage is repaired?" "Alack, Madam, they have but sorry accommodations for themselves. I saw something like a sopha in one corner, which, I suppose, serves occasionally for the poor old man to lie on when he is weary; but it is not fit for you, my good lady: Be this as it may, he said, you should be welcome to pass the night as well as the day there, if you would put up with what his hut afforded; that a few years back, he could have given you a better reception. While he said this, I observed him brush off a tear that had fallen on his aged cheek. He has a good heart, I warrant him, and once knew better days." "Poor man!" replied Madame de St. Claire, "let us accept his humble shelter." "Oh, dear mamma!" [Page] interrupted Clara, "do not go to that nasty hovel!—From what Peter says, there is not a bed fit for us to lie on, should we be obliged to pass the night there; the roof may fall in upon us; and I dare to say, it is as dirty as a pigstye; I would not go near it for the world; I should die with fright, I am sure. We had better remain here, indeed we had."

MADAME.

Have you no thought but for your own safety and convenience, Clara? (and for a moment the serenity of her countenance was changed to displeasure) sorry am I to find you have derived so little advantage from my former advice. You seem, at this instant, to forget you have a mother, a brother, or a sister, and are only apprehensive of the danger which threatens yourself. Indeed, this is no proof of the tenderness of your affection for us. That hovel, as you term it, may be the residence of some worthy though unfortunate fellow-creature, whose hoary head, perhaps, has braved life's wintry storm through many [Page] anxious days of sickness or of sorrow! It is but too probable, he is in need of the support it may be in our power to bestow: Humanity, at least, should induce us to make the inquiry; and surely there is some satisfaction in dispensing comfort to the miserable. Could I any way relieve this aged sufferer, (for such we are led to think him from Peter's account) I should feel more pleasure, my child, as a guest beneath his humble roof, than making one in the most sumptuous palace. If his little mansion be not so clean as we could wish it, our clothes can be washed; and if they could not, you, who are so distressed on the subject, have another frock to put on. For shame, Clara, I thought you had possessed less selfishness and pride.

The unfeeling girl looked confused, muttered something to herself, and reluctantly followed the other children, who held each of them a hand of their dear mother.

"But if it should really be falling?" exclaimed Henry, trembling with apprehension, [Page] "if it should fall on us!" "I think I may venture to assert," replied Madame de St. Claire, "things are not quite so bad as Peter has represented them. Its present inhabitant has probably resided many years there; and were the cottage in so shattered a state as we have been informed, he would not have failed to mention his danger to the servant. Those whose fears will not permit them to accept the asylum he offers us, may stay here with Agnes, if she also is afraid of approaching the desolate dwelling; or remain alone." Agnes was a faithful attendant, who had lived from her infancy in this worthy family, and whose mind was superior to those emotions which now agitated those of the young people. Henry's apprehensions were soon overcome, fear was to him a sensation bordering on cowardice; and he considered it as a weakness by which a well informed mind would feel itself degraded.

Agnes taking Emmiline's hand as she was capering from side to side, exclaimed, [Page] "This my dear little girl feels no terror, I am sure, at the thought of accompanying us!" "No, that I do not," replied the charming prattler, "I long to see the old man: Peter, whom I have heard you say is a very good carpenter, can perhaps repair the house, and I will help you and mamma to do any thing for him the mean while. Agnes! have you not one or two of those little rolls you bought for us at the village, where we slept last night? Give them to me, that I may sop them in some milk for him when we get there; he would relish them I dare to say, if, like the old woman, whom we sometimes see on the pont neuf at Paris, he should have lost his teeth."

Fortunately, Agnes had remembered to remove from the carriage all the provisions which had been purchased for the children; and Emmiline begged to have the pleasure of carrying the rolls herself to the cottage. "Amiable child!" exclaimed her delighted mother, "would that my Clara's heart resembled thine!"

[Page] Peter uttered a thousand blessings on his dear young [...], whom he had so often carried when an infant in his arms. "This is so like Miss Emmiline," he cried, "she is for doing good to every one; do you remember, Agnes, the present she made me, last winter, in the severe frost we had. I was just recovered of a fit of the rheumatism, and was going out with the carriage for the first time, when she called me into the hall, and gave me a pair of the nicest worsted gloves, to prevent, as she kindly said, my having a return of the complaint in my hands. Bless her little generous heart, how proud I was of them!"

In this manner the whole party proceeded to the cottage; Clara lingered still behind; and presently, as she was looking another way, her foot slipped. and she fell into a narrow ditch, into which ran a small rivulet; in endeavoring to extricate herself, her hands and her face were torn in a terrible manner by the brambles, before any assistance could be given.

[Page] Madame de St. Clair▪ as she helped the servant to wash off the dirt which her person and clothes had received, said to her, "You are now, my daughter, to all appearance, in a worse situation than the poor cottager, whose solitary home we are preparing to visit; and would you like, because your frock is dirty, and you are this disagreeable figure, that we should forsake and leave you in the road? How would you submit to be treated with indifference? And yet I fear you are but too much inclined to despise those whom the iron hand of misfortune has rendered objects of contempt to the thoughtless and unfeeling." "Oh! pardon me, my dear mamma, do not think so, do not suppose me proud or insensible. I am indeed very sorry to have given you cause to imagine I could—" Here her voice faultered, the tear of contrition glistened in her eye, she attempted to take her mother's hand. Madame de St. Claire made no effort to withdraw it. "I hope," said this affectionate mother, [Page] "you will no more give me cause for reproof on this subject. May time, and a few years' experience, convince you, my dear girl, that an amiable disposition is the basis of all domestic felicity.

CHAP. II.

THEY soon after arrived at the cottage, of which they found that Peter had given no very exaggerated description. It was almost surrounded by trees, which spread a nightly gloom over the lonely habitation; one end of which had already fallen into decay, and indeed there was but one part which appeared any way habitable. The moss which grew upon the thatch, and the vine that encircled the lowly roof, almost concealed the shattered lattices. Amidst this ruinous scene, they were surprised to observe, a little way off to the left, a small garden, which appeared to be cultivated with the greatest [Page] care and order. Here they saw a little boy about nine years old, very busy in clearing the cuttings of some trees that had been newly lopped, who, on perceiving them, left his occupation; and, after respectfully bowing to the strangers, passed on to open the little wicket which led to the shadowed entrance. Madame de St. Claire and her family followed their young conductor, and were presently welcomed by its aged master, who thus accosted them, "Thanks, kind lady, for having deigned to accept the shelter this poor hovel affords. It is a pitiful place, and unworthy so noble a guest; yet, believe me, you are sincerely welcome to all it contains. Fear not to enter; these old walls have stood many a stormy night. Though so ruinous, the part which I now inhabit, I have reason to think, is perfectly safe. Come, my little friends," added he, taking the children by the hand, "I have some new milk, a stray cow which seemed the only living animal in this solitude when I first came to it, furnishes [Page] us with that, and I believe the vine, ancient as it is, will yield a few grapes." "Oh! Father", exclaimed the little boy, "I will go and gather some of my largest apples, and best pears, for the company!" "Do so, my love," he replied. Then conducting them into a small but neat room, he led Madame de St. Claire to the only chair it presented, besides which, two stools, a table, and a narrow wooden bench, were all the furniture it could boast of. If Madame was pleased with the apparent simplicity of every thing around her, she was not less so with her venerable host, whose countenance bespoke a generous and feeling heart, though the traces of affliction were still visible on this manly cheek. The little boy soon returned with the fruit, and the rural stores were produced on a table, the whiteness of which was scarcely surpassed by the snow on the summit of the mountains. Peter, Agnes, and the postillion, remained at the door, and shared their peaceful meal under the shade of an aged [Page] oak, round the rugged trunk of which a seat had formerly been erected; the remains of it now afforded comfortable rest to these weary travellers; for not all the eloquence of Madame, or the venerable man, could persuade the honest people to eat a morsel in the same room with their mistress; and except one destined for repose by its owner, there was no other habitable.

"I am rejoiced we came here," whispered Henry to his mother, "what nice fruit! and then the old man is so civil!" He had great reason for this remark, as the cottager was particularly attentive to the young folks. Clara was the only one to whom his politeness gave any confusion. It brought to her mind all she had said respecting the cottage and the owner of it. The recollection was painful, and it prevented her feeling that pleasure which the others enjoyed.

The evening passed away in the most cheerful manner, and it was concluded that Peter should set off early in the morning for further assistance, to repair the carriage.

[Page] In the inner room, the good old Albert (for that was the name of their host) had contrived to make up two beds for Madame, Agnes, and the children; whilst the postillion remained in an outhouse with his horses, himself, Peter, and the little boy, slept soundly till daybreak on some clean straw and dried rushes; perhaps they had never enjoyed more comfortable repose, for when the mind accommodates itself to circumstances, it is not the little inconveniences of life that can affect us.

CHAP. III.

SOON as the cheerful dawn disclosed an imperfect view of the adjacent mountains, Albert, Peter, and the boy, arose. After putting every thing in order in the apartment, the former and his youthful companion went to their daily labors in the garden, and Peter set off for the village. [Page] Madame de St. Claire and the little family enjoyed a comfortable repose, until the bright beams of the rising sun shone through the lattice, and the little birds began their usual harmony.

Henry was dressed in ten minutes, and after having joined his sisters in their devotions, he went out to get a nosegay to present to his mamma.

As soon as the little girls were ready, a walk was proposed, while Agnes should put every thing in order, and prepare for breakfast. "What a delightful morning!" exclaimed Henry, as they were going along, "Had you rather be at Paris than here now, Clara?"

CLARA.

It is certainly very pleasant, and if I had no lessons to learn, I should delight in playing about these hills and woods; but you know, although we are travelling, mamma obliges us to repeat something to her every day.

HENRY.

Fie, Clara! how can you be so idle? If mamma requires us to learn, it is for our advantage, and indeed I [Page] am never so happy as when thus employed.

CLARA.

Yes, and you take care that every body should know you are so; because you wish to be thought a learned young gentleman, and would have it said, "what a clever boy is Master de St. Claire!" Indeed, I am quite ashamed of your affectation, you have sometimes a book in your hand for three hours together, and one may speak six or seven times to you before one can obtain an answer. Papa and mamma think wonders of you—but you are not all this time occupied with what is in the book; I have often seen you look off, and scribble on a bit of paper, though you seemed to those who were not so near you to be still reading.

HENRY.

Perhaps you have, miss, but this has been when I have met with any passage particularly striking, and of which, fearful my memory might not be able to retain it, I have made a copy. You are always saying something illnatured [Page] of me. You'd better now be thinking of your lessons, or if you want amusement, divert yourself with admiring the beautiful scenes around us.

The landscape at this spot was extremely picturesque. It was not a public road; they were passing a precipice; above this were others extending to an amazing height; the scattered hamlets on whose summit appeared but as a few almost imperceptible specks; nearer were seen cottages above the clouds, pastures which seemed suspended in the air, exhibiting the most delightful scenery that can be conceived. Below, on the left, were cattle grazing; some of which appeared no larger than the smallest birds; to the right, a forest, whose thick interwoven trees seemed to form an artificial night; beyond this the prospect opened, and the distant village became visible by degrees, as its lowly spire caught the sun's uninterrupted ray.

Here it was, that, feeling themselves fatigued, they sat down to rest, under the [Page] shade of the nearest trees, and the children repeated their lessons. Henry and Emmiline said their's perfectly, but Clara was very obstinate, and owned she thought it hard they were compelled to learn any thing when on a journey, and that she would not take any pains to get her's. "You prefer ignorance, then to a few hours application?" said their affectionate mother. "Believe me, Clara, before the lapse of many years, you will severely repent this negligence, and wish you could recal even the moments you have spent in idleness and folly. The injury is not to me; it is you who will feel the consequences of this perverse behavior. You will be ignorant, you will be despised."

"Oh! no, mamma! that I shall not; I know enough already." And the thoughtless girl skipped away as cheerfully as the others, with whom their indulgent mother had so much reason to be satisfied.

Madame de St. Claire soon after arose to return, surprised, on looking at her [Page] watch, to find it was so late. They made all possible haste, fearing the good Albert might be uneasy at their stay. He was so, had set out in search of them, and met the little party almost within sight of the cottage.

"You are willing, I see, good Madam," said he, "to enjoy all the delight of the country. Is there any pleasure that can exceed that of a morning walk at this charming season? My little friends, I see, are also charmed with the beauties nature here presents to us." "Yes, sir," replied Henry, "all but my sister Clara; I am sorry to say, she has no taste for what is sublime and beautiful. To me, no sight is so glorious as the rising or setting sun, I could gaze on it for ever; I would not be such an insensible mortal as she is for the world." "You would wish us then to understand," resumed Albert, "that you are a young man of infinite sense and taste, perhaps of abilities; I own I am always inclined to suspect those who think so highly of their [Page] own; but to try the extent of yours, let me hear if you can answer the question I am going to propose. Why do we receive more heat from the sun in summer than in winter, when, in fact, it is nearer to us in the latter?

The children were confounded, no one so much as Henry. They were unable to reply. "I see," said he, "my question is a little two difficult for my young philosophic friend, who another time will not be so ready to call his sister an insensible mortal; since his youthful capacity is found to be not yet equal to every subject. But that the same question may not occasion you any further embarrassment, I will tell you why we receive greater heat from the sun in summer than in winter. Though then nearer to us, his rays fall more obliquely, in summer more direct: consequently, we then receive the greater heat. Have you never put your hand sideways to a candle? and, have you not remarked that you could, in that position, almost touch the flame [Page] without being burnt? but when you have held your hand directly over it, have you not at six times the distance found it insupportable?" The children acknowledged the truth of what he had said, and thanked him for having so well explained the subject to them, and all, except Emmiline, seemed willing to change the conversation, who thus continued, "You said, sir, we were nearer the sun in winter than in summer. How can this be? I am sure our house at Paris always seemed to stand in the same place; if it had moved nearer the sun at any time, we must have felt it." "And yet, my little darling, it is certain that the earth moves sixty eight thousand two hundred and forty three miles every hour, and that we are carried along with it in open space. The sun, the moon, the stars, seem to make a revolution in the heavens; but it is in reality the earth that moves. Lend me, young lady, the cup and ball you were playing with just now." When, taking it by the string, he whirled it [Page] round his head, saying, "We will suppose this little ball the earth, and my head the sun, do you observe that as it goes round, it describes also a small circle round the string? This may be compared to the diurnal motion of the earth, which turns as you see this ball, upon an imaginary line within, called its axis. It is this motion which produces day and night." "But how," interrupted the children, "can we move so fast, and not be sensible of any motion?" "Have you not been in a ship?" said Madame de St. Claire, "and did not the trees, the land, and every object on the side of you appear to move?"

"Oh! yes, mamma," replied Emmiline, "and I recollect it was with difficulty you made me comprehend that it was not the trees, but the vessel, which moved."

"Well, then, cannot you imagine that the motion of the earth a contrary way produces the apparent motion of the heavens from east to west? We are not sensible [Page] of the motion of the earth, being no more on this globe, in comparison, than a fly would be on a ball of wax as large as our chariot."

The children were delighted with the knowledge they had acquired, and begged their mother would continue to talk to them on similar subjects, to which their capacities might be equal, whenever she had leisure or opportunity.

CHAP. IV.

THEY were within half a mile of the cottage, when, in passing a narrow sandy path, Emmiline suddenly stopped. "Why do you not go on, sister? said Henry. "Oh! brother, here is a nest of ants—they are busily employed from one side of the road to the other; do let us stop and look at them."

"Well, Emmiline!" said Albert, after she had observed them some time, "and [Page] what instruction can you derive from the contemplation of these little creatures?"

EMMILINE.

I think, sir, they set us an example of industry.

ALBERT.

They certainly present an important lesson to the idle: Observe, they appear continually in motion, and as if they had some occupation always in hand.

The sight of them is very instructive.* They are a little people, united like the bees in a republic, governed by its own laws and politics. Observe how busy they are in running from street to street.

CLARA.

What, have they streets? Pray shew them to us.

ALBERT.

Do you see these little cavities in the sand? These are the entrances to them. They have a kind of oblong city, divided into various streets, that terminate at different magazines.

HENRY.

Can you inform us, sir, what is their daily employment in this city?

[Page]ALBERT.

Some of them consolidate the earth, and prevent its falling in by a surface of glue with which they incrust it. Those whom we commonly see, amass several splinters of wood, which they draw over the tops of their streets and use them as rafters to sustain the roof; across these they lay another rank of splinters, and cover them with a heap of dry rushes, grass, and straw, which they raise with a double slope to turn the current of the water from their magazines, some of which are appropriated to receive their provisions, and in the others they deposit their eggs, and the worms which proceed from them.

EMMILINE.

Ah! I think I see some which are carrying home their supplies. There is one that seems to be bringing to his storehouse the kernel of some fruit; but what means this groupe? How busy they are!

ALBERT.

Let us view them nearer. Oh! they are feasting on the carcass of a dead fly. You smile at their taste, master [Page] Henry. Observe, all the parts of it that are portable they employ others in taking to the storehouse, while what cannot be removed they eat on the spot. Do you not see others, who are at some distance from the nest? These are dispatched as scouts to get intelligence, and according to the tidings they bring, all the community are upon the march, to attack perhaps a ripe pear, a jar of sweetmeats, or a lump of sugar.

EMMILINE.

How curious! how entertaining are all their motions! But, is it not true that they lay up a store for winter?

ALBERT.

The ants, after they have passed the summer in a constant employment and fatigue, shut themselves up in winter, and enjoy the fruits of their labors in peace, although it is probable they eat little in that season, being either benumbed, or buried in sleep, like other insects. Therefore, their industry in storing up provisions is, in all probability, not so much intended to guard against [Page] the winter, as to provide during the harvest a necessary subsistence for their young, to the nourishment of which they are particularly attentive.

The attention of the young people was attracted from this scene of industry, by a noise, which seemed to be the exclamations of some person in distress a few paces from them; when, turning out of the direct path to see what was the matter, they beheld a spaniel extended on the ground, apparently dead, and on one side, a goatherd lamenting over it, in all the agony of severest grief. "What thus distresses you, my lad?" exclaimed Albert. The boy did not even turn his head to see from whence the voice proceeded; his eyes were fixed on the lifeless animal before him. They observed him take up its paw, bathe it with his tears, press it to his lips, and then put it down again. "Poor Carlo!" said he, "thou hast followed me many a dreary mile, but the flinty roads shall no more cut thy tender feet—Carlo!—" and again [Page] convulsive sobs for a few minutes interrupted his speech; at length he resumed: "Thou art cold—dead!—I must pursue alone each day's hard journey.—Thou wilt no more climb the craggy mountain, or gambol through the valley. But at noon, when I set me down beneath the sheltering willow by the clear brook, and take from my scrip the scanty morsel—it is then, Carlo! I shall miss thee—for thou wast accustomed to partake its store. At night too—for these fifteen years hast thou slept beside me! Dear companion of my labors!—Friend of my saddest hours!—Yes! thou wast faithful—thou wast a friend when others only assumed the name, and in poverty forsook me.—And must I bid the farewell for ever?—Yes, Carlo!—Carlo, thou hast paid the debt of nature!—"

The voice of Albert, who by this time had come up to the lad, interrupted his soliloquy.

"You lament the loss of this poor animal?" said he. "Ah! sir," replied the [Page] boy, advancing a few steps, then-retrcating as if unwilling to leave the remains of what had been so dear to him; "you know not how much he deserves to be lamented. Yet, if he had died a natural death, I think I could have borne it better, but to be deprived of him by a malicious hand!—He is killed—the blood is now running from the wound where the ball entered his head. My Carlo!" and he threw himself on the ground beside him.

"But tell us," said Albert, "by what means you lost your favorite?"

The goatherd, raising himself upon his elbow, thus continued, "Returning from the mountains this morning, I was startled with the report of a gun, a few yards from me, but could perceive no person near, the thickness of these trees perhaps concealed them. Carlo was at a little distance, I called him—he staggered towards me—the gunner had taken two sure an aim—for in a few minutes he expired at my feet. Had you beheld his looks, and heard his last moan—you never would [Page] have forgotten poor Carlo! he would have been as familiar to your memory as he will ever be to mine!"

"But have you no idea who could be guilty of this cruel action?" asked Madame de St. Claire.

"My suspicions, I fear; are but too well founded," replied the peasant; "there is a gentleman in this neighborhood who has long wished me to part with my dog, and even offered me money for him; but the largest sums he could have given, would not have purchased my Carlo. Poor as I was, I would not [...]ell him. He was my father's dog, had followed me from my infancy, and when oppressed by misfortune, his fidelity afforded me some comfort; when I have fancied that I read in his looks, that pity which the unfeeling world denied me. Twice when a child he was the preserver of my life, by dragging me out of a river, into which, playing on its bank, I had heedlessly fallen. Judge if I have not reason to lament him—"

[Page] "But why," interrupted Albert, should you accuse the gentleman of his death? I should rather have supposed he would have been sorry, that any accident had happened to destroy the hopes he might still entertain of the animal's being one day his own."

GOATHERD.

Alas! sir, his steward informed me a few days since, that if I would not let his master have the dog, he threatened to have it destroyed by some means or other, as a punishment for my daring to refuse such a trifle to a man of his consequence. Ah! little did I think his heart would suffer him to put the threat in execution. Why do I say his heart; he could not have any. Yet, I did not imagine he would kill my Carlo!—"

Saying this, he threw himself again upon the dog, and sobbed aloud.

"Poor boy!" said Henry, how sorry I am for him, "what can we do to relieve his distress?"

[Page]EMMILINE.

I have thought of something. He grieves for the loss of his dog, because it supplied to him the place of a friend. It is dead—he has none now. But if I might, (looking tenderly at Albert) I think I could recommend one who could comfort him in all his troubles. (Taking Albert's hand) May I ask you, sir! to be a friend to this unfortunate lad? Mamma, I am sure, will contribute something with us to render his situation in life more comfortable; but to his mind, who could give the comfort of your salutary counsels? Your friendship, therefore, would be more to him than all that we could do—Yes, I know you will be his friend.

Albert took the charming girl in his arms, and suffered her to wipe off a tear from his venerable cheek, which her sensibility had excited. "I will comply with your generous wishes," said he, affectionately embracing her.

Then taking the hand of the poor boy, he exclaimed, "The child of sorrow shall [Page] never want a friend, while Albert has power to dispense to the aching heart a moment's comfort."

The goatherd, overpowered by a variety of emotions, was unable to speak.—He knelt down—raised his eyes to heaven, as if thankful for a restoration of its blessings, and pressed the hand of the old man to his lips.

At length they persuaded him to accompany them to the cottage; where, to pass an hour or two, it was imagined might divert a melancholy, not all at once to be overcome; for though grateful as he appeared for their favors, Carlo could not be forgotten. He turned back often to look for the spot where they had left him, and frequently passed his hand across his eyes to brush away the starting tear.

When he became more composed, Henry asked him if he did not intend, by some means or other, to punish the inhuman man who had killed his dog? "Ah! no," he replied, "what would [Page] that avail? it would not restore my Carlo; and what pleasure is there in revenge? I have it every day in my power to return his cruelty. His dogs make great havoc amongst our flocks, but I have not hurt one of them, nor ever will; although my master has spoken to him several times, he will not keep them upon his own grounds. Poor and ignorant as I am, I have not forgotten the lesson of humanity my father taught me, "To do good to all, but no injury even to an enemy." By this time they had reached the cottage, where they found a rural breakfast prepared by the little boy and Agnes, to which the former had contributed all the rarities his garden could produce.

[Page]

CHAP. V.

PETER returned in a few hours after, accompanied by a wheel right of the village; but on examination it was found the carriage had sustained so much injury, that it could not be fit for use in less than three days, an interval which was spent in the most agreeable manner by the inmates of the cottage.

One morning, after a cheerful breakfast, Madame de St. Claire thus addressed the good Albert: "Pardon my curiosity, my worthy friend, but I cannot help expressing a, desire to know to whom we are indebted for the kind and hospitable reception we have met with in this solitude. Many circumstances lead me to suppose Albert is but an assumed name. I would not be impertinent; I have no motive but the sincerest friendship. We are soon to separate, and I cannot leave you without a wish of being, in some [Page] measure, instrumental to your future happiness and welfare. Deny not then a satisfaction, which a further account of yourself might ford me."

"And this is what I would refuse to many," replied the old man, "but your kindness deserves all my confidence; and although it may be painful to recal to remembrance the past events of my life, I will relate to you the misfortunes which have driven me to this state of poverty. "My name is de Livré; my father was a reputable tradesman at Paris, and I was brought up to the same profession. For several years we continued in business together; as an only child, at his decease I became possessor of all his fortune, which was very considerable; a few months after which, I had the affliction to lose the best of mothers!

"The time of wearing mourning for my dear parents was scarcely elapsed, when an intimate friend of my father's returned from India with his wife and daughter, the latter a most amiable young [Page] woman. In our infancy we were neighbors, and many of our youthful years had been spent together. Nor were our parents less affectionately attached to each other. Mine were, alas▪ no more. The meeting on both sides was very affecting; our first interview being in the same room where five years before we had parted with mutual regret; the furniture was the same, and every thing remained in its former state. It was a favourite apartment of my dear mother's, and I had determined nothing there should undergo the least alteration, but retain the order she had been accustomed to approve. Her chair kept its usual place; it was the first to which I led Amelia. She sat down, and burst into tears; I was scarcely less affected; some minutes elapsed before either of us had power to articulate a syllable. At length my old friend, affectionately pressing my hand, thus addressed me:

"You can have no friends, my dear Henry! who more sincerely sympathise [Page] in your afflictions than those now before you. Our's is not a connection of a f [...] short months, founded on interest or [...] price; it is an attachment formed on a similarity of sentiments, and strengthened by the most intimate friendship. [...] is this intimacy, which for years I have regarded as the greatest blessing of my life; even when circumstances imposed so long a separation, we heard frequently from each other, and absence has neither altered our sentiments nor our affections. Let me but see you happy, my dear boy! and I shall die in peace. I have brought with me a present, which I hope will make you so—my daughter!" "Is it possible!" I exclaimed, "you can think me worthy of this blessing! My Amelia! shall I yet live and taste of happiness like this?"

You only are deserving of the best of daughters!" interrupted my friend, "may heaven bless you both, my children! Your good father, before his death, informed me by letter of your attachment [Page] to Amelia, and accident made the acquainted with her sentiments for you. Madame Mélone then rising, took her daughter's hand, and put it into mine, saying, "May you experience every felicity, my children! You are the only treasures we have left in this world, and the only objects for which we would wish the thread of our existence to be spun out for a few years longer." Here the voice of Albert faultered.

Pardon me, dear Madam, I can never think of this day, but with the greatest emotion, nor can I particularise every circumstance of our happy union, which took place two months after the return of my good friends. For several years the scene of happiness continued, and our dear parents lived to partake our domestic comforts, and to share our transports in the daily improvement of an only son. Little did we then think, this darling child would be the cause of of so much sorrow to us. But why do I reflect on him? It was beyond a doubt [Page] my boundless indulgence which laid the basis for the impropriety of his future conduct. He was of a lively turn of mind; and youthful frolic which merited the censure of parental authority, were too often considered as the overflowings of a volatile disposition. We had no other little one to share our affection; in him was centered all the joy, the delight of our existence; his every whim was complied with, he possessed abilities and a good understanding; but these were overvalued by our blind partiality. He knew how to take advantage of our weakness, and seldom failed to obtain our consent to all his wishes, however imprudent or absurd. His passions were violent, he could not indure the least restraint; Monsieur Mélone perceived this in the answers he made, when any check was put upon his inclinations, either by his mother or myself. He dreaded the uneasiness his future conduct might occasion us, and endeavoured to reason with him on the subject; but, in [Page] such conversations, the advice of his grandfather was too often totally disregarded, or turned into ridicule. At length he became superior to all control, and we resolved to place him at an academy, the master of which had been strongly recommended to us. He had been at this seminary rather more than two months, when it pleased Heaven to take from us our worthy parent. Madame Mélone survived him only two years. Little else material happened to disturb our domestic tranquillity for some years. My son, after he left school, became a partner with me in my business: But I was sorry to perceive no change in his disposition, though his person and manners had received every embellishment; but he had formed some connections which did not tend to the improvement of his morals or his heart. A few gay young men of fashion, who were pleased with his society, invited him often to their parties, and I fear but too frequently engaged him at the gaming table. Home and our [Page] little happy circle, seemed no longer to have any pleasures for him; our style of living became disgusting, for in this we aimed at nothing which did not entirely correspond with our situation. What has a tradesman to do with elegance? My son's ideas were very different from mine; he thought a splendid appearance necessary for the support of our house. When first in partnership, he must have two of the finest horses that could be purchased, to carry himself and servant to wait on those gentlemen who sent for him on business. It was in vain I remonstrated against these expensive proceedings. He would sometimes listen to me with patience; but what I said was soon obliterated from his mind, by the company of those who only sought his ruin.

"It is true, a series of continued prosperity had enabled me to lay by a few thousands, but millions would have been too little for his support. Our trade, heretofore so flourishing, daily declined as his extravagance increased. The general [Page] opinion seemed to be, that a man who drives his phaeton about the streets of Paris, could not be a person who was in care of employment.

"He married a beautiful woman of no fortune, whose disposition bore too great a resemblance to his own for her ever to attempt a reformation. Gay, good humored, and imprudent, but too much the fine lady to attend to the duties of her family; the care of which was left entirely to servants, who took advantage of her negligence to hasten the ruin of herself and her husband, by an exorbitant waste of every thing.

"My Amelia, who was the best of wives and mothers, endeavored often to inspire her with a love of neatness and economy, but she was too young and thoughtless to give ear to any argument o [...] the subject."

The old man appeared so much affected with what he had related, that Madame de St. Claire begged he would defer the remainder of his history till the afternoon, [Page] or another opportunity. The children appeared greatly interested in what they had heard. In the most pathetic parts, Emmiline had been observed to put her handkerchief to her eyes; and when De Livré left off speaking, she jumped upon his knee, and throwing her little arms around his neck, exclaimed, "Wicked boy! to behave so ill to so good a father! but do not grieve about him now; mamma, I am sure, will always be your friend, and if we are not too young, let us be your friends also? My brother, though a little vain, is a good boy; the more you know of him, the more you will like him; and you will love Clara too, who I am sure would work for you with all her heart. Do not look so melancholy—we will all do our utmost to make you happy." "Charming children!" he replied, "your future conduct, I dare predict, will recompense the best of mothers for all her cares, and realize their parent's fondest hopes."

[Page]

CHAP. VI.

AFTER dinner, Monsieur de Livré thus continued his interesting narrative: "Although my son had now a family of five children, he still continued to squander away vast sums to enable him to keep up an acquaintance with his youthful dissolute companions, who seemed to aim at nothing but the completion of his ruin. It was in vain I represented to him the injury my circumstances had sustained, and exhorted him to be more prudent. He relied on the flattering promises of his friends, as he called them, and assured me all would yet be well; that we should soon be able to bid adieu to the fatigues of a commercial life; that they would place us in a situation where we should have nothing to do but enjoy ourselves in ease and splendor. Mistaken young man! I was not acquainted with half his imprudence, till [Page] going one day into a silversmith's to have a trinket repaired of my dear Amelia's, I left my address, that it might be sent home when finished. The shopman had no sooner looked upon the card, than he desired me to do him the favor to stop a few minutes. Odd as this request appeared, I complied with it, and I saw him go to his master then in the Compting house; who told me, with a stately air, he could not possibly do any thing more till the long account betwen us was settled. Astonished, I demanded what that account could be! As he was perfectly a stranger to me, having never entered his shop before, "It is no small affair!" he replied, "three hundred pounds!" "Three hundred pounds!" I exclaimed, "you must be mistaken, I am not the person you suppose me." "I beg your pardon, sir! I have notes of hand which you have sent me from time to time, as securities for payment." "Let me see them," cried I eagerly; they were presently produced, and I immediately [Page] recollected my son's hand. A terror seized me: I was near fainting; the shopman, perhaps more compassionate than his master, observing my disorder, offered me a chair, and I thus addressed the silversmith, as soon as I could articulate a word, for my agitation had for a few minutes deprived me of speech: "you are mistaken, sir, I again repeat, I am not the person you suppose me to be, though nearly related to him. It is my son, unfortunately, who is your debtor; I would defray the whole account this moment were it in my power; but at present it gives me the deepest concern to say it is not, for I have no doubt your demand is a just one. However, here are bills, taking out my pocket book, to the amount of fifty pounds, and I will endeavor in the course of a few days to settle the remainder.

"This I had soon the satisfaction of doing, by disposing of some valuable prints. I had hoped that all his debts were then settled, or that this was the [Page] most considerable. Alas! how much was I mistaken.—I was greatly surprised to see him, a few mornings after this affair was settled, enter the warehouse, having been absent several weeks. I had never seen him in such a dishabille. His lips were livid, and his whole countenance was wild and ghastly. "I am ruined!" he exclaimed, "irretrievably ruined! Wretch that I am!" and he sunk into a chair.—I feared there was but too much truth in this wild assertion, yet had scarce power to ask by what means so suddenly? "And can you, sir!" he cried, with an hesitating voice, "speak to me with this composure? Wretch! detestable wretch!—Monster that I am!—My father ruined too! By me! I cannot support it!—My mother! Oh! how severely will she feel my folly!—My own headstrong passions have raised the storm, and my vile friends in guilt have swelled the tempest to our undoing. I have gamed—Enticed by fiends—for sure they were such! In debt—I hoped by this [Page] means to be soon able to settle all; nor stopped till at the detestable table I had staked the last guinea. No!" striking his forehead, "there is NO resource—'Tis done—my wife, my children, 'tis there I feel the acutest pang—Oh! sir!" falling on his knees before me, "If I dare to supplicate for THEM—continue to them the affection I have forfeited, despise them not—the harmless little ones partook not in a father's errors. How can I ever see them more? No!—Yes, I will see them! but it shall be to bid them an eternal farewell!—Distraction seizes me. 'Tis surely not my father that I behold—his rage would spurn me from him, and from his lips the bitterest curses would pursue me.—I have ruined him—he could not bear to look upon so vile a wretch! See!—see! they are coming to seize on all!—Fly—fly—my father! No! stay! and let me meet their fury!" "Saying this, he darted from me, and had left the house ere I had power to follow him.—For several weeks we could [Page] discover no traces of him. His family were removed, and we knew not whither. It is not in my power to describe to you my sufferings, or those of my Amelia. Unknown to me, my son had drawn upon my banker for considerable sums; and though a month before I was possessed of thousands, I found that I had now but a few pounds remaining; I was a bankrupt. And this was but too soon made public! We remained at a friend's house while our things were disposed of; with a friend who sincerely pitied our distress, but who had not the ability entirely to relieve it.

CHAP. VII.

"ONE morning, taking a solitary walk through la Rue St. Germaine's, I was followed by two ragged boys, who asked charity of me. "For God's sake, sir," said the eldest, "give something [Page] to this poor child, who has not courage to beg, though starving; his father is dying, there is a wretched mother, and four more of them." "I was insensibly affected by the interest the beggar boy took in the fate of his little indigent friend, in whom I recollected the features of my grandson, and followed his steps to the abode of the wretched family. It was a miserable garret; I arrived in time to receive my son's last sigh; who expired in my arms. They had lived, I found, in this wretched manner ever since he left me so abruptly, upon the little produced by the pledging of their clothes. You will conceive the situation of my daughter and the helpless infants. I had no home to take them to, from this scene of misery; but, with the few shillings I had about me, I prevailed on the landlady to permit them to pass two days in another apartment, and took the eldest boy with me to my friend's house.

[Page] "My dear wife, overcome with fatigue and affliction, I found had not been able to leave her bed that day. My friend met me with his usual cheerfulness. He saw something had happened to distress me; and, at his request, I related to him the misery of which I had been a spectator. He desired me to be comforted, saying he would himself visit the unfortunate mother, and do something for their relief. It was in vain I urged him not to think of it, nor injure his circumstances by relieving ours. "Be under no apprehensions of this sort, my good friend," he replied, "the plan I mean to adopt shall not injure any one. Ask no questions. Promise me not to visit your daughter till the day after tomorrow; and then permit me to accompany you. In the mean time, rest assured every thing shall be done which her situation requires."

"I must not omit to tell you the means by which this generous man became able to assist us. In one of the apartments, [Page] I was surprised to see the place vacant where an elegant organ had stood. I had entered this room one morning, the door being open, to admire a very fine picture, which hung opposite. A servant coming in for something for his master, I enquired whither the instrument had been removed? He replied, his master had disposed of it, he believed, for a great sum of money. An idea of his generous plan immediately glanced through my mind. I saw him pass the door of the apartment where I was, and in a moment threw myself into his arms. But all my expressions of gratitude but feebly expressed the feelings of my heart. "Forbear, my friend, to speak on this subject," cried he, tenderly pressing my hand, "what I have done is trifling. Fond as I am of music, the instrument never gave me half the pleasure I have felt in the disposal of it, for you and yours; but that pleasure is not perfect till I have your approbation of my proceedings. We will visit your [Page] daughter." This good man informed me by the way, that he had given orders for my son's funeral. I was surprised when we came to a small neat house in the outskirts of the city, to be told my daughter and her children resided there. We had the satisfaction of finding her better than could be expected. My friend had furnished a little shop for her, and there seemed a prospect of happier days, when this unfortunate mother was seized with a fever, and after a few days illness expired, leaving four helpless little ones. In the midst of this distress, my friend still remained faithful to me. He assisted in placing them at school, where the two elder survived their parents but a short time, and the youngest not more than a twelvemonth; he settled us again in business; but, my Amelia's frame was not equal to the rude shock of misfortune.

"She died! two months after my daughter in law. This was one of those troubles to which human fortitude is [Page] apt to imagine itself unequal. But that Providence, which had supported me in all my afflictions, did not forsake me at this trying period. In trade I was again for a few months successful, and continued in it till the death of my only friend. There seemed then nothing left to attach me to the world; sorrow had injured my health; I could not pursue my occupations with my former vigor. My friend having left me the remains of his small fortune, I purchased with it this dwelling, the desolate appearance of which induced the proprietor to let me have it on moderate terms, where my grandchild has been my supporter, by cultivating the orchard and garden; the produce of which he sells weekly at the next village. The last season was not a favorable one; our fruits did not ripen, and we were obliged to dispose even of our furniture to procure a subsistence, and support me in a long and painful illness; but, thank God! there is a delightful prospect this year, and we shall be [Page] rich again. Man, short sighted mortal! ought never to despair!"

Here de Livré paused. The children, who had listened attentively to the history, now surrounded Madame de St. Claire, begging they might be permitted to do something before they left the cottage for their good friend. "And what would you do, my children?" she demanded. "Henry, let us hear in what manner you propose being useful to this worthy man."

HENRY.

Oh! mamma, you know that when papa took leave of us, he gave me a purse filled with little coins. I will give that to our friend. Here is enough—is there not—(taking it from his pocket) to purchase better furniture for the house? and to pay some workmen to repair it.

MADAME.

Well, and what does Clara propose?

CLARA.

Ah! mamma, that I had such a purse as my brother's! You have a few pocket pieces of mine, give them [Page] I beg of you, but those will not be enough; take my bracelets, the buckles are pearl, they are useless ornaments, are they not? Yet, perhaps, they might be sold for something, and then they would be of real value.

"My Emmiline, I fear, has not any thing she can part with," said Madame de St. Claire.

EMMILINE.

A great deal, mamma. See this gold box; I love it because papa gave it to me, but he cannot be angry that I part with it to Albert. I will tell him his history, and I am sure he will not; then here is my locket, it is set in gold, my scissors sheath, and this pocketbook, the case is silver. If he could sell them, he might be enabled to buy some new clothes; and when I see him newly and comfortably dressed, I am sure I shall think no more of these baubles.

"My dear children," said Madame, "you shall each follow your generous inclinations, and yet keep these things, which from being a parent's gifts are so [Page] valuable. We will take a ride to the nearest town; you shall purchase, Henry, with this note, clothes for your good friend; you, Clara, a new dress for this dear little boy; Emmiline shall make him a present of some useful books, and I will take charge of the repairs of the cottage, and new furnish it." Then addressing herself to Monsieur de Livré: "You must accept from my steward, every year, a sum sufficient to make your lives comfortable, and we will repeat our visit annually." "Can there be such an angel?" exclaimed the good old man, "shall the dear child, who has so long shared with me the miseries of poverty, rejoice in your benevolence?—Oh! accept a father's thanks, may he ever be deserving of your bounty! For him how many hours of anxiety and care have I experienced! I am old, and the painful thought would frequently oppress me, that I must leave him, Heaven knows how soon, in this solitude, friendless and unprovided for—But now [Page] —oh! excuse my transports, (bursting into tears) the joy is almost insupportable; he will have a friend when his poor grandsire is no more. Dear Madame, you are too generous; we have not deserved all that you would do for us; it is too much—" "And what is that ALL?" interrupted Madame de St. Claire, "it is not adequate to your merits. If Providence has been bountiful to us, let us enjoy its blessings by dispensing them to others. The completest happiness we can know in this world, is in relieving misery, and making those happy whom we esteem."

The carriage was ordered, and the children accompanied their mother to the neighboring town. Henry, as they drove from the door, observed it was the happiest day he had ever passed. "From thence learn, my son," said this amiable woman, "how much our own felicity is connected with that of others; and let no opportunity escape you of being [Page] serviceable to the unfortunate and the deserving."

CHAP. VIII.

IN a few hours the purchases were made, and the happy party returned to the cottage. It was agreed that Monsieur de Livré should that evening make his appearance in his new attire; and Emmiline insisted on having the pleasure of decking out her little friend, who received their presents with a thousand thanks. Tears were the only language of the venerable de Livré. "Why does he cry?" demanded Emmiline; "I fear, mamma, we have not done enough." Then running up to him, "Let me wipe away those tears, my good friend. When I am a great girl, and papa allows me more money, I will lay it all by for you!" "I am overwhelmed with your goodness, my dear friends," at length [Page] exclaimed the cottager; "but the tears I shed, my affectionate young lady, are tears of JOY, the sincerest JOY." "Of JOY!" repeated Emmiline, "I thought people only cried when they were unhappy or distressed. I cry when mamma is displeased with me, because I am grieved I have offended her; and I have seen mamma cry but it was when dear papa was ill, and then, I am sure, she cried because she was in trouble. Pray let us see you smile, and we shall think you are really happy." It was some time before Madame de St. Claire could convince her daughter, that the extreme either of joy or sorrow might give rise to the same emotions.

At length the appointed morning came, when they were to bid adieu to the solitude in which they had experienced such a portion of uninterrupted pleasure and satisfaction. It was with real regret they took leave of their worthy friend, who, after affectionately embracing the children, took them each separately [Page] in his arms to the carriage, while they exclaimed, in accents scarcely audible, "God bless you! Bless our good friend de Livré!" The carriage drove away.—Grief would not permit the good man to bid them a second adieu. They gazed at him until a turn in the road prevented their enjoying longer this gratification, and soon even the lowly habitation ceased to be discernible. They had travelled some miles. The children were unable to overcome their dejection; when Madame de St. Claire endeavored to divert their thoughts from the melancholy separation, to the beauties of the surrounding country; but it exhibited scenes which the sorrow of the present hour would not suffer them to contemplate with any sensation of delight. "That you are concerned to leave a person who has treated you with so much kindness, is not surprising. It would have shewn an insensibility of heart, not to have been affected; but, it is wrong to give yourselves up to this [Page] immoderate grief. We shall see Monsieur de Livré again in the course of a few months, and we are assured, it will not be long before we have the pleasure of hearing from him, and ought we not to feel some consolation in having left him in easier circumstances? If you continue thus to give way to fruitless sorrow, you will not be able to bear the fatigues of your journey. Be cheerful, I beg of you. Emmiline, I know, loves a story. Henry and Clara, I believe, can sometimes take pleasure in one; and I think, I know a short history which would amuse you, at least for a few minutes." "Oh! do, do tell it us, dear mamma," they all exclaimed, while eager expectation seemed to arrest the starting tear. Madame, after tenderly embracing them, began the following little narrative:—

[Page]

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

"WHAT joy!" exclaimed Sophia to her sister, one morning as they left their apartment; "this day is come at last!—The birth day of our dear cousin. We are to go to the ball this evening. How I love a ball! how happy we shall be! I will wear my new frock that is so prettily trimmed, with my sky blue sash." "And I," interrupted Mary, "those pretty slippers, which mamma bought for me the other day." At breakfast nothing was spoken of but the expected pleasures of the evening; the same subject was continued till dinner time, and their little heads were so much taken up with the thoughts of a dance, that they could not apply themselves to a single lesson. Their governess complained of their inattention. Throwing their arms [Page] around her neck, they exclaimed, "Excuse us, dear Madam, to day, we cannot apply ourselves; it is the day of the ball, our dear cousin's birth day, whom we have seen but once since her return from the continent. Pray, pray excuse us; indeed we will be very assiduous tomorrow." "It is enough," replied their amiable instructress, "I do not forget that I was once young as you are, and yield to your solicitations. We will set aside all business for today." The morning passed away with all the sensations of delight which hearts young as their's only could experience. "Why, mamma," said Sophia, as they were at table, "are you not as cheerful as we are? You are going to the ball with us, but you do not seem so joyful, and I often observe, my dear mamma, that you have tears in your eyes; yet, if we speak to you, you smile, and in a moment all your sorrow seems to be gone." "Do not, my love, question me on this subject," said the good mother, "you are as yet [Page] a stranger to affliction or misfortune, and so once was I. Many years have elapsed since the event, which causes me so often those emotions, which excite your surprise. Do not seek to know any further. In you, my dear children, I am happy!" She sighed, and her eyes overflowed with tenderness as she pressed them to her bosom.

Soon after, a servant entered with a note. It was to say that the young lady (Sophia and Mary's cousin) was taken suddenly ill, and obliged to put off the ball till another day. The countenance of the children betrayed every emotion of vexation and disappointment, as their mamma read aloud the unpleasant intelligence. "I would not give any thing to go another time," cried Sophia, "I had thought with so much pleasure of this evening.—I shall not be able to wear my pretty frock for I know not how long, and then the charming dance we should have had!" "I know," interrupted Mary, "it will be put off from [Page] day to day, and we shall never go." Saying this, she burst into tears. Mrs. Lambert, who observed and pitied their uneasiness, when the first transports of their grief began to subside, thus addressed them: "I am very sorry, my dears, you are deprived of this long expected pleasure, and more so that your cosin's ill health prevents her having the enjoyment of her friends' society. But we must not suffer ourselves to be too much affected by trifles. If her life was in danger, you would have reason for these tears; but by a letter I have just received from her mother, I am informed that her indisposition is by no means alarming—quietness is prescribed, and I have no doubt but in a few days we shall hear of her perfect recovery. Since the ball is deferred, we must endeavor amongst ourselves to pass this evening as agreeably as we can; but, then, I must insist that you throw off this dejection, and appear with your accustomed cheerfulness. You would not wish, I am sure, to make [Page] those you love uncomfortable, by sullenness and ill humor, for this trivial disappointment." "No, my dear mamma," said Sophia, drying her eyes, "we will not give you cause to be displeased with us. We will be cheerful. What shall we do to amuse you?" "Shall we play or sing to you, dear mamma?" demanded Mary, kissing her hand. "Neither, my love," replied this indulgent parent, "I am so pleased with this your effort to oblige me, in drying up your tears, that I must think of something for your amusement. We will go and drink tea with the good woman of the farm, whom we have seen but once since we came into the country." "What! Nannette?" cried the children, "how glad we shall be to see her again! You remember how we loved her, when she was our nurse. Thank you! thank you, for this indulgence, dear mamma!" And in a moment the disappointment was forgotten.

[Page] The evening was one of the most delightful for a walk: Mrs. Lambert and the young people were joyfully welcomed by the amiable cottager, who, in a few minutes liberally set before them the homely productions of her little tenement.

While partaking of these, a beggar at the gate excited the curiosity and attention of her sprightly guests. For the pleasures of the afternoon had raised even the depressed spirits of Mrs. Lambert. The person who asked their charity was an elderly woman, accompanied by a beautiful child, who appeared to be not more than ten years of age. They were cleanly dressed, though their clothes were ragged. "Alas!" said the poor wanderer, "it is not for myself I implore your benevolence; I am old—the days of my life will soon be at an end.—It is for this dear child—she is well born, and deserves a better fate. But what do I say! Perhaps she is now an orphan, and her only remaining friend [Page] the unfortunate wretch who now begs upon her knees a bit of bread for her. Oh! do—do not refuse it, she is ready to faint with fatigue; we have travelled many a weary mile through rugged roads to day; and last night—I thought I should have lost her—no one would give us shelter from the storm, we braved its fury in the forest—ah! such a night. This dear child, though thus forsaken, is amiable, and worthy of all that can be done for her." Mrs. Lambert, affected almost to tears, desired the aged supplicant to come in. "Give us," said she, "some account of yourself and of the dear child you have thus protected, my good woman: But first drink a little milk, it will do you good. You have greatly interested us. Sit down, you seem very much fatigued." Mary and Sophia immediately offered their basons to the little girl. "Heaven bless you, Madam!" said the woman, as she took the milk, "our story is a long one; but you have humanity, and [Page] will listen to the recital of our misfortunes with patience.

"It is now almost six weeks since we were driven by a wicked landlord (lately come to his estate) from our habitation. He was a proud, austere, avaricious man. The sight of our humble dwelling was a most disgusting spectacle to him; he ordered his steward to have it pulled down, and to send the inhabitants away. This man, not less cruel than his master, would not listen to our supplications, nor even permit us to stay and pack up our few clothes; as if he had not shewn in this sufficient severity, he demanded the immediate payment of all that was due to him; a great sum to me at that time, for bad health had rendered me for many months incapable of doing any thing towards earning any money for our subsistence; and all that I had formerly laid up had been expended for the support and education of this dear innocent. Ah! there was once a time, when we were in a better situation; but the death [Page] of my dear husband reduced me to poverty. I could no longer keep her at school, and after having sold the greatest part of our furniture, I rented this hut, about three miles from St. Albans, where, by my daily labor I have supported this dear child, and when not able to work, she has been so good, so kind to me in all my sickness—It was then her industry maintained us both." "She is your niece, I imagine," said Mrs. Lambert, "perhaps a brother's unprotected daughter!" "Ah! no, Madam, she is born of nobler parents. In me you behold her nurse, the attendant of her helpless years. Her father and mother, when they set off for America, consigned her to my care, and proud was I of the precious charge! My husband being at that time in business, we were prosperous and happy. The charming girl became every day dearer to us. Had she been our own, we could not have loved her better. What is there now that I would not do for her? For her dear parents— [Page] alas! they are dead—perhaps buried in the profound abyss of the sea! I have received but one letter since their departure." "What was their name?" asked Mrs. Lambert with emotion. "My master's name was Lambert, Colonel Lambert—" replied the woman. "Heavens!" exclaimed the affectionate mother, "is it, can it be possible? But tell me your own?" "Elson, Madam." With increasing surprise, Mrs. Lambert caught the child in her arms, and pressing her to her bosom, thus continued, "Is it not an illusion? Do I live to embrace again my daughter, after having vainly sought her for so many years! My dear, my first child? It is! it is herself! my heart tells me that it is—though long supposed to be no more! Thy mother's dearest blessing lives! My Caroline! My nurse too, the generous protectress of my helpless innocent! How shall we ever recompense your cares, or reward you for the hours of anxiety and misery you have passed on our [Page] account?" In a moment the good woman was upon her knees before Mrs. Lambert, and pressing her hand with fervor: "My dear, my beloved mistress! do I live to see you once again, to restore this darling to a mother's arms, to see you happy? Now I shall die content. Receive my prayer, oh! Father of the friendless. Preserve and bless this dear, this worthy family! But," looking earnestly around her, "one is wanting; my good master!" "He is well, my affectionate nurse," replied the joyful parent, "and is now in England. Oh! let us hasten home to restore to him his long lost child." "It was then for the loss of our dear sister, mamma," said the children, "that we have seen you so often sorrowful. Dear, dear Caroline! how happy we are to you. Good nurse, we will love you as well as you have loved our sister." "It is now," interrupted the enraptured mother, "more than six years since we returned to England. You were the first person we [Page] sought on our arrival; but the house you formerly occupied, was let to another person, and we were told that every one thought you dead. Unexpected happiness! You live—and have preserved, regardless of your own, a life so dear. Oh! my Caroline!—my Caroline!—" She could articulate no more. Mary and Sophia were not less affected. They wept, they embraced their sister by turns, who returned their caresses with the tenderest affection. The carriage, which Mrs. Lambert had ordered to fetch them, now drove up to the gate, and they took a hasty leave of Nannette, anxious to introduce the lovely object of their sudden joy to the best of fathers.

"How fortunate!" exclaimed Sophia; "if the ball had not been deferred, we should not have enjoyed this pleasure." "Let this teach you then, my children," said their good mother, "that the severest disappointments may some times prove the source of our greatest happiness."

[Page] "And now, my little ones," continued Madame de St. Claire, "which character are you most pleased with in this story?"

HENRY.

Oh! mamma, that of the good old nurse, who took care of the little girl, when she was so poor herself.

EMMILINE.

And I admire the dear children, who so readily offered their milk to the weary stranger. Did it not show a good heart, mamma?

MADAME.

Certainly, my love, they could not have given a better proof; they waited not to be informed what her necessity required, but conceiving in a moment the misery of her situation, did all in their power to relieve it.

CLARA.

Mamma, I always thought beggars were a bad kind of people; and had I been in the place of Mrs. Lambert, I should have told the poor woman to [Page] have gone about her business. But I shall not think so of them in future, since this story has convinced me, it is possible that many who have lived in affluent circumstances, may have been reduced by unavoidable misfortunes to poverty and distress, and that we should not always judge of persons from their outward appearance.

In this manner did the little travellers drive away fatigue and dejection. They spoke of de Livré, but with more cheerfulness, and concerted many plans of amusements, to be executed at their next visit to him.

On the evening of the second day after they left the cottage, the happy party arrived at the end of their journey.

CHAP. IX.

THE chateau of Monsieur de St. Claire was situated on an extensive plain, surrounded [Page] with beautiful gardens and plantations. As they approached it, the moon was just rising, and illumined with its silver rays the distant summit of Mount Blanc. The evening was one of the most serene, when not even the whistle of the mountain peasant interrupted the plaintive notes of the nightingale, prolonged by the gentle breeze.

"Ah! here we are once more!" exclaimed Henry, with transport, "how glad I am to see the old mansion again! How pretty it looks by moonlight! Does it not, mamma? See how the trees in the avenue are grown since we were here. What pleasure we shall have tomorrow, in going through all the walks!" By this time they were at the door, which was opened by an old porter, who for thirty years had been intrusted with that employment. "Oh! Lémoison," said Madame de St. Claire, "how do you do? How is your wife and family?" "All well, thank you, my lady, Jaqueline is within. We have been [Page] pure hearty since we had the pleasure of seeing you here; though grown somewhat older. We hope you will find every thing in the same order it used to be."

The children were delighted to see their faithful servant, to whom they could have wished to have addressed a thousand questions; but it was getting late, and their mamma thought it time they should retire to rest, after the fatigues of so long a journey.

The following morning, by nine o'clock, the whole family were assembled in the breakfast parlor.

The countenance of Clara alone wore the gloom of dissatisfaction. She returned with apparent indifference the civilities of her brother and sister, and was the only one who did not propose some plan of amusement for the morning. Madame de St. Claire having occasion to inspect some domestic affairs after breakfast, the young people were left alone. "Are you unwell, sister?" kindly asked [Page] Emmiline observing her dejection and attempting to kiss her.

CLARA.

No. But I do not want to be fondled by you.

HENRY.

But, Clara, what is the matter? You look so serious, so cross. If you are not more good humored, I shall wish mamma had left you in some of those thick forests we passed through yesterday.

CLARA.

Indeed, one might as well be there as in this chateau. See what a gloomy place it is! And then there are no houses near us, no young people to play with us. I wish we were again with our little friends at Paris.

EMMILINE.

You know, Clara, mamma has promised that if we are good, she will do all in her power to amuse us. There are plenty of books in the library, and she will, I have no doubt, read some of them for our entertainment.

HENRY.

Yes, but Clara does not like reading. You know she hates every thing but play. Where are your dolls, [Page] sister? I'll tell Jenny to go and unpack them; the pretty dear shall be amused.

Clara, hurt and offended at her brother's officiousness, retired to the farthest part of the room. Her mamma entered soon after, and enquired what was the matter. "Oh! do not ask me," said Emmiline, "Clara will tell you." Madame then turning towards Henry, seemed to demand an explanation from him; though severe as his conduct had been to his sister, when they were alone, the reproof he had once received from de Livré came at this moment across his mind, and he was determined to be silent, rather than appear ungenerous or ill natured; he was not naturally so, and when he erred in this respect, it was through thoughtlessness, not from a depravity of disposition.

Madame de St. Claire, going up to Clara, thus addressed her: "I am indeed concerned to see this sorrowful countenance, my dear girl; you have left, it is true, a few friends behind you, [Page] but I should hope those who are most dear to you are now present, and that you would suffer yourself to be amused by those diversions they are desirous of procuring you. Had you a taste for books, my Clara, we certainly could promise you a larger source of entertainment. I yet hope, a time will come, when I shall see you take pleasure in them.

"Your present conduct is highly displeasing to me, for I imagined you would have endeavored to render your society as agreeable as possible, in your dear father's absence. This is rather an ungrateful return, for all my attempts to make you happy." She then proposed a walk to the young folk; but no one could prevail on Clara to accompany them. She said she did not want to see flowers and trees, they could afford her no amusement. "I am sorry to perceive, my dear," said her mother, "that in your present disposition there is not any thing which could give you pleasure." [Page] "Good bye, Miss Sulky," cried Henry, as they were going out; "I hope you will be in better temper when we return." "And by what authority do you call your sister names, Henry!" said Madame de St. Claire, "you know I do not suffe [...] this impertinence; she merits my displeasure, but not your insolence. Ask her pardon, sir, for this disrespectful treatment." Henry returned to his sister, and took her hand, saying, "Will you forgive me, Clara, I know it was not right to call you such a name; I will not do so any more." "Think no more of it, my dear brother, I am most to blame, for having given you reason to suppose I merit it." Henry, to whom his mother's displeasure gave the greatest uneasiness, dared not again approach her, till Emmiline had said something in his favor. "Mamma," said this charming girl, "you will permit Henry to walk with us! will you not? He is grieved he has offended you; I shall not have half the pleasure if he does not go [Page] with us. Nor will you be so happy, my dear mamma, for I know you love my brother." Emmiline then led him towards Madame de St. Claire, who thus addressed him: "You are sensible, my son, you have committed a fault; but this contrition makes me hope you will never again incur my displeasure by a repetition of it. You have my entire forgiveness." They then proceeded to the garden. It was kept in admirable order, and there were a variety of beautiful plants and flowers; the nature and names of which Henry and Emmiline were desirous of being acquainted with. They had scarce gone over all the different walks, before the bell summoned them to dinner. Clara had ceased crying, but had not resumed her usual cheerfulness. The children spoke in raptures of their morning ramble, and were surprised to see, as soon as the cloth was removed, the carriage drive up to the door. "I propose," said Madame de St. Claire, "to make a little excursion [Page] this afternoon to the dairy house. You do not remember it, I believe, Henry, for you were very young when you used to accompany me thither; and took great delight in playing with and running after the wild goats. As for Clara, who imagines there can be no kind of amusements at a distance from Paris, we will leave her to divert herself as she thinks proper at home." The mistaken girl now indeed began to repent of not having shared the pleasures of the morning, and left some desire to be of the party; but her mamma would not hear of it, and left her to the charge of the good Jaqueline, to whom she gave strict injunctions not to behave to her with the least familiarity; as her conduct had been such as she could not entirely approve.

[Page]

CHAP. X.

THE dairy was about four miles from the chateau, a thatched dwelling, over which an old vine extended its luxuriant branches almost on all sides, whose purple clusters overshadowed the narrow lattices. By the door was a bench encircled with woodbines and ivy, the favorite seat of the aged cottagers, when the declining sun put a period to the labors of the day. As they approached, they were surprised with the sounds of music. The merry tabor echoed among the hills, and its cheerful notes seemed to announce an eve of festivity. Several young peasants were seen dancing on the lawn, at a little distance from the house. "Oh! look, mamma," said Henry, "here is a ball! How prettily the young girls are dressed, and how pleased they look! I never saw any fine ladies at Paris look half so happy, [Page] even in your drawing room. But they have all wreaths of white roses round their heads; what can this mean?" On a sudden the music paused—the appearance of a carriage had for a while suspended the sportive scene. Madame, alighting with the children, begged they would continue their diversion, while they spoke a few words to the good old couple, who had seated themselves beneath the extensive branches of an aged oak; which for several years had been the ornament of their solitude.

The worthy people rose at the approach of a stranger. "Good Heavens!" exclaimed the herdsman, "is it Madame de St. Claire I see?" "Yes, Marcilen, we are come once more to visit you. How does my good dame? But do not let us interrupt your sport. It is a festival I see, and some of those young people, I suppose, are your children." "Yes, and please you," replied the herdsman's wife; "that young woman in white is our eldest daughter, [Page] she was married this morning to the lad you see dancing with her; so we invited a few neighbors to make a kind of holiday. The two girls to the left of her are her sisters, and that stripling who is sitting down yonder is our son." "Thank God!" continued Marcilen, "we are very happy in our children; they are our greatest comfort, and though Lucinda is married so well, we shall be sorry to lose her; but we shall enjoy her dear company a few days longer, as they will not go to their own habitation this fortnight. Dear Madam, do walk in, and partake of some refreshment; or, perhaps, you would like to have it here better." Madame de St. Claire expressing a wish to remain a spectator of the rural fête, he called to his son Louis to bring a little table, and ordered him to get some fruits and new milk for the visitors. "It is long," said the happy peasant, "since we had this honor, and we must let our young neighbors enjoy their sport an hour the longer, [Page] to welcome our noble guests." On a signal given, the dance again began. Henry and Emmiline, after they had partaken of the homely, though delicious entertainment, joined the merry throng; and never had any amusement afforded them such delight. "How charming it is to dance in the open air!" cried Henry, skipping up to his mamma, "and then what a delightful evening! I wish Clara was here, I am sure I shall not be tired these three hours." And he joined again his little partner. "You are very happy here?" said Madame to the herdsman. "Yes, my good lady, our flocks are prosperous, and indeed we have not a single care. We work hard, it is true, but custom has worn away that difficulty; and the recreations of the evening are the sweeter for the toils of the day. A thousand trifles, that would perhaps affect others, do not give us a moment's uneasiness. We have never accustomed ourselves to look for perfect felicity; yet are happy [Page] as it is possible for mortals to be. We have health and dutiful children, in our labors we are successful, and what else could we desire? Ah, Madam! how often do I wish, when I meet a fine carriage on the high road, that its owners were as happy as we are!" "But you do not dance every evening, I presume?" said Madame. "No, good lady," replied Jacine, (for that was the name of the herdsman's wife) "but our children amuse us, we have a few books, and they take it by turns to read to us; Louis plays on his pipe too, now and then, and the girls sing to it; Lucinda, they say, has a very pretty voice. A music master, who came into this part of the country about two years since, would have given her some instructions for nothing, but it would only have made her vain, and taken her mind from things of more importance, so we declined his generous offer. Her wild note pleases us, nor do we wish her better informed. But you would think these merits were [Page] trifling, did you know how good she is. I had a fit of the rheumatism last winter, (a severe one it was) and had you seen, you never would have forgotten all she did for me; so tender, so attentive, and my spinning went on as well as if I had been about; I believe the dear child worked as she sat up with me every night."

Madame de St. Claire chatted with these good people and their family, till the falling dew warned her it was time to return. The children wished for another dance, but she was fearful of their taking cold. Accustomed to regard her will as the rule of their inclinations, without a murmur they cheerfully stepped into the carriage, nodding to the happy groupe as long as they remained in sight. "I should like," exclaimed Henry, "to visit these honest people every day. Why is not every body so happy?" "Because," replied Madame, "there are few who have rightly considered what is the basis of true happiness. [Page] They imagine it consists in the gratification of their desires, and a pursuit of pleasure. We have seen an example to the contrary, in these worthy peasants; who, without forming one extravagant idea in the search of true felicity, find it in contentment. Indeed, happiness is much nearer to us, than we are often inclined to think, when our passions and our caprice prevent our enjoyment of it. I rejoice that the scene we have witnessed, has made some impression on your minds. You have seen health and happiness the reward of virtue and industry."

For the first two miles of their return, the dairy furnished matter for conversation. As it grew darker, the children's attention was attracted by the number of stars that then shone forth with their brightest lustre; and they reminded their mother of the promise she had made, to give them further information relating to astronomy. "Oh! mamma," cried Henry, "there is the constellation [Page] of the Great Bear, that you pointed out to us the other evening; and there are seven stars, a little farther on, in the form of a crescent, which I think is the Northern Crown. But what a bright one is over that tree! What a steady light it has! What do you call it?"

MADAME.

It is Venus, the largest and most beautiful in appearance of all the planets.

EMMILINE.

And what is a planet, mamma?

MADAME.

Planets are dark bodies enlightened by the sun. The earth we live on is a planet, and there are six beside, which make their revolutions round him, and turn each upon its axis, at stated periods: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, and the Georgium Sidus. The other luminaries you have been observing, are called fixed stars, from their keeping nearly always the same places in the heavens, and not rising or setting as the planets do.

[Page] Can you tell me, Henry, why those planets shine with a steadier light than the fixed stars?

HENRY.

No, indeed, mamma, I cannot.

MADAME.

The fixed stars are apparently so small, that the interposition of the least body, and there are many such floating in the air, deprives us of the sight of them. When the interposed body changes its place, we again see the stars, and this occasions a twinkling.

HENRY.

You say, mamma, the planets are like our earth; how can this be? They appear only little bright things not larger than a spangle.

MADAME.

And yet there are some as large, and others larger than the earth. The reason of their appearing so small, is their immense distance from us. Do you not perceive a very small light between those trees?

HENRY.

Yes, mamma, it resembles a little star in size, but the color is very different.

[Page]MADAME.

That light proceeds from the Chateau. It is a candle they have placed in one of the windows. As we approach nearer, you will be able to distinguish it; and it will appear as large as it really is. Do you comprehend now why the stars appear so small?

CHILDREN.

Yes, perfectly, mamma. But of what use are those other stars, those which you call fixed?

MADAME.

They are supposed to be suns to other planetary worlds, dispensing light and heat to them as our sun does to us. They are at such an immense distance, that a cannon ball, flying at the rate of four hundred and eighty miles in an hour from the fixed stars, would not reach us in seven hundred thousand years. What an august, what an amazing conception does this give us of the works of the Creator! Thousands and ten thousands of suns, ranged all around us at different distances from each other, attended by ten thousand times ten thousand worlds, [Page] all in rapid motion; keeping the paths prescribed them, and peopled with myriads of intelligent beings, capable of adoring Him who made and governs the whole by his infinite wisdom!

HENRY.

Oh! mamma, what a charming science is astronomy! Tell us something more about the stars and the planets.

MADAME.

We are too near home, to say any more on the subject to night, and must reserve it till another opportunity. Be careful to remember what has been said, and repeat it the next time we resume this conversation.

The children promised they would endeavor to retain the information they had acquired; and almost with regret saw themselves once more at the gate of the Chateau.

They were welcomed home by the repentant Clara, whose countenance bore the strongest marks of sincere contrition. Though not faultless, she had an affectionate heart, in which her mother's displeasure [Page] excited the greatest grief. At their next visit to the dairy, she was permitted to accompany them; and acknowledged there were some pleasures to be enjoyed even at a distance from the metropolis. Far from finding the time hang heavy on their hands, or experiencing the dullness of solitude, after having passed a few months in this retirement, they owned they had never been so happy. Madame de St. Claire diversified their employments in such a manner, that they had always something new to learn, or to be informed of. The mornings were devoted to study; when the business of the day was completed, they rode, walked, or cultivated their gardens, for Henry and his sisters had each a portion allotted them.

[Page]

CHAP. XI.

THEY had been more than a twelve-month at the Chateau, when one morning Henry and his sisters asked leave of their mother to take a walk before breakfast with Agnes, to a beautiful situation, about two miles off, where they proposed endeavoring to sketch some views.

Being arrived at the spot, they were some time seeking where to place themselves; at length Henry exclaimed, "Oh! what a delightful prospect is here! Those trees to the left thrown into shade, and the cottages in the foreground, will make a charming landscape; and how it will please mamma, to see I can draw from nature." "And how delighted she will be with a drawing of mine," interrupted Clara; "I see a beautiful subject—that bridge and the mill at a distance. Agnes, give us the paper and pencils; Emmiline, do not [Page] come and interrupt us." Emmiline had no such intention. She had begged a bit of paper, and began to amuse herself by trying to draw one of the herdsman's huts, which she saw at a little distance. Henry eagerly set about his view, but found it not quite so easy to accomplish as he at first imagined. It was sometime before he could produce any representation of what he wished. At length he exultingly called his sister Clara to come and look at his outline. On her approach, he cried, "I have got it quite right at last; see, Clara, how exact I have been. Now I have only to color it, and then it will be finished." His sister said, she thought he had better do it in Indian ink, as he had not begun to draw in colors, and most likely, by attempting it now, he might spoil his landscape. "And so you would have me give mamma this charming view only in black and white? It would be very like it to be sure! Look at the color of those trees, which the sun shines so bright on; a little [Page] gamboge, mixed with lake, is the very tint, and the sap green for those which are in shade. Do your's in what you please. Recollect, you have not learnt so long as I have, and I am sure you cannot draw as well as I can." "You know, Henry, mamma is not pleased to hear you speak so often of the perfections of your own performances. I fancy you have forgotten the conversation at the cottage." "It is no business of your's," replied Henry, much offended, "I wish you would leave me, that I might finish my drawing. Say what you will, I am sure it will be better than your's; for you know even your outlines mamma says are very incorrect." Henry found more difficulty in the coloring than he expected. His yellow was too bright, and endeavoring to soften it, he had given it the appearance of a dirty brown. Vexed at not being able to succeed to his expectation, he put the drawing in his pocket; not permitting even his sisters to look at it, but hurrying [Page] them from the delightful spot. Clara had just finished her's, and from not attempting more than she could perform, had succeeded better.

On their return, in a lane leading to the chateau, they were accosted by a poor boy, who begged of them to buy some little birds which he held up for their observation in a broken cage. "Pray do, my good ladies; my poor father is very ill, and my mother not able to leave her bed." "If this be true," interrupted Agnes, why do you not work for them, instead of carrying these birds about to sell; by which, it is certain, you cannot obtain much towards their support?" Alas! Madam," he replied, "Heaven knows how willingly I would work now for them, would any one employ me: But I have been a very undutiful boy to them; I did not like labor, and the farmers and herdsmen, knowing my former indolence, will not now take me into their service; but my dear father, my dear [Page] mother, they will die, if I cannot earn something for their support." Emmiline exclaimed, Let us buy these pretty creatures, Agnes. There are six of them, just two a piece. What do you ask for them, little boy?" "Oh! whatever you please to give me," he replied, sobbing. Each immediately produced their purse; but Clara, as she opened her's recollected the promise of her mamma to take them that day to a neighboring fair; at which, the preceding evening, she had given them a little sum to purchase what should please them most. She hesitated, looked at her brother, then at Emmiline, then at the almost naked object before her. "Your father, your mother are ill," she exclaimed, in a tender accent; "and I have it in my power to do something for them. Why should I deliberate? Take this trifle. If it procures them ease, I shall not regret the want of the trifles it was destined to purchase." "But," said Henry, "if we spend all our money, perhaps [Page] mamma will not take us to the fair." "Should that be the case," replied Emmiline, "I am sure she will not be displeased with us; and the satisfaction of having done something for these poor people, will afford us pleasure, even should we be disappointed. Poor boy! take this, (putting into his hand five shillings) and get something with it for your parents." Henry added his share, but with unusual reluctance; having reserved it for the purchase of a new set of ninepins. "I shall not have what I have so long wished for," said he to himself, as he gave the money, "but what of that? The reflection of having done a good action will be preferable." The lad, astonished at the sight of what to him was an immense sum, returned thanks on his knees for their bounty. Emmiline took the cage, and they continued the road to the chateau. Agnes, unobserved, stepped back to enquire in what part of the country the wretched family dwelt, in hopes she might have it [Page] in her power to be of further service to them, when Madame de St. Claire should be informed of their situation.

Emmiline was the first to relate the events of the morning, eagerly running up to Madame, "Look, look, mamma, see what pretty birds we have bought!" And in a few minutes the whole adventure was related.

EMMILINE.

Poor boy! Oh! mamma, if you had but seen him, he looked so sad. No shoes or stockings upon his feet, and his coat was all in tatters. Then his parents are so ill. If I had had a guinea in my pocket, I am sure I should have given it to him. I thought, mamma, if you had been ill, what I should have felt; and this thought made me pity him, though you would have had every thing that was comfortable; but these poor people have not even necessaries.

MADAME.

You have all pleased me exceedingly by your conduct, my dear children; but, do you think this boy [Page] entirely deserving of the compassion you have displayed for him.

HENRY.

You allude to his indolence, mamma; but if you had seen how very sorry he was.

MADAME.

His remorse is doubtless great. For his industry might have saved his parents from the horrors of poverty; and when he reflects on this, his misery must, if possible, be greater than their's; to relieve which, he has had recourse to a species of cruelty, a proof of which are these little prisoners, (looking at the cage.)

EMMILINE.

What, these sweet little birds, that will sing so prettily, and entertain us in the spring? See how they jump about; but this cage is too small for them; will you not let them have a larger, mamma?

MADAME.

If I approved those pleasures which are purchased at the expense of ease and liberty, I should not hesitate to grant your request; but such can never afford me any delight. These poor [Page] little creatures have already suffered enough, in being taken from the nest. See how they flutter. They will beat themselves to death in a few hours, against those wires; and can you behold their misery, yet wish to prolong it, for the sake of your own gratification, that of their now and then entertaining you with a song, if they should live to grow up?

CLARA.

But they will grow tame in time, will they not, mamma?

MADAME.

Never; and were it possible to render them so, I hope it is a task which none of you would undertake.

Those who make a trade of taming birds, use them very barbarously before they can bring them to perform what they wish. I once heard of a boy who put out the eyes of a linnet in order to make it sing the better. There is in my opinion great cruelty in keeping them even in cages. They were not formed for confinement. See how unhappy they are!

[Page]EMMILINE.

(Going to the window and opening the door of the cage.)

Mamma, they shall not be unhappy. The dear prisoners shall be released. I restore them to liberty. Take your flight, my pretty ones, and enjoy again the freshness of the morning breeze. See how they fly! Look, Clara! look, Henry!

"Good girl," exclaimed Madame, taking her in her arms and kissing her. The children were so occupied with the adventure of the morning, that the fair was entirely forgotten, till their affectionate mother thus renewed the subject. "Is it really true, that you do not wish to go to the fair? or that you have forgot such an entertainment was proposed; to which you so eagerly looked forward a few hours since?"

HENRY.

Indeed, mamma, I have not a wish now for the ninepins. The money is given away for a much better purpose.

[Page] "And I am so happy!" said Clara, "since you have taught me, my good mother, to feel for the unfortunate. I do not indeed want the trifles I thought so much of this morning before our walk."

"And has my Emmiline," demanded Madame de St. Claire, "no wish, no desire for any thing at the fair?"

EMMILINE.

Ah! no, mamma, I fear they do not sell shoes and stockings there.

MADAME.

And suppose such are to be bought, you are well supplied with these articles; you cannot want them.

EMMILINE.

No, mamma, but the poor little boy we met this morning had not any; his feet must be very sore, walking on the hard roads; I should not like to go barefoot, mamma, it must be very painful. Should Agnes go to the fair, would you permit her to buy him some shoes and stockings? This is all I want, indeed, mamma.

MADAME.

Yes, my love, if it will be any addition to your pleasure, you shall [Page] purchase them yourself. I have ordered the carriage. We will all go to the fair; and to reward your benevolent conduct, I will give you as much again to spend as I did at first. Agnes has informed me where the miserable parents of this poor lad reside. Jaqueline and Lémoison shall take a walk with our apothecary, to provide them with every thing that is necessary and comfortable, and if the boy is really disposed to be industrious, I have given orders that he may be employed in the garden.

While the carriage was getting ready, the children exhibited the sketches they had made. Madame de St. Claire was much pleased with Clara's attempt. "And where is yours, Henry?" she demanded. "Oh! mamma," he replied, taking it from his pocket, "you will not be so well satisfied with this. I have spoiled it in the coloring. I thought I could have done it better; I was so vexed when I found it did not go on well, that I could have torn it in pieces. [Page] I now wish I had taken Clara's adv [...] who persuaded me to do it in Ind [...] ink; I will another time, indeed I will for I believe I should not do wrong so often, were I always to follow her opinion."

"Mamma," interrupted Emmiline, "will you look at my herdsman's hut? There was a fine tree on one side of it, but I could not do it well, though I tried several times. It was the prettiest subject! but I will try again; with a little more patience, I think I could make it out better. But here is the coach, mamma,; what stockings shall we buy for the poor boy? Worsted, I think would be the best, and of some dark color, as he is so much in the dirt."

The children spent a delightful day. Every thing was new, and consequently had the charm of pleasing. At their return, they had the satisfaction of hearing the poor cottagers were in no danger, and stood more in need of nourishment than of medicine. The wife of [Page] Lémoison, the good Jaqueline, had provided every thing necessary for them, and the boy on their recovery was to be employed at the Chateau. In the evening the young people finding themselves too much fatigued with the pleasures of the day to make their usual excursions into the plantation, Madame de St. Claire read to them the following little drama:

[Page]

CHAP. XII.
THE BIRD's NEST.
A Drama in one Act.

PERSONS.

Mrs. BELVILLE,

ELIZA,

HENRY,

LOUISA.

Scene, a Garden.—Mrs. Belville sitting in an arbor.

Eliza, Henry, and Louisa, enter as from walking; Henry with a bird's nest in his hand.

MRS. BELVILLE.

Well, my dear children, have you had an agreeable walk?

HENRY.

Oh! yes, very pleasant indeed, mamma, and see what we have found.

[Page]ELIZA.

A bird's nest, mamma.

LOUISA.

And three little birds in it, only look at them; did you ever see such pretty creatures? And William says, they will sing by and bye, and be so tame, that they will eat out of one's hand; then there's just one for each of us. I am to have this, Eliza that, and Henry the other. My brother says he will teach his to sit upon his shoulder while he is at dinner; Eliza's is to perch on the music desk while she is playing; and I will feed mine with hemp feed three or four times a day, to teach it to eat out of my hand.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

They are very pretty, indeed; but how came you by this bird's nest?

HENRY.

William, mamma, climbed up into a great high tree. Oh! dear, I cannot tell you how high it was! and took it for us.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

I am sorry for it, I thought he had possessed more humanity.

[Page]HENRY.

More humanity! Why I am sure there could be no harm, no cruelty, in our taking these pretty little creatures to play with.

Mrs. BELVILLE.,

Should I not think it cruel, Henry, if any body was to come and steal you and your sister away from me?

HENRY.

Certainly, mamma; but that is quite a different thing; you are not a bird.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

No; but I am a mother, and those harmless little creatures have a parent in the hen, whom you have made experience nearly what I should feel if deprived of you. I have often observed to you, my children, that there is no bird, no animal in creation, which has not some share of tenderness for its young. When your little dog gamboled in the yard the other day, you observed the anxiety of the hen, to get her chickens under her wing; she was fearful he might hurt them.

[Page]ELIZA.

Yes; and when the butcher took away the calf this morning, the poor cow moaned and looked so pitiful, I could hardly forbear crying.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

She was distressed because she was a mother. You say her moans affected you; how can you then be insensible to the misery of the poor bird you have plundered?

HENRY.

But we saw no old bird.—The nest had only these three in it.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

Perhaps you frightened her away; or might she not have been gone to some distant cornfields to procure a supper for her young ones?—Poor little animal! How great her distress! Bereft of her nest and her children, she searches every spray and distant covert for them in vain, till overcome with fatigue, her tender wings being no longer able to support the search, her little form becomes convulsed, and she expires.

ELIZA.

(A side to Henry, sighing)

Oh! brother, I wish we had not taken them.

[Page]HENRY.

But then, mamma, we will be so careful of them! We will put them into [...] nice basket lined with flannel.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

Will this, my son, the more reconcile her to their loss? How will she be witness of your attention to them? Beside, it is a great chance if all your intended kindness will be able to preserve them. See how tender they are; they are not yet fledged!

LOUISA.

Indeed, we will nurse them very tenderly. I love them to my heart already. Will you not like them, mamma, when they can sing and hop tamely about you? (Mrs. Belville looks very seriously at them) What's the matter, my good mamma? You look as if you were not pleased with us.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

Nor am I, Louisa—you have all been assistants in a species of cruelty which shocks me exceedingly. There cannot be a greater proof of an unfeeling heart than to give pain to the innocent and inoffensive. I had hoped [Page] your tender minds were as yet strangers to the emotions of inhumanity. The mournful chirping of this orphan brood must have affected the hearts of any less thoughtless and callous than those of my children.

HENRY.

We did not take it, mamma—William, whom you sent out with us got it.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

In saying this, you but increase my displeasure, by endeavoring to throw the blame on one, who, if he acted wrong, did so at your persuasion; for I imagine William did not get the bird's nest to please himself.

HENRY.

Oh! no; he got it to oblige us, we said we should like to have it; and Eliza told him, how she would feed and take care of them.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

Thus, from your own confession, you are alone to blame, not only for committing a crime yourselves, but for leading an ignorant person into error.

[Page]LOUISA.

You look as if you were going to cry, dear mamma. What makes you so sad?

Mrs. BELVILLE.

Your late conduct. I tremble lest this detestable disposition should receive strength from increasing years; for the mind that can derive pleasure from inflicting pain on the brute creation, too often remains insensible to the distress of its fellow creatures.

ELIZA.

(Hugging the nest, and looking pitifully at her mamma)

—Look! mamma, how they shake their little wings and tremble! I [...]ear they will die with cold. I will wrap them in my handkerchief, and make a bed for them in this corner of the garden under the hedge, and cover them with moss, shall. I? (Eliza begins forming the bed.)

Mrs. BELVILLE.

You may let them remain there till we go into supper, when I will contrive something more commodious for them, poor little things!

LOUISA.

(Crying and running to her mamma)

But the poor old bird, will it [Page] really be so miserable? I wish we had not taken them, had we not better put the nest where William found it?

Mrs. BELVILLE.

What, and leave them to be starved to death? The restless parent bird has in all probability, by this time, forsook the place, and then what would become of them?

ELIZA.

(Running back)

Oh! they, will do nicely there. Go and see what a charming bed I have made for them, and yet I fear it will not be so comfortable as that their mother would have formed beneath her wings. Poor, unhappy bird! I shall never look at them without being sorry for her. I could not have thought she would have suffered so much. Dear mamma, do not be angry! I am sure after what you have told us, we shall never wish to partake again in this cruel amusement. (Eliza takes her mamma round the neck, and kisses her; during which time a cat enters the garden and falls upon the nest.)

[Page] All the CHILDREN. Oh! mamma, look! The cat—the cat—our poor dear little birds!—

They run to the place, but do not arrive there till the cat is completing her supper with the third.

Eliza returns to the arbor sobbing violently. The rest follow bearing the fragments of the nest.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

I am in some measure sorry for the fate of your little favorites; yet hope it may be productive of an useful lesson. The distress you feel at their loss will give you some idea of a mother's sufferings, and I hope prevent your ever again engaging in a similar diversion. You are indulged, my children, in every innocent and healthful recreation; but remember, when in sport you injure the helpless, you are lost to the feelings of humanity; and your little hearts become cruel and insensible.

HENRY.

Forgive us, dear mamma, and we never will repeat the cruelty. We are very sorry, indeed we are. Eliza [Page] is sobbing ready to break her heart; and look, little Louisa is crying too.

ELIZA.

(Aside)

I am very unhappy, to have displeased the best of parents!

Mrs. BELVILLE.

If I may trust the appearance of your present behavior, it speaks a sincere repentance. I am therefore no longer displeased with you. The best atonement that can be made for a fault, is a proper confession of it. Be assured, my dears, whatever I say is meant for your benefit. I would see my children happy; but this I am convinced of, that they cannot be so unless they are good. To endeavor to render them so, is the arduous duty of a tender parent: By cautiously guiding the infant heart, and guarding it by precept and examples of pure morality, from every attack of vice, or the influence of ungovernable passions.

A Servant enters.

SERVANT.

Madam, there is a poor infirm old man at the front door, with a beautiful child in his arms, who begs [Page] you will give him a morsel of bread, to save it from starving.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

Order him some refreshment, good Peter, and we will come in presently, and see the dear babe.

Henry and Louisa give money to the servant for the poor man.

Eliza, feeling in her pocket, says aside, Dear, what shall I do? Was ever any thing so unfortunate? I spent the last sixpence mamma gave me, yesterday, in cakes. Foolish girl that I was! It would have purchased, perhaps, a supper for the child of this distressed traveller. (Going up to Mrs. Belville) I will be very good, indeed I will, mamma, if you will let me have that piece of money which my uncle gave you the other day to keep for me.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

What do you want it for, my love?

ELIZA.

For a good purpose, I hope, mamma. Now pray, now pray do, dear mamma, do give it me, I know not what I shall do without it.

[Page]Mrs. BELVILLE.

Tell me, my dear, first for what it is you want this money?

ELIZA.

I would give it, mamma, to the poor man at the door.

SERVANT.

And heaven will bless you for your charity, Miss; he says he has tasted nothing these two days, but a drop of water from a shallow rivulet, and is ready to faint with hunger and fatigue.

ELIZA.

Do pray, dear mamma, give it me, it might restore him—at least purchase a few comforts for him.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

(Kissing and giving her the money.)

Here it is, my love, and a small addition to it. The poor man shall travel no farther for a supper. Tell him to stop, and see, Peter, that there is a bed made up for him in the hay loft, next to that of the groom.

[Exit Servant.

ELIZA.

(Skipping and dancing about with her brother and sister)

Thank you, thank you, dear mamma, how happy I am now!

[Page]Mrs. BELVILLE.

I am glad to see you so cheerful, my dears. I fancy, Eliza, you have almost forgotten the fate of your little favorites.

ELIZA.

I have been thinking how happy the beggar will be; and with what pleasure he will now look on his child, whom we have preserved from perishing. I cannot help rejoicing we had the power to relieve his distress. But my pretty little linnets, which would have sung so sweetly, and have grown up so tame, I am still very sorry for the loss of them. Taking the nest has not made me really cruel, has it, mamma? I am sure, when Peter told us this poor man had not had any thing to eat for two days, my heart ached more, if possible, than when you represented to us the pain we gave the poor hen, when we took away her little unfledged brood.

Mrs. BELVILLE.

Let me embrace you, my good children, May sensations like these never be estranged from your [Page] bosoms, and when fashion or the force of pernicious example would teach you to deviate from the precepts of humanity, or to seek pleasure in the exercise of cruelty, recollect with the occurrences of this day an anxious mother's admonitions and the bird's nest.

CHAP. XIII.

THE following morning, Madame de St. Claire proposed to her daughters, that they should make their accustomed visit to the green house before they began the business of the day; as Henry had set out early to make a little excursion on horseback. In their way thither, Emmiline was struck with the beauty of some auriculas, which the gardener had newly set out upon the grass plat. "What an elegant flower is this!" said she, "I always admire the regularity of [Page] its leaves, and the brightness of its colors. Where did it originally come from, mamma?

MADAME.

The auricula is a native of the Alps, though some persons think it is the produce of France.

CLARA.

Do you not reckon those the finest, mamma, whose stems are the strongest, and where the number of bells which rise on that stem are large, and diffused into a graceful cluster.

MADAME.

We do; and to be perfectly beautiful,* they should not incline too much to the earth. The leaves of each should be very smooth, and their colors of a lively glow. The chives should not shrink to the bottom of the vase, but ought to be disposed around its opening in the form of a little sun. The eye which adorns the bottom of each flower cup should be exactly rounded; unless it happens to be wrought into a perfect sta [...] which is not disagreeable.

EMMILINE.

Mamma, I always forget the name of this [...]ower.

[Page]MADAME.

What, the ranunculus?

EMMILINE.

Yes; how pretty it is! I think you once told me it was brought to us from Tripoli in Syria, several ages ago.

MADAME.

I did so, my love; but let us walk on to the hothouse, which our occupations would not allow us time to visit yesterday.

They were proceeding, when a servant, almost out of breath, came running up to Madame de St. Claire. "Oh! what is the matter?" she exclaimed, alarmed at the terror his countenance betrayed. "You are wanted within, Madam—a flight accident—my young master—his horse has thrown him!—but he is not much hurt, I hope, your good surgeon is with him—do not be alarmed."

Madame de St. Claire was near fainting at this melancholy intelligence, and was supported by Clara and the servant to the apartment where her son lay apparently almost lifeless on [...]opha. Emmiline [Page] was kneeling by him in speechless agony, (for she had run in, the instant the servant had mentioned her brother.) When her mother entered, she fell senseless on the floor, and was conveyed by Agnes to another room. The surgeon was tying up Henry's arm, for he had bled him, when Madame, scarce able to support herself, sat down by him. "Do you think, sir, my dear boy will recover?" "Certainly, Madam," he replied, "the bruises he has received may confine him a short time, but I do not apprehend any danger; I would advise his being put immediately to bed, and kept very quiet, and I request no person except yourself and his nurse may go near him." Emmiline, who at this moment had reentered, exclaimed in the most pathetic accents, "Oh! sir, may I not see my brother? I will be very quiet—I will not speak to him, indeed I will not, if it will do him harm, but I must be with him. My dear Henry would not leave me, were I ill." For [Page] three days that the dear little fellow was confined, this affectionate sister never left him; she had her own bed brought to the side of his, and gave him with her own hand whatever he wanted, scarcely suffering any other to approach him. Clara was also very attentive, and shewed the greatest concern at her brother's indisposition. At the expiration of a week, he was able to set up the whole day, and Clara and Emmiline did all in their power to amuse him; the latter brought into his chamber one evening, her cabinet of shells. "I have thought of a charming entertainment," said the affectionate girl, addressing Madame de St. Claire, "we will look over these curiosities, and you will tell us the names of those we are not acquainted with. Here are some beautiful sea weeds too, which I want to know something about. We will sit all round this table, and look at them separately.

EMMILINI.

[...]ow, mamma, what do you call this [...].

[Page]MADAME.

It is a part of the orewood or grasswreck, the leaves are of a great length, and it is used to lay upon land to fertilize and improve the soil; the ashes of it are also good to make glass with.

CLARA.

Here is a different sort.

MADAME.

That is sea moss. But I am more pleased with the silk sea weed: Here is a beautiful piece of it. The small points which are seen on this kind of weed, are so many little shellfishes, that live on the branches of the plant, to which they stick. Here is another kind, which is called the sea fern. The plants, which are entirely stony, are the coral and the madrepore; the latter has no bark, the former has. Here is a bit of the madrepore, it wears the form of a little tree with its branches studded with several holes.

HENRY.

But, mamma, pray tell us something about coral.

MADAME.

The substance of the coral within, is always of a stony, solid, and [Page] hard nature. The bark or rind of the coral has in it a mixture of tartar and glue. It is a little rough and jagged, but will take a very fine polish. There is also a white coral; but what is called black,* is a sea plant of a very different nature. Coral always grows with its head downward in little caverns at the bottom of the sea, and on the jutting out of rocks.

HENRY.

Oh! do tell us, mamma, what this shell is called, it seems to consist of one entire piece, and is beautified with such strong and lively colors. It is like a little boat, only look at it!

MADAME.

It is called the sailor. You very properly call it a boat, since the fish which inhabits it makes use of it as such; mounting in it to the surface of the water in calm weather, it unfurls a membrane to the wind, which serves him instead of a sail, and extends two arms, [Page] with which, like two oars, its rows its little bark along. When he has a mind to dive, he strikes the sail, collects himself within his shell, and filling the remaining room with water, without any fear of drowning sinks to the bottom.

HENRY.

Here is another curious one, mamma, what can it be? See how many points it has!

CLARA.

I believe, brother, that is the spider shell.

MADAME.

Right, my love, but do not let us overlook this one.

EMMILINE.

Oh! what is it, mamma?

MADAME.

It is the naker of mother of pearl shell, and these little things are the pearls within it.

HENRY.

I thought always pearls were found in the bodies of oysters.

MADAME.

They are sometimes, but those which grow in the body of the animal seem to be nothing else but a kind of grave [...] [...]one, whereas those which grow to the bottom of the [...]ell, are probably [...] warts or [...]crescences, [Page] formed at first by a defluxion or running over of that fine juice, with which the fish first forms▪ and afterwards from time to time enlarges [...] [...]hell; and as this extravasated liquor continues to distill down on these little globules, covering them with a [...] coat of matter, the pearl grows proportionably larger.

It was thus the Little Family amused themselves for a few weeks till Henry's health permitted him again to revisit his favorite walks; in which he was always accompanied by Emmiline. "I never knew" said this charming girl one day to her mamma, "how much I loved my brother, till this accident happened; how happy I am he is recovered." "Nor can I express," replied Madame de St. Claire, "how much your late conduct has endeared you to me, for it has been in every instance superior to your years. Henry, I hope, will ever be sensible of all [Page] a sister has done for him, and reward her tender anxiety by being, when her father and her mother are no more, the friend and the protect [...] of our Emmiline.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Notes

*

Nature Displayed, vol. 1.

↵

*

Nature Displayed.

↵

*

Some specimens of Black Coral are in Sir Ashton Lever's Museum.

↵

§

§

§

[Page]

THE LITTLE FAMILY.

CONTAINING A VARIETY OF MORAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL MATTER. WRITTEN FOR THE AMUSEMENT AND INSTRUCTION OF YOUNG PERSONS.

BY CHARLOTTE SANDERS.

VOL. II.

Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,

To teach the young idea how to shoot,

To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,

To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix

The generous purpose is the glowing breast.

THOMSON.

PRINTED at HAVERHILL, MASSACHUSETTS: BY MOORE & STEBBINS, FOR DAVID WEST, No. 59 CORNHILL, BOSTON.

1799.

[Page]

THE LITTLE FAMILY.

CHAP. I.

ABOUT this time, Madame de St. Claire and her children paid the promised visit to Monsieur de Livré, whom they found in perfect health; and rendered by their benevolence the happiest of mortals.

The cottage had been repaired, and presented to the eye, in lieu of its former desolate appearance, a neat and commodious dwelling. It was furnished in the simplest style, and de Livré had hired [Page] the daughter of a neighboring peasant to keep it in order.

The garden had been enlarged, with many improvements, and the path cleared from brambles, which led to a pleasant eminence beyond it. This winding walk was now planted with rose trees, jessamine, and the sweetest shrubs. At the top Monsieur de Livré had erected a rustic edifice, to which, a few days after their arrival, he conducted his good friends. This spot commanded a beautiful view of the adjacent country. "It is here, my little friends," said he, "that I hope now and then to be favored with your company. You have no doubt made some progress in astronomy since I had the pleasure of seeing you; and will not this be a charming place to pursue your studies in? See what an expanse of horizon there is around us! I had (he added) your improvement and pleasure in view, when I constructed this; I looked forward to your promise of visiting me, and wished to make my solitude [Page] as agreeable as possible to my worthy benefactors. There are too many clouds this evening for us to trace out the different constellations, but the first evening that is more favorable I hope you will accompany me hither."

The children, delighted with the proposal, returned their artless thanks, and waited with impatience the following evening, which proved all they could wish for. The air was serene, and not a cloud perceivable, even to the utmost verge of the horizon.

Struck with the beauty of the situation the preceding day, the children begged to drink tea on the mount, that they might have the pleasure of seeing the sun set from thence. Their wishes were cheerfully complied with; and they watched the decline of that glorious luminary, till the refulgency of its rays seemed lost in the smooth waters of the distant lake.

"How odd it is," said Emmiline, "that the sun should set!" "It does [Page] not really set," replied Henry; "at the moment we cease to see it, it rises to those inhabitants of the earth who live directly opposite to us. See, it is almost out of sight, and presently it will be quite dark; but, mamma, I do not entirely comprehend the cause of day and night."

MADAME.

Then I will endeavor to explain it to you. You have been informed, that the earth turns upon its axis once every twenty four hours. It is this motion which causes a succession of day and night; for, as the sun can enlighten only one half of the earth at one time, the other half must be in darkness; and as this motion of the earth will cause the different places on its surface to revolve through the light and the dark in twenty four hours, in that time, of course, those places must have a day and a night, and at the instant when it is midday at one place, it must be midnight at the opposite. Do you understand this?

[Page]HENRY.

Perfectly, mamma, I now recollect you explained it to us at the time you mentioned the change of the seasons; which we could not enjoy but for the inclination of the earth's axis twenty three degrees and a half from its orbit. Yet this axis always keeps the same position, and is directed towards one and the same side of the heavens, moving from West to East, in the time of its turning three hundred and sixty five times and a quarter. I think I can also account, mamma, for our not seeing the sun always set at the same point of the horizon. Does it not arise from the difference in the length of our days and nights, and the inclination of the earth's axis?

MADAME.

You are very right, my son, and I am much pleased with the attention you pay to these subjects.

"Can either of my little friends," demanded Monsieur de Livré, "inform me what causes this beautiful light we [Page] see after the sun is set, till it is dark night?"

HENRY.

It is the twilight; but, indeed, sir, I am ignorant what occasions it.

MONS. DE LIVRE.

This faint light▪ visible in our atmosphere after sunset, particularly in the West, and which we call twilight, is occasioned partly by the refraction and reflection of the rays of the sun in our atmosphere. By atmosphere is meant the air we breathe, that which surrounds us on all sides. In this atmosphere the sun's rays are so refracted, (that is, broken and dispersed) as to afford us that equal light which we call twilight, till the sun has sunk eighteen degrees below the horizon.

The sun has also an atmosphere: His rays, reflected upon this, produce what is called zodiacal light, which sometimes appears, but particularly towards evening in spring, and in autumn towards the morning. The duration of twilight is generally about two hours. About the first of March and eleventh of October [Page] our twilights are the shortest; when the sun does not descend eighteen degrees below the horizon, the twilight lasts all night. This is the reason that, at the time of the summer solstice, we have scarcely any night; and that there is not any in the more northern parts of Europe, though the sun is below the horizon.

EMMILINE.

But of what use is the twilight?

DE LIVRE.

Should you like it to be dark night immediately as the sun is set? If we had no twilight or atmosphere to reflect the sun's rays, this must be the case. Numerous are the advantages we derive from twilight. A sudden change from light to darkness might be hurtful to our eyes. Surprised by sudden night, many travellers would lose their way, and most birds would be in danger of perishing. The wise Author of nature has prevented all these inconveniences, as by means of twilight we pass gently and gradually from day to night. But [Page] let us observe that beautiful planet towards the East; can you tell me its name, Clara?

CLARA.

I think it is the evening star, which, I believe, is now Jupiter.

DE LIVRE.

Perfectly right; can you give me any description of this planet?

CLARA.

It is the largest in the system, its diameter ninety four thousand English miles; it is a thousand times larger than the earth; is almost twelve years making its revolution round the sun; is distant from it 494,990,976 miles; and turns the swiftest on its axis, completing its diurnal rotation in nine hours and fifty six minutes.

DE LIVRE.

Is there any thing else to be observed, remarkable of this planet?

CLARA.

I do not know, sir; if there be, I should be happy to be informed of every thing relating to it.

EMMILINE.

(Interrupting her)

Dear mamma, what is that long instrument I see you placing yonder?

[Page]MADAME.

It is a telescope, a glass which by bringing objects nearer, enables us to speak of them with greater accuracy. I had it put in the carriage unknown to you, to surprise you here with a pleasure you can have formed no conception of. Look at Jupiter, Henry, through this instrument, and tell me what appearance he has.

HENRY.

Oh! mamma, how beautiful! how large it appears! But it does not in all parts look so clear as when seen with the naked eye; there are across it narrow streaks, that are not so bright as the other parts of its body.

DE LIVRE.

The swiftness of his diurnal motion, drawing the clouds and v [...] pors in his atmosphere over his equatorial parts, occasions these appearances, which are called his belts. But what has Clara discovered?

CLARA.

Oh, sir! I see four beautiful little stars: Three on one side of the planet, and one on the other; are not they called its moons?

[Page]DE LIVRE.

They are; the first or nearest goes round him in one day eighteen hours and twenty eight minutes; the second, in three days thirteen hours and fifteen minutes; the third, in seven days three hours and fifty nine minutes; and the fourth, or farthest from him, in sixteen days eighteen hours and five minutes.

EMMILINE.

Is not Jupiter the planet, mamma, that moves twenty nine thousand and eighty three miles every hour?

MADAME.

It is, my love. But I see another planet more towards the south; let us observe it through the telescope; I believe it is Saturn. Look at it, Henry, and then tell us what you know of it.

HENRY.

(After looking through the telescope)

This is the farthest from us of all the planets, except the Georgium Sidus; though not so large as Jupiter, his diameter is seventy eight thousand English miles. He is thirty years going round the sun, and is eight hundred and ninety six million seven hundred and [Page] five thousand three hundred and one English miles distant from him.* The light, therefore, that he receives from the sun, must be very inconsiderable; but, though deprived in some measure of this, he is enlightened by seven moons; I think I saw two of them just now. The nearest go [...] round him in one day twenty one hours eighteen minutes; the second, in two days seventeen hours and forty one minutes; the third, in three days twelve hours and twenty five minutes; the fourth, in fifteen days twenty two hours and forty one minutes; the fifth, in seventy nine days seven hours and forty eight minutes.

There are two which were discovered by Dr. Herschel, the first of which revolves round him in twenty two hours and forty minutes. The second, in one day eight hours and fifty three minutes. [Page] Beside these satellites, Saturn is encompassed with a ring. The space between this, and the body of Saturn is supposed to be rather more than the breadth of the ring. Can you tell me, sir, the use of this ring?

DE LIVRE.

It probably serves to reflect light upon the planet, from which it is separated at about the distance of its breadth, which is twenty one thousand miles, and to which it appears like a vast luminous arch in the heavens. To a good telescope it evidently shines with a lustre brighter than the planet.

HENRY.

But, mamma, I do not like this planet so well as Jupiter; he is smaller, and shines with a pale, feeble light.

MADAME.

Can you tell me how long he is turning on his axis?

HENRY.

I believe, mamma, he turns on his axis in ten hours and a few minutes; and does he not move at the rate of twenty two thousand one hundred and one miles an hour?

[Page]MADAME.

You are right, my son, he does so

De Livré professed himself greatly pleased with his young friends. "But will you not favor us," said he to them, "with some account of those planets that are not visible to night, Mars, Venus, and Mercury?"

"Permit me to tell you all I know of Mars," said Clara, "though no great favorite of mine, on account of his fiery appearance. His diameter is five thousand four hundred miles. He moves fifty five thousand two hundred and eighty seven miles in an hour; turns on his axis in twenty four hours and forty minutes; and is one year three hundred and twenty one days and seventeen hours making his revolution round the sun. From the dullness of his appearance, he is supposed to have a thick cloudy atmosphere.

MADAME.

And what have you, Henry, to observe of Venus?

[Page]HENRY.

That she is the brightest, and largest to appearance, of all the planets; her diameter is seven thousand six hundred and nine miles; her distance from the sun sixty eight million eight hundred and ninety one thousand four hundred and eighty six English miles. She makes her revolution round him in two hundred and twenty four days six hours and forty one minutes; and moves at the rate of eighty thousand two hundred and ninety five miles per hour. She turns on her axis in twenty four days. How I should like to see her through the telescope! I have heard she exhibits phases, like the moon.

MADAME.

She does so, and the next time she is visible, you shall be convinced of this. Well, Emmiline, what have you to say of Mercury?

EMMILINE.

This planet is so near the sun, mamma, that it is not known whether it turns on an axis or not.

MADAME.

Can you tell me the reason of this?

[Page]EMMILINE.

No, mamma, I have forgotten what you once said to me about it. Will you do me the favor to repeat it, and I will be very attentive?

MADAME.

I have told you, that the diurnal motion of the planets was discovered by the spots upon their surfaces. Those on Mercury, if there are any, are not perceivable, owing to his nearness to the sun. Can you tell me how long he is making a revolution round the sun?

EMMILINE.

It is eighty seven days twenty three hours sixteen minutes going round the sun▪ its distance from it thirty six million eight hundred and forty one thousand four hundred and sixty eight English miles; it moves per hour, one hundred and nine thousand six hundred and ninety nine English miles, and its diameter is three thousand one hundred.

HENRY.

And it is sometimes seen making a transit over the sun's disk, in the form of a black spot.

[Page]DE LIVRE.

Very right, my young friend, Venus has also her transits. But I think we have conversed enough on this subject for the present: At our next visit to this place we will say something of the moon.

CHAP. II.

AT their return to the cottage, Madame de St. Claire was surprised to see standing before the gate seven or eight poor villagers, whose dress and countenance bespoke want and misery. The young peasant, servant to de Livré, was portioning to each an equal share of milk and vegetables. "These are some of my good neighbors," said the old man, "whom I have sought out as proper objects on whom to bestow the surplus of your bounty to me, dear Madam; I believe they are truly deserving. I visit them sometimes, and have seen nothing [Page] as yet, in their conduct or families, to alter my opinion; and, ah! Madam, if the happiness you have restored to me can be increased, it is in those moments when I receive their blessing. They come up every evening, and we contrive always to have some little provision for them. The vegetables are all the produce of my grandson's garden, the labor of his leisure hours; and I believe, were the question put to him, he could not determine which he has the most pleasure in, rearing them for me or them. I instruct their children as often as they will send them to me, in which task Joseph also assists me; and I find him a gainer always by their lessons. Thus I endeavor to make myself useful in that station in which it has pleased Providence toplace me." "Worthy man!" exclaimed Madame, "how well do you deserve the gifts of fortune! You must introduce me to some of your neighbors tomorrow." The children begged they might be permitted to accompany them. [Page] They arose at five in the morning, to get their lessons, and write their exercises; and when Madame came down to breakfast, they were all ready to repeat them, although their excursions were not to commence till the evening; which proving a fine one, they preferred walking. Monsieur de Livré was delighted with their observations by the way, and not less so with their behavior in every cottage they entered. Each added something to what their good mother gave to the poor inhabitants. They had proceeded part of their way to the habitation of de Livré, when they distinguished the sounds of voices, and finding they issued from a dwelling to the left, resolved thither to direct their steps. They were here welcomed by an old woman, whom de Livré had formerly visited; "You seem very joyful this evening, dame," said he. "Oh! sir, we have reason; let me present to you my boy, my dear boy. Our son, whom we thought dead, this morning arrived [Page] from the West-Indies. It was joy enough to see him well! but he says, we shall have no need to work any longer; his services and valor in a late engagement are rewarded with a pension for life." "I rejoice, young man," said de Livré, "at your happy fortune, and more that you have the goodness of heart to share it with those who merit all your attention, and over whose declining years your filial piety will throw the sunshine of renovated felicity." "Oh! sir," exclaimed the enraptured father, "he was always a dutiful child, so attentive to us in all our troubles and our sicknesses, and now Heaven has rewarded him; but, good sir, will you not take some refreshment with us? You who have so often visited and consoled us, by your pious conversation, when we thought this our dear son was no more: Do not refuse now to share our joy at his return." "No, my friends, believe me I participate in all your transports; and if agreeable [Page] to Madame de St. Claire, we will pass an hour or two with you." "Madame de St. Claire!" exclaimed the young man, "may I ask if this lady is related to the Monsieur de St. Claire, whom I left at St. Vincent's, and who is a native of Paris, and left England about two years since in the Neptune?" "The same," replied Madame, I am wife to that worthy man; these are his beloved children; but tell me, how was he when you left him?" "Perfectly well," answered the young seaman, "and he commissioned me to forward this letter to you; but the vessel in which he was, being suddenly put under sail, he gave me the letter, but forgot to direct it. I designed, immediately on my return to France, to make enquiry for your place of residence; but the joy of meeting again my dear parents, pardon me, Madam, had almost made me forget the charge I was entrusted with." Saying this, he gave the packet to Madame. It contained the most satisfactory intelligence, [Page] that in a few months Monsieur de St. Claire hoped the business which had kept him so long from his dear family would be completed. What joyful information for the best of mothers, and her darling children! "Papa, our dear papa, will soon again be with us; in a few months, we shall see him!" was repeated almost every moment for some hours after. In the midst of the universal joy which prevailed throughout the happy party, de Livré could not help observing a dejection which from time to time stole over the sailor's countenance, and a sigh which now and then burst from his bosom, notwithstanding all his efforts to suppress it; the good man, taking him by the hand, thus tenderly addressed him, "The pleasures of the present moment, I fear my friend, are not so perfect as we could wish them; can I any way contribute to your felicity—speak, tell me what I can do?" "Oh, sir," replied the young man, "this goodness is too much. You knew me [Page] before I went abroad, you were informed of my attachment to Louisa, and my father's displeasure at it, because she was poor. Six years absence has not lessened my affection; I am now rich, and able to support her as she deserves. Would you, sir, take upon you to intercede with my father. But perhaps, thinking me dead she is married to another, and should I obtain his consent, she never can be mine!" "Be not uneasy," replied de Livré, "she is not married, I saw her a few days since. I will speak to your father. You will not refuse me any favor to day, good Dupont; I am going to fetch Louisa, and you must give the young people your blessing." "With all my heart," replied the cottager, "I had always an affection for the dear girl; but when we could scarcely support ourselves, it would have been cruel to have suffered her to become a sharer in our poverty. Besides, we knew that, since her poor father's death, she has experienced but too much of it at home." [Page] De Livré then went out to fetch Louisa, who lived within a few doors of the cottage, but it was agreed that young Dupont should conceal himself in an adjoining apartment, lest the surprise should be more than she could support. In a few minutes he returned with his fair charge. "You must partake the general joy of this humble dwelling," he exclaimed, addressing her; "our good friend Dupont has received some agreeable news to day. His son, whom he supposed no more has been heard of; he was well a few weeks since." "Oh! does he live then?" feebly exclaimed Louisa, half fainting in the arms of Madame de St. Claire: "No—no, he does not live for me." Then, as if ashamed of the emotion she had involuntarily betrayed, she made an effort to disengage herself. "Permit me, Madam, to retire; my mind has been a little deranged of late, I know not sometimes what I say." "You must not leave us," said this amiable woman, "I have heard your story; [Page] in our walks the other day we saw you at a distance, I enquired of Monsieur de Livré who you were, and from him received the melancholy account of your sorrows, which now are at an end. Dupont is returned, he is yours, we have received for him a parent's approbation of his choice." Dupont, no longer able to contain his transports, rushed from the inner room, exclaiming, "He lives indeed, and lives for you, Louisa!" "Ah! Dupont," cried the affectionate girl, bursting into tears, "I have mourned long for you. The miserable days and nights that I have passed!—and when I heard you were dead, a fever seized my brain, my mind I fear is hurt—but all will now be well—I will forget it—'tis past—I will throw off this sable dress, and we will once more welcome happiness. I thought of late it was a phantom—but, no no—I was mistaken, it is Dupont." "Poor girl," whispered Madame de St. Claire, "this scene is almost too much for her reason, disordered as it has been by a series [Page] of misfortunes. I think you told me, Monsieur de Livré, her parents wer [...] once people in high rank."

DE LIVRE.

I did so Madam; her father lost all his property in the American war, and fled to Switzerland almost pennyless, where he supported this reverse of fortune for two years; and at his death left a widow and this charming daughter to struggle with all the hardships of penury and labor.

After partaking of a frugal repast, de Livré and Madame de St. Claire took leave of the happy cottagers.

CHAP. III.

TO vary their pleasures as they returned, de Livré proposed conducting them to his habitation by a road they had never passed, and which commanded many beautiful views; now rendered more striking by the varied tints of an autumnal [Page] evening, and the yellow beams of the setting sun, which poured their fading radiance on the summits of the distant mountains, and were lost in the falling waters of the cataracts below.

The children dwelt with rapture on the beauty of the picturesque scenery around them. Emmiline was particularly struck with these lofty summits, whose tops seemed to reach the clouds. "I have been thinking," she cried, of what use mountains are. It surely would be better if the earth were every where even. They make travelling very inconvenient, and we could command a more extensive prospect, were it not for them. For instance, we see not the country to the right, for there the clouds seem almost to make a part of them: The top of one is entirely concealed.

DE LIVRE.

Can you inform us, Henry, from whence the springs flow?

HENRY.

From mountains, I have heard. What a stupid girl was Emmiline to ask the use of them.

[Page]DE LIVRE.

Come, be not so hasty in censuring, my young friend. Tell me what it is that produces the springs you speak of?

Henry looked confused, and knew not what to answer.

I think the young gentleman is a little at a loss, as well as the young lady, which in him is the less excusable. Springs* are produced either by heavy snows, or the clouds which those heights are always covered with; and it is that which keeps up the course of great and small rivers. I need not mention to you the utility of these. Besides the advantages of springs and fountains, for which we are indebted to mountains, they have many others. Several kinds of animals, whose flesh or skins are serviceable to us, find there a dwelling, and it is the mountains that afford them sustenance without our labor. On the sides of mountains are found an infinite number of salutary [Page] herbs and roots, which cannot be cultivated with equal success in the plains, or have not the same virtues; minerals and metals are formed in the bowels of mountains, which would not propagate so well, in low and level countries, for want of necessary moisture. By these we are also sheltered from the bleak blasts of the Northern and Easterly winds, and it is on them the most exquisite vines are fostered. Though some inconveniences may rise from them, these ought not to make us overlook the various blessings they afford us.

Were there no mountains, there would be no rivers, no springs, no lakes, and the sea itself would become a stagnated marsh. Would you rather be deprived of these, Emmiline, or bear with the few inconveniences produced by the mountains?

EMMILINE.

Oh! sir, I shall never again behold a mountain, without enumerating the advantages we derive from it; and I now perceive, that in creation [Page] there is nothing useless; every part demonstrates the power and wisdom of that Being who formed the perfect whole.

The sun had-been long sunk below the horizon, before they reached the direct road to de Livré's abode; and from the adjacent meadows a thick dew began to arise. "Look, mamma," said Clara, "what a thick fog is coming over those fields, it was not so just now; whence does it proceed?"

"What you suppose to be fog," said Monsieur de Livré, "is the rising dew."

EMMILINE.

And what makes the dew? Whence comes it? This grass is also quite wet with it.

DE LIVRE.

Dew is nothing more than the sweat of the plants, and the moisture they draw from the earth. It is easy to conceive how it is formed. The heat of the sun's rays continually loosens a multitude of thin particles from off every thing; some of which rise into the atmosphere, and the rest collect in the form of drops of water. Thus it [Page] is, that the dew is sometimes hurtful and sometimes not; its nature depending on the quality of the vapors which compose it. The lighter exhalations are carried away by the wind as soon as formed, which prevents them from falling in drops. This is the reason, that when the air is calm as it is this evening, there is most dew.

CLARA.

I love a calm evening, but I hate windy weather; I think it would be much pleasanter if there were no winds.

DE LIVRE.

You now speak without thought, my dear. Innumerable are the benefits we derive from the winds:* After long continued seasons of sultry heat, the sea oftentimes very opportunely sends a West wind, which gives a seasonable refreshment to all nature; but as a continuance of this moist wind would prove prejudicial to the inhabitants and fruits of the earth, it is generally ordered by the course of nature, that it should [Page] be driven back by an East wind, which brings us fair and dry weather. Over what countries must this wind blow, master Henry?

HENRY.

I should think, sir, it would wing its way along the continent from Asia to Europe.

DE LIVRE.

Right, my dear. The North wind comes armed with millions of frozen particles of air to precipitate, disperse, or condense, the malignant and unwholesome vapors of autumn; lastly, the sharp edge of the North wind is taken of by that genial warmth which the South wind diffuses through the air, kindling fresh life and vigor in every part of nature. These perpetual vicissitudes serve to vary the dispositions and productions of the earth; they correct or prevent those ill consequences which would result from any one fixed and permanent state of things, and purify the air, by keeping it in constant motion. Without the assistance of winds we should be poisoned in our houses, and [Page] Paris and London would be in a little time no better than two great sinks of corruption.

CLARA.

Thank you, sir, for pointing out to me all these advantages. I had now rather that my bonnet should blow off six times in a minute, than be deprived of the winds, whatever inconvenience I may experience from them.

HENRY.

I wonder, Clara, you do not accustom yourself to reflect before you speak, you have made yourself appear very ignorant by wishing there were no winds.

MADAME.

Are you always wise enough, Henry, to reflect before you speak? If you were, I think it would prevent those sallies of ill nature, which too often escape you on the conduct of those whom you otherwise esteem.

Henry looked ashamed, and walked silently on, till they arrived at the solitary abode. The villagers had received their daily allowance, and the little peasant had prepared the rural supper, which [Page] consisted of all the finest produce of the garden, and a brace of partridges, which the grandson of de Livré had shot in the morning. As a recompence for their good behavior, the children were that night permitted to sit up an hour longer than usual, and to partake of what the table afforded. Each ate of the partridges except Emmiline. "Why do you refuse, my love?" said her mother, as it was offered her.

"Because, mamma, I saw some little birds in the orchard this morning, and I fear these are the same. Joseph said he would shoot them. Poor things! when I think how cheerfully they ran before me, apparently so happy, (for I did not go near enough to frighten them) I cannot relish them, indeed I cannot.

DE LIVRE.

You think then it was cruel of my boy to shoot them?

EMMILINE.

And was it not? Mamma said it was cruel to take a bird's nest, in which there were young ones.

[Page]DE LIVRE.

It is so, my dear; it is cruel to torture any thing unnecessarily, especially for our pleasures; but these are among the race of animals allotted for our subsistence; it is therefore not cruel to kill them for our use, provided we take the least painful and expeditious means to accomplish it. You will now eat a bit, will you not?

Emmiline at length consented, and cheerfulness and uninterrupted good humor prevailed throughout the happy party.

CHAP. IV.

THE next morning it raining very hard, the children could not make their accustomed excursions; and Clara was exceedingly out of humor. "How provoking, mamma!" she exclaimed, after the first salutations of the morning; "we shall be confined all day, and there [Page] is no instrument here for one to pass away a little time with music; I wish we were at the Chateau, were it not for losing the company of Monsieur de Livré.

HENRY.

And if you were at the Chateau, you would wish yourself at Paris; how often have you done so, Clara!

MADAME.

You acknowledge you should regret the loss of de Livré's company; cannot his society then make one day pass agreeably? I am extremely sorry, Clara, that you are of such a discontented disposition. However happy we may be, it is impossible to have always all our wishes accomplished; but it is the height of folly to fret or make ourselves uneasy, because the weather prevents our enjoying those pleasures abroad, which, perhaps, we had set our minds upon. I am ashamed to see you out of humor for such a trifle. Had you not given me cause to be displeased with you, I believe I could have found some subject of entertainment for you [Page] all notwithstanding the unfavorableness of the weather.

HENRY.

Oh! do not, mamma, let us be deprived of it, on account of Clara's ill humor.

EMMILINE.

Forgive Clara, mamma, and tell us some pretty story, (taking her by the hand, and leading her towards Madame de St. Claire) be friends with my sister, mamma; she is very sorry for having displeased you.

MADAME.

Clara, I am concerned to observe, has a fretfulness of disposition, which, if not corrected, will be a continual source of uneasiness to herself, and will increase as she grows older. When every thing meets her wishes, she is agreeable and good humored; but her temper cannot bear disappointment, or the least opposition to her will. The least trifle discomposes her, as the present moment may evince. You see her sullen and in tears, because she cannot go out. The rain prevents this, and she can turn her thoughts to no other [Page] resource to fill up her time, though the education she has received might afford her many. It is not only herself that she renders uncomfortable by these humors, but others who have the misfortune to be in her company. For instance, when Monsieur de Livré returns from his walk, will he not conclude that she is tired of the visit, and dissatisfied, although he has done so much to make it agreeable to us all. Indeed, this behavior must have to him the appearance of disrespect and ingratitude.

CLARA.

(Throwing her arms round her mother's neck)

Oh! mamma, I would not for the world he should think thus of me! I will not give way to ill humor, indeed I will not.

Madame tenderly embraced her, and in a few minutes cheerfulness and satisfaction were restored throughout the Little Family; to whom, after the business of the day should be performed, she promised a species of amusement entirely new.

[Page] Clara, anxious to regain he mother's good opinion, was very assiduous in learning her lessons; and, indeed, her brother and sister were not less attentive. When the occupations of the morning were finished, Madame de St. Claire produced a small box. "Oh! Mamma," exclaimed Emmiline, skipping up to her "what have you got there?"

MADAME.

This is called a microscope, that is, a glass by which we view objects scarcely perceivable to the naked eye; insects, or the different parts of plants. Magnified in this, they present to us a thousand wonders, a thousand beauties. Before we left the Chateau, there being no instrument here, I thought this might prove a source of entertainment for a wet day; and indeed I know of none more pleasing. Tell me what you see, Henry, in this glass?

HENRY.

(After having looked at it)

Dear mamma, what can this be? Such a number of beautiful feathers! It must surely be the wing of some beautiful little [Page] bird. Look, Clara! look, Emmiline, what a variety of colors!

MADAME.

What you imagine the wing of a bird, is no other than that of a butterfly.

EMMILINE.

Of a butterfly! But, mamma, a butterfly has not feathers. Here is a dead one which we picked up in the garden yesterday, I see no feathers, its wings are covered with a fine dust.

MADAME.

And it is that dust or powder, which is a cluster of small feathers; they have the form of a quill at one end, and at the other are adorned with fringe. The extremity of one covers the beginning of another. See in what order they are arranged, but let us wipe off the powder. The wing that remains is only a fine transparent film, where you may see the sockets, in which the quill of each feather was sunk. Here is upon this glass the wing of a butterfly with the [Page] feathers rubbed off: in the microscope you may see every socket distinctly.*

HENRY.

How beautiful! how wonderful: mamma; but what is this upon the same glass?

MADAME.

It is the trunk of a bee. With the assistance of this, the bee can collect more honey in a day than an hundred chemists could extract in an hundred years. This trunk is formed long and taper, as well as pliant and flexible, that the infect may be enabled to probe it to the bottom of flowers, through all the impediments of their foliage; but as it would be incommodious to have this trunk always extended▪ is [...] composed of two parts, connected by a joint or spring, so as to be contracted or folded up at pleasure: and it is fortified from all injuries by four scales, two of which closely sheath it, and the two others encompass the whole.

HENRY.

How smooth, how even, are all the parts of it, how superior to [Page] the nicest piece of mechanism that the ingenuity of man could produce! Here is the whole head of a bee. I see the jaws, and the socket of the trunk, and the former look like saws. What can be the use of them?

MADAME.

These serve them instead of hands; with these they hold and knead the wax, and throw away every thing that incommodes them. But here is something which has escaped your observation. Look at these three apparent little darts, and tell me what you think of them.

CLARA.

How beautiful, mamma! the middle one looks like a fine polished needle. Is not this the sting?

MADAME.

It is, and consists of three parts, the sheath and two darts, the sheath tapers into a very fine point; the darts are launched through an aperture, and are planted with small sharp points; the scabbard is likewise finely pointed and makes the first penetration, which is succeeded by the injection of the darts and [Page] poisonous liquor. The liquor infused into the wound causes a fermentation, attended with a swelling, which continues several days, but may be prevented by immediately pulling out the sting.

Madame de St. Claire then shewed them several other insects, and desired Agnes would fetch a glass of vinegar, in which she asked them if they observed any thing?

"No, mamma," replied Henry, "there is no bee, no insect here, I am sure."

MADAME.

To be certain of this, let us view it in the microscope. (They look at it) Now tell me what you observe.

CLARA.

Oh! mamma, an innumerable quantity of little things like eels, I could not have supposed there had been any living thing in this liquor.

MADAME.

There are insects even in a drop of water; all nature is full of life, and how pleasing it is to contemplate the wonders it presents to us! Its treasures and its beauties are alike inexhaustible, [Page] and the study of them can never tire us. Such is the variety throughout creation, that not two blades of grass can be found, which exactly resemble each other. Does it rain, Clara?

CLARA.

Indeed, mamma, I do not know; I have not thought of the weather since you produced the microscope, nor do I wish it now to be fair, so entertaining is what you have shewn us.

MADAME.

You see then, it is possible to be so employed as that the weather may not be of any consequence to us.

EMMILINE.

(Observing Madame de St. Claire putting up the microscope.)

But, mamma, shall we not see any more curious things today?

MADAME.

No, my love; if we would enjoy our pleasures, we should be frugal of them. Were we to devote more time today to this amusement, its charm of pleasing might be diminished; at another time we shall be glad of its assistance to pass a few hours agreeably at home. Besides, the weather is now clearing up, [Page] and as Henry has not had any exercise today, I could wish him to take a walk with Joseph, who is going to the village to get something for Monsieur de Livré.

CLARA and EMMILINE.

May we not go too, mamma?

MADAME.

No, it is too damp for you to walk so far; we will amuse ourselves with our good friend in the garden till their return.

CHAP. V.

HENRY and Joseph set out on their little excursion. They had not proceeded more than a mile and a half, before, on the top of a hill, they met a young waggoner who stopped to rest his horses. "Are you not very tired?" said Henry to him; "it has been a sad wet day for you, and you seem to have walked a long way." "Only twenty miles, sir, that is [Page] not so very far; but the roads are dirty, which helps to tire one."

HENRY.

But why do you walk at all at the side of a waggon? If I were you I would choose some other employment.

BOY.

And what could I fix on better? My master pays me regularly, I am strong and hearty, and he is always satisfied with my diligence. It is true, I am a little fatigued sometimes in the hot days of summer; but in the evening, when I receive my wages, and purchase with them necessaries for my poor mother, I no longer feel tired; I make her a fire, fetch her milk and boil it; and then I think not of the miles I have travelled on foot, but what I can do to make her comfortable.

JOSEPH.

But is not your mother able to do these things for herself?

BOY.

Alas! no. She had a terrible fall in the hard frost last winter, and has been so lame ever since as scarcely to be able to move from her chair. My little sister is very good; she does what she [Page] can for her; but she is only seven years old, and mother will not trust her to make a fire. But young gentlemen, my horses have had rest enough, and we must be getting homeward.

HENRY.

How far have you to go?

BOY.

Only two miles, and then we are at home: Do you see a little spire in yonder valley? My master's house is very near it, and about half a mile to the left is mother's cottage.

JOSEPH.

You have then no father?

BOY.

Ah! no, sir, he died when I was very young; he was an honest industrious man; mother tells me every day how hard he used to work to support us. I wish I had known more of him; I remember as I used to set on my little stool beside him, when he returned in the evening from the fields, and we made a circle around the cheerful hearth, that he would take my hand between his, bidding me be a good boy, and then I should never want a friend.

[Page]HENRY.

That I am sure you will not, if you are as good as you appear to be. I wish we could go a little way with you, but, unfortunately, our business lies a contrary way. Accept this trifle. (Offering him money.)

JOSEPH.

And this, to get you some refreshment, and purchase something for your mother.

BOY.

Excuse me, indeed I cannot accept your generous present. My mother knows exactly how much I receive of my master, and were I to bring home more, she would think I came unjustly by it. She is so good, so honest!

HENRY.

But if you say we gave it you?

BOY.

I fear she would doubt my word. I have travelled the same road daily more than two years, and never till this evening met with any one who thought me worth notice. I remember one day, more than a twelvemonth ago it is, as I was leading my horses down this hill in a very frosty season, being suddenly [Page] overtaken by two gentlemen in a curricle, I endeavored to turn out of the way a little for them, for they were driving at a furious rate, when my foot slipped, and I fell upon a large piece of ice. Unable to rise for some minutes, being stunned with the fall, they swore dreadfully at me, whipt the horses, and set them off full speed, leaving me in that senseless situation.

HENRY.

I wish we had been here, you should not have laid so long. But if we bring the money to your house, and there give it you before your mother?

BOY.

Indeed you are too good, to think of such a poor boy. But if you are determined to seek out our lonely hut, you must give to her that bounty you intended for me; I have health and can bear fatigue; but I often think she stands in need of more than I can earn by my hardest labor; and the charity for which I thank you would be well bestowed.

[Page] Saying this, the lad wished them a good night, and proceeded to the valley. Henry and Joseph hastened to complete the commission they were intrusted with by Monsieur de Livré, resolving to visit the young waggoner and his mother that evening; and soon after sunset they found themselves in the direct road to their dwelling. As they approached it, Henry exclaimed, "Mamma, I think—I hope, will not be displeased with us for lengthening our walk. If we make haste, we shall get back before it is quite dark."

JOSEPH.

Since the motive of our visit is to be of service if we can, I am sure neither Madame de St. Claire, nor Monsieur de Livré, will be displeased with us.

But do you see that hovel yonder? That must be their dwelling, from the boy's description.

It was so. The door half open presented to them the most pleasing scene of rural felicity. They saw the young waggoner in a corner of the chimney [Page] breaking some faggots; the girl his sister was adding one of them to the little pile, and as they entered they heard her exclaim, "Look, Billy, what a nice blaze I have made! Mamma's milk will soon boil now!" In an old wicker arm chair on the opposite side sat the good matron; she had been knitting, but her thoughts seemed then wholly engrossed with these affectionate children, for it was thrown carelessly on a bench beside her. "Pardon, good woman, this intrusion," cried Joseph, "we met your son in our walk this evening, who refused a trifle to procure him some refreshment, which he stood so much in need of; and we thought, that if we visited him in your presence he could not hesitate to accept it." (Putting the money into his hand.)

BOY.

Oh! my dear mother, since these generous young gentlemen will have it so, accept their present.

"No," interrupted Henry, "this is for yourself only." Then approaching the cottager, "Your son has informed [Page] us of your lameness; for his sake receive this purse, and get advice for it. You must, you must indeed oblige us."

The good woman, astonished, looked first at the children, then at the purse, and at length exclaimed, "Is it possible, there can be such generosity in youth? Amiable children! Receive our sincerest thanks, but take again your bounty; it is a sum too considerable to be given unknown to your parents, if you have any; and I hope you have, for sure you must be their greatest blessing. Thank Heaven, my lameness is something better, and the industry of Billy and Peggy furnishes me with all I want."—It was in vain Henry and Joseph urged her to accept the purse; she would not hear of it.

Night came on, and they were obliged to take leave of the honest family; but before their departure, Henry, as he kissed the little girl, slily slipped the purse into her bosom: And was out of sight in a moment. They arrived at [Page] the cottage just as de Livré and Madame were sitting down to supper. The history of the young waggoner furnished matter of conversation till bedtime; but Henry did not mention having left the purse, for whatever he gave was not from motives of ostentation, but real benevolence.

CHAP. VI.

WHEN the family were to assemble for breakfast the ensuing morning, Madame de St. Claire was surprised to see the other children enter the room without Emmiline. On enquiry where she was, Clara replied, "My sister is in the little room that looks into the garden, at work. I asked her what she was doing, but she would not tell me. I will go up again and beg of her to come down." In a few minutes they returned together. "What have you been doing, my [Page] love?" said her mother, "You are not usually so long learning your lessons."

EMMILINE.

I have been looking a little at them, mamma, but not all the time, for I rose at six o'clock.

MADAME.

Well, are we to have no account of your employments from that time?

EMMILINE.

If you desire it, mamma; but—

MADAME.

Why that but, Emmiline? You know I am your friend, and that I love to be consulted as such in all you do.

EMMILINE.

Yes, my dear mamma; but what I was about is not finished, when I had completed it, I meant to ask you if it would do.

MADAME.

If what would do—what is it?

EMMILINE.

(Hesitating)

It is—it is—to be, mamma—a frock, for the little girl whom my brother saw last night.

MADAME.

A frock, and where did you get the materials to make it?

[Page]EMMILINE.

Agnes gave me a piece of colored calico she had by her, and was so good as to cut it out for me. I thought then I could make it, and surprise you; for I knew you would not be displeased with me for doing something for this poor child.

MADAME.

Certainly not. When the frock is finished, we will take a walk and visit the good people; but you must permit Clara to assist you; otherwise we shall not have the pleasure of seeing them today; and on this occasion, I will dispense with your lessons.

HENRY.

And may I not take the waggoner a suit of my clothes, mamma?

MADAME.

I fear they will not fit him, he must be much taller than you are.

HENRY.

Oh! I had forgot that, so he is; but then what can I take him?

MADAME.

We will contrive to give him something that may be useful; we shall have sufficient leisure to think of it between this and the evening, in the mean time, while your sisters work, you [Page] may amuse them by reading aloud the book I made you a present of yesterday.

Clara and Emmiline were so industrious that by the afternoon the frock was completed. They then set out for the valley, accompanied by Madame de St. Claire and de Livré. By the children's direction, they soon arrived at the waggoner's abode, whose mother received them with surprise and gratitude. Madame conversed with the good woman respecting her lameness, and promised to send her a strengthening plaister, of which she knew the efficacy. No sooner did the worthy cottager understand that the persons with whom she was conversing so familiarly, were the parents of those generous children who had visited her son the preceding evening, than she attempted to return the purse. Monsieur de Livré received it; but it was only that he might add something to Henry's bounty. "It is yours," said Madame, returning it after having (as she imagined) unperceived slipped in a [Page] small piece of paper. "You have an honest and industrious son. Accept this for him—for your daughter, if you will not for yourself." Observing the paper to be a bank note, "Oh heavens!" cried the poor woman, "this for my children?" Then, while the tears of heartfelt gratitude bedewed her venerable cheeks, she thus continued: "May the hand of Providence shower on you its choicest blessings; may you experience every pleasure, every comfort! Would you could form some idea of that you have this day given to a widow's heart! My children, honest, amiable, industrious, but ignorant, will now receive the advantages of education: Your generosity has enabled me to procure it for them, and made me the happiest of mothers."

During this scene, Emmiline and her sister had retired to a corner of the apartment, and were busily employed in putting on the frock they had made. The little girl, who had never seen herself so [Page] nicely dressed before, had scarcely patience till the last string could be tied, when running up to her mother. "Look! look! mamma, what a fine frock! and these ladies say I am to keep it; they have made it for me. Oh! I wish Billy was at home to see how smart I am, and to thank them for all their goodness to us. See, mamma, they have brought also this bundle of things for him."

Henry and Joseph were not less sorry that the waggoner was absent; for they wished to have seen him again, but he never returned till late in the evening. However, at taking leave, they promised to repeat their visit before they left that part of the country.

The sun was setting as they returned, and the young people did not fail to remind their friend of the pleasures of the mount. "What a charming evening," they exclaimed, "will this be, for a contemplation of the stars!"

[Page] "Also for the moon," replied de Livré, "whose nature and revolutions you have promised us some account of. It is at the full this evening, and you will be greatly pleased with its appearance through the telescope."

They no sooner found themselves at home, than they hastened to the favorite spot, accompanied by Madame de St. Claire and de Livré.

The moon was just arisen. "It is your turn," said the latter to Henry, "to entertain us with a description of this luminary; but first, we will take a view of it through the glass.

HENRY.

(Looking at it through the telescope)

Oh! mamma what a size! and then so different in its appearance. I see here darker and lighter spots in it.

DE LIVRE.

The bright spots are probably high mountains, which reflect the light of the sun from their tops.* The darker spots were formerly imagined to [Page] be seas, but now are found to be only darker places of the land, for we see they are full of pits and valleys; but if they were seas, they would have even and smooth surfaces. Dr. Herschel has discovered volcanos or burning mountains in the moon. Three of these he observed in different places of the dark parts of the planet; two of them appeared nearly extinguished, or probably going to break out; the third was an actual eruption of fire or luminous matter; this observation was made on the 20th of April, 1787.

HENRY.

How wonderful! I should like to have seen these volcanos. Can you inform us if the moon has any atmosphere. I have somewhere read or heard that she has not.

DE LIVRE.

That the moon is surrounded by an atmosphere is rendered probable by many observations of the solar eclipses, in which the edge or limb of the sun was observed to tremble just before the beginning. The planets are [Page] likewise observed to change their figure from round to oval, just before the beginning of an occultation behind the moon, which can be attributed to no other cause than that their light is refracted by being seen through the moon's atmosphere.

HENRY.

I beg pardon, sir, for interrupting you, but what is meant by occultation?

DE LIVRE.

A planet is said to make an occultation when it passes behind another. Now let us hear what farther account you can give us of this planet, while your sisters amuse themselves with the telescope.

HENRY.

The moon is a round opaque body, which borrows light as well as the other planets from the sun. She is the satellite and inseparable companion of the earth, and appears, from her nearness to us, to be the largest in the system. Her diameter is two thousand one hundred and eighty miles; her distance from the earth two hundred and [Page] forty thousand. She turns on her axis in twenty seven days seven hours and forty three minutes, and moves at the rate of two thousand two hundred and ninety nine miles per hour.

Her periodical revolution of going round her orbit she performs in twenty seven days seven hours and forty three minutes; her synodical, from the time of new moon to new moon, in twenty nine days twelve hours forty four minutes and three seconds.

DE LIVRE.

You speak a little learnedly, my young friend. Pray, can you tell me what occasions the difference between the synodical and periodical revolution?

HENRY.

I believe it is caused by the revolution of the earth round the sun, and the apparent motion of the sun in the ecliptic.

DE LIVRE.

Yes, and thus it is that the moon takes up a longer time to pass from one conjunction to the next,* than to describe the whole orbit; or the time [Page] between one new moon and the next is longer than the moon's periodical revolution. If the sun had no apparent motion in the ecliptic, the moon would come up to it, or be in conjunction again after it had gone round in its orbit; but as the sun moves forward in the ecliptic while the moon is going round, the moon must move a little more than once round before it can come even with the sun, or be in conjunction. Do you comprehend this?

HENRY.

Perfectly, sir.

EMMILINE.

My brother has told us that the moon is round, but how happens it then, that we sometimes see her what we call three quarters old, and sometimes no more than a thin bright crescent?

HENRY.

I think I can account for this. As she shines with light entirely borrowed from the sun, and reflected by her surface, it follows that, according to the position of the beholder with respect to the illuminated part, he will see more [Page] or less of her reflected beams; for only one half of a globe can be enlightened at once; and the different appearances she bears are called her phases; but Monsieur de Livré can no doubt explain it better to you.

DE LIVRE.

When she is in conjunction, that is, between the sun and us, her illuminated side is then all turned towards him, and her dark to the earth, consequently she is then invisible. This is called new moon or conjunction. But when she goes back towards the east, and retires from under the sun, a small part of the illuminated side is visible, and the horns of the crescent are turned towards the east. At the end of seven days, when she has reached a quarter of her course round the earth, she discovers more and more of the illuminated side, till she shews us half of it. Her light part is then turned towards the sun, and the dark part casts no light on us. Exactly half the moon is then enlightened, and we call this the first quarter. At [Page] the end of seven days, reckoning from the first quarter, it is almost directly opposite to the sun, and its whole enlightened disk presents itself to us, rising in the east at the time the sun sets in the west, and we have then a full moon. The more she goes forward, the more the dark side increases, till at last half the dark side is turned towards the earth, and consequently half the light side. It has then the form of half circle, and is what we call the last quarter. These different appearances are a demonstration that she shines with reflected light; for did she shine with her own, we should always see her round like the sun.

But it is late, the wind blows cool, and he had better return to the house.

"When shall we come here again?" eagerly demanded the children.

"Oh! very soon," replied Madame de St. Claire; "I suppose Emmiline has many questions to ask about her favorite planet."

[Page]EMMILINE.

Oh! yes, mamma, a great many; and I could listen to the observations of our good friend, I am sure, for a whole day without being tired; I will write down what has been said this evening, that I may not forget it.

They had not got many yards from the mount, when Henry, stopping suddenly, thus addressed Monsieur de Livré: "Oh, sir, our long conversation on the moon has almost made me forget to ask you to favor us with some account of the Georgium Sidus. Will you be so obliging, as we walk towards home?

DE LIVRE.

Certainly, I cannot refuse any thing to such attentive young people. The Georgium Sidus was discoved by Dr. Herschel in the year 1781; for this discovery he obtained from the Royal Society the honorary recompence of Sir Godfrey Copley's Medal. He named the planet in honor of his Majesty, who has granted him an annual salary. This is the farthest planet in the system, [Page] its year is supposed to be more than 83 siderial years.

CLARA

Pray what is meant by a siderial year?

DE LIVRE.

It is the time the sun is going from one fixed star till he returns to it again, and is twenty minutes seventeen seconds and a half longer than the true solar year.

HENRY.

Is not the Georgium Sidus a very large planet?

DE LIVRE.

Its diameter is thirty four thousand two hundred and seventeen miles. In bulk it is eighty two times as large as the earth.

EMMILINE.

What a prodigious size! And its brightness, is it equal to that of Venus?

DE LIVRE.

Its light is of a blueish white color, and its brilliancy between that of the Moon and Venus.

HENRY.

Was this planet never seen till the time of Dr. Herschel?

DE LIVRE.

There are many reasons for supposing it had been seen before, but [Page] had then been considered as a fixed star. Dr. Herschel's attention was first engaged by the steadiness of its light: This induced him to apply higher magnifying powers to his telescope; with these he observed it change its place; he then concluded it was a comet; but in a little time he determined that it was a planet, from its vicinity to the ecliptic; the direction of its motion being stationary in the time, and in such circumstances as correspond with similar appearances in the other planets. When the moon is absent, it may be seen with the naked eye. It has two satellites, which were discovered by Dr. Herschel on the 11th of January, 1787. Thus, my little friends, we can perceive no bounds to the universe* The objects we commonly call great, vanish, when we contemplate the vast body of the earth. The terraqueous globe itself is lost in the solar system. The sun itself dwindles into a star; Saturn's vast orbit, and all the orbits [Page] of the comets, crowd into a point, when viewed from numberless places between the earth and the nearest fixed stars. Other suns kindle to illuminate other systems, where our sun's rays are unperceived; but they also are swallowed up in the vast expanse; and when we have risen so high as to leave all definite measure far behind us, we find ourselves nothing the nearer to a term or limit. Our views of nature, however imperfect, exhibit to us in a most sensible manner, that mighty power which prevails throughout, and proves that all things are ordered by Infinite Wisdom and perfect goodness. The contemplation of such scenes should excite and animate us to correspond with the general harmony of nature.

[Page]

CHAP. VII.

CLARA and Emmiline slept longer than usual the following morning, and, when they entered the breakfast parlor, were surprised to see their mamma and Agnes very busy at work.

"What are you making, my dear mamma?" said Emmiline, "how pretty this is."

MADAME.

Does it become little folk to be inquisitive?

EMMILINE.

No, mamma, I would not be inquisitive, only I should like to know why you are so busy.

CLARA.

Cannot we assist you?

MADAME.

No, my dear; but as I know how painful curiosity is at your age, I will tell you what we are about.

"Will you, dear mamma?" interrupted Emmiline, dancing about; "how good you are!"

[Page]MADAME.

Well, then, Dupont and Louisa are to be married to day. I have a mind to present the amiable girl with a new dress, and we arose early to finish it.

CLARA.

Oh, dear! how I should like to see her in it! May we not go and make them a visit, mamma?

MADAME.

There is no occasion for that, they will be here in a few hours. There is to be a little entertainment. De Livré, is going to give a dinner and a dance to such of his neighbors who can get here, for you know they all live at some distance; but those whose health will not permit them to come so far, will have every thing sent them that is good.

EMMILINE.

A dinner—a dance! Clara and we had not the least idea of it. Why did you not tell us of it before, mamma?

MADAME.

Because you would have thought too much about it, and have been inattentive to your business; as [Page] you could not assist in the preparations, it was not necessary to inform you about them, and I kn [...]w that an agreeable surprise, instead of lessening, would increase the pleasures of the day.

Agnes, as soon as the dress was completed, (which consisted of a worked muslin gown and petticoat) went to present it to the bride; who, on her return from church, accompanied by Dupont, his family, and a number of villagers, visited de Livré's hospitable dwelling. The old man welcomed them with tears of joy; Madame de St. Claire affectionately congratulated the happy couple, and when all were seated, under pretence of asking his opinion on some improvements de Livré had made, she took Dupont into an adjoining apartment, and putting into his hand a small sealed packet, thus addressed him: "You once, with a paper similar to this in form, made me happy beyond description. I would now contribute to your felicity, by doing for the loveliest of women, [Page] what a parent would have done, had he lived to have seen her yours. Louisa had once a fortune. Take this little marriage portion: Would that I were able to make it equal to that which her birth intitled her to expect; yet, trifle as it is, you must not refuse to accept it—accept it as a proof of my esteem for you both. I request you will keep it a secret from all but your wife. Come, let us return to the company. I will have no kneeling—no tears today, (Observing how much her kindness had affected him) May you experience every joy, every satisfaction this world can afford."

The day of Dupont and Louisa's nuptials was, perhaps, one of the pleasantest Madame de St. Claire had ever passed with her good friend. Surrounded by so many, to whom their liberality had renewed the prospect of happiness, they could not but partake the general rapture it had excited.

[Page] The following evening being tempestuous, the children were content to remain at home, and talk over the festive scenes of the preceding day. The next proving [...]ine, they accompanied de Livré and Madame to the mount. "Will you permit me, sir," said Clara, as soon as they arrived there, "to ask you a question?"

DE LIVRE.

Certainly, my love.

CLARA.

We have heard in our last discourse on the subject, that the moon goes round the earth; consequently, the latter must sometimes be directly between the sun and her; I should think that it would stop the sun's light from going to the moon.

DE LIVRE.

It does, and then the moon is eclipsed; and sometimes the moon comes directly between the earth and the sun, at the time of her change, and then we say the sun is eclipsed. But you are too young at present to have a further explanation of this subject.

[Page]HENRY.

Well then, next year, when we come to visit you, we shall be a year older, and, I hope, able to comprehend all you say.

EMMILINE.

I think that by those dark spots on the moon which we saw so plainly in the telescope, its diurnal rotation might be ascertained; for mamma has told us, that there are spots upon the surfaces of almost all the planets; by which the time of their turning on their axis has been known, and by this also the length of her days and nights: May it not, sir?

DE LIVRE.

You are perfectly right. She turns on her axis in the time that she goes round her orbit; and this we know by her keeping always the same side towards the earth.

CLARA.

Then she can have only one day and one night, between change and change, that is, in twenty nine days eleven hours forty four minutes and three seconds.

[Page]EMMILINE.

I wonder if her axis is inclined like that of the earth?

DE LIVRE.

No. It is perpendicular to the ecliptic or earth's orbit, and nearly so to her own, being inclined only two degrees ten minutes to her orbit. Therefore, her days and nights must be equally long, and she can have no variety of seasons; for you know this difference is occasioned by the inclination of the earth's axis.

"But," interrupted Henry, "the moon goes round the earth every month; and as the earth goes round the sun in a year, the moon must do so to."

DE LIVRE.

Undoubtedly.

HENRY.

The earth moves every hour in its orbit sixty eight thousand miles. How happens it that it does not fly off, and leave the moon behind?

DE LIVRE.

You know the moon is attracted by the earth, and that however fast it moves, the moon must accompany it; for instance, if you whirl a cup and ball round your head, whether you [Page] stand still or whether you walk, the tendency of the ball to fly off, and the force with which you hold the string to confine the ball in its orbit, will be the same in one case as the other, and may serve to shew that the moon's centrifugal force or tendency to fly out of her orbit is equal to the earth's attraction, and therefore retains her in her orbit;* for if her centrifugal force were greater than the earth's attraction she would fly out of her orbit and abandon the earth; and if her centrifugal force were less than the power by which the earth attracts her, she would come nearer and nearer the earth in every revolution, and would fall on it at last.

But what engages Emmiline's attention so much? She seems fixed to the telescope.

EMMILINE.

Oh! sir, I see something on one side of the moon that has the appearance of an honeycomb; what can it be?

[Page]DE LIVRE.

Though the moon keeps nearly always the same side towards us, she now and then shews us a little of the other, sometimes more, sometimes less, which is only perceivable through a telescope, as if her body librated to and fro. This phoenomenon is called the moon's libration,

Can either of you inform me what is a common lunar month, or lunation?

CLARA.

It is the time that passes between any new moon and the next that follows. This is called also a synodical month, and contains twenty nine days forty four minutes and three seconds. A periodical month is the time she performs one entire revolution round the earth, from any point in the zodiac to the same again, and contains twenty seven days seven hours and forty three minutes, as my brother informed us the other evening.

DE LIVRE.

Very well. Can you now tell me what that point of the moon's [Page] orbit is called, in which she is nearest to the earth?

CLARA.

Her perigee, and that in which she is farthest off her apogee. These points are called her apsides; the apogee the higher, the perigee the lower apsis.

DE LIVRE.

Very well answered; and can you inform me, Henry, what is meant by the moon's nodes?

HENRY.

Are they not those two points in which her orbit cuts that of the ecliptic? And do they not make an entire revolution about it in nineteen years?

DE LIVRE.

In nearly as much, each node returns to the point of the ecliptic from which it receded.

EMMILINE.

But, is it true that the moon and all the planets are inhabited like the earth?

DE LIVRE.

It is not to be doubted but they are; and millions of them which can never be seen by us, which are all inhabited by human beings capable [Page] of adoring the Great Creator of all things.

EMMILINE.

I should like to know how the earth appears to the inhabitants of the moon.

DE LIVRE.

We are a moon to them; for as the moon appears to us, so we appear to the lunarians, only thirteen times larger.

"I wonder," cried Emmiline, "if the lunarians see that beautiful star; Pray, sir, tell us what it is called?

DE LIVRE.

The star you admire is Syrius, you will find it on the globe in the constellation Canis Major. It is the nearest to us of all the fixed stars, yet its distance is not less than two thousand million of miles. A sound could not arrive from thence in less than three hundred years!

HENRY.

Is it not called dog days when this star is visible?

DE LIVRE.

No, my good boy, in that you are a little mistaken. The time of the dog days is when this star is not visible [Page] for about a month, he is so near the sun as to be absorbed in his rays; these days do not begin in reality till the end of August, and terminate towards the twentieth of September.

HENRY.

What variety there is in the size of the stars!

MADAME.

Yes, my dear, the stars are divided into seven classes or magnitudes. Those of the first magnitude are the largest, and those of the seventh are only discernable through a telescope, they are therefore called Telescopical Stars.

HENRY.

Are there not beside the stars which we now see, others called comets; pray what are they?

DE LIVRE.

The astronomy of comets is very imperfect, for little can be known with certainty where little can be seen. It is, however, generally supposed, that they are planetary bodies, making part of our system, revolving round the sun in extremely long ecliptic curves. They are very numerous, four hundred and [Page] fifty are supposed to belong to our system.

EMMILINE.

Have not the comets a very long tail?

DE LIVRE.

When a comet arrives at a certain distance from the sun, an exhalation arises from it, which is called the tail. The tail of the comet seen in the year one thousand six hundred and eighty was of a prodigious size, extending from the head to a distance scarcely inferior to that of the sun from the earth. To give you an idea of the swiftness with which comets move, Mr. Brydone observed one at Palermo in July, 1770, which in 24 hours described an arch in the heavens upwards of fifty degrees in length, so that if it was far distant from the sun, it must have moved at the rate of upwards of sixty millions of miles in a day.

CLARA.

Prodigious indeed! What is that stream of light which I see across the heavens, part of it directly over our heads?

[Page]DE LIVRE.

That is called the Via La [...] tea or the Milky Way, which has been found to be no other than a vast collection of very small stars, in the most crowded parts of which, Dr. Herschel has with his telescope seen 588 stars; and these continued for many minutes; so that in one quarter of an hour's time not less than 116,000 stars have passed through the field of it.

HENRY.

How I should like to have a telescope that would shew me all these wonders. This is a very good one, but I cannot make out a quarter of that number of stars in the milky way with it.

DE LIVRE.

No, it is not possible; Dr. Herschel's large telescope is nearly forty feet in length; yet small in comparison as this is, we are indebted to it for a very pleasant evening's amusement.

MADAME.

And also to you, my good friend, for your instructive explanations.

[Page] It was with regret Madame de St. Claire and the children left the mount; which in all probability they would not have the pleasure of revisiting for a twelvemonth, the following morning being fixed on for their departure from the cottage.

CHAP. IX.

BY six o'clock the carriage was at the gate, and de Livré once more took an affectionate leave of his good friends, who received his promise to undertake a journey to the Chateau the ensuing spring, if his health permitted; and the hope of seeing him in the course of a few months, in some measure softened the pain of separation. On the evening of the second day after they had left the humble dwelling, they found themselves again at the Chateau. In less than a fortnight after their return, Madame de [Page] St. Claire received a letter from a distant relation, who with his family was come to reside in Switzerland; requesting her to favor them with her company for a few days: she would willingly have excused herself, no place having in her estimation the pleasures of home, nor any society, in the absence of Monsieur de St. Claire, the charms that her children's afforded; but having no real apology to offer, she accepted the invitation, and the young people were delighted with the thoughts of accompanying her. They had never seen their cousins, and promised themselves every gratification from the visit. But the family of Monsieur Duvernie was very different from that of Madame de St. Claire. The children were ignorant and ungovernable, and the parents foolishly indulgent; unhappy if they were out of their sight for a single moment; although their presence seemed to put every thing in disorder wherever they were.

[Page] The family consisted of two daughters and a son. The eldest of the former was thirteen, and the second eleven. The boy had just entered his twelfth year. They were handsome, but a pleasing exterior was all they had to boast of; for their minds were entirely uninformed, and too often the regularity of their features was distorted by obstinacy or ill humor.

From the moment of Madame de St. Claire's arrival till bedtime, nothing was to be heard but the insignificant prattle of these froward children. It was in vain their parents endeavored to render them quiet; they paid not the least attention to their commands. Madame Duvernie was surprised at the pleasing manners and good behavior of the children of Madame de St. Claire. "What would I give to see mine as tractable!" said she, "they worry me to death. I have been endeavoring these two years to persuade Monsieur Duvernie to have a governess and a tutor for them. He [Page] says it is time enough. But I am sure they are beyond my management. I am obliged to be quite angry, nay almost put myself in a passion, before I can get them to obey me in the least trifle." "And I," replied Madame de St. Claire, "have never yet found cause to be really displeased with mine, longer than half an hour in my life. I have taught them to consider me as a friend, not as an austere tyrannic parent. They consult me on every occasion, and I have the satisfaction of observing they do this with pleasure, and of their own accord. To incur my anger, is regarded as the greatest misfortune that can befall them. They are not faultless, but they are soon made sensible of their errors; and I hope their affection for me will in time enable them entirely to correct their failings."

The conversation was here interrupted by the sudden entrance of the Miss Duvernies, whom but a few minutes before their mother had ordered to conduct [Page] Clara and Emmiline to the apartment allotted them. The eldest running up to her mamma, exclaimed, in a voice like thunder, "Mamma, will you speak to Adelaide; she has beat me so, because I desired her to make haste and get to bed, for I did not like sleeping in that great room at the top of the house. I cannot go up again, I am sure I cannot; I shall die with fright, I must stay here till you go to bed." "I will see whether you shall do that," said the father, taking up a large horsewhip which stood in a corner of the room; "go up directly, or you shall feel the weight of this." It was by such harsh methods alone that these children had been taught obedience. The young ladies, after giving way to their passion in a flood of tears, left the parlor with as much precipitation as they had entered it. Madame de St. Claire, after their departure, could not forbear expressing her disgust at the scene she had witnessed, and endeavored to persuade the mistaken parents [Page] to have recourse to milder treatment; but they were not less obstinate than the children, who had been spoiled by their improper indulgence. Over such dispositions, it was not likely that argument could avail much. After many fruitless attempts to convince them of the impropriety of their conduct, Madame was obliged to leave them to their ignorance and the absurdity of their opinions; resolving to make her stay as short as possible in a mansion, the manners of whose inhabitants were so opposite to every thing that was amiable. The following morning, after breakfast, Master Duvernie proposed shewing his cousins all their curiosities, and for this purpose conducted them into a large play room, where, among other scenes of cruelty, was exhibited an owl tied by its leg to a table, and struggling to get free; Henry no sooner saw its distress, than he ran towards it, and was going to set it at liberty. Master Duvernie exclaimed, "Oh! do not untie it! If it [Page] gets loose, it will fly away." "Poor thing," cried Henry, "how can you take pleasure in torturing it? You or I should not like to be fastened to a table all day long." "Pshaw! what of that? We are not birds. Papa bought it for me to play with." "And do you not think it cruel to confine it, since even the meanest insect is not less sensible of pain than we are?

DUVERNIE.

I do not think whether it is cruel or not. I have these things to afford me diversion, and never trouble myself to think of that. Papa is very good to us in this respect; we had once this room almost full of live creatures, but we forgot to feed them, and then they died. But come and look at our dormice. Are they not beautiful little creatures? Sometimes I put them into this little box, and keep them several days in my pocket, they will sleep for weeks together, and this is very comfortable, for then one has not the plague of giving them any thing to eat. Do [Page] you see these two wooden waggons. Oh! we have such fun with them, we make the puppies draw them about the court yard for an hour together, heavily loaded too with stones and whatever we can pick up, and if they dare to stand still give them such a cut with this whip—a pretty little whip! is it not?

HENRY.

Yes, give it me, I will make a better use of it.

DUVERNIE.

Why, what would you do with it?

HENRY.

I would use it when I ride on horseback, but then it should be with mercy.

DUVERNIE.

No, no, I cannot give it you, the puppies will not go on well two yards without it. But come this way; you have not seen the prettiest sight of all. Here on this table is a collection of butterflies. We pin them on while alive to this white paper: For you know to crush them to death would rub off all their pretty colors.

[Page]EMMILINE.

While they are alive! Barbarous boy!

DUVERNIE.

Yes, you shall see, there is one now in the window, I will have him in a moment; now for it.

EMMILINE.

Indeed you must not, (ready to cry) I cannot bear to see such cruelty.

HENRY.

Come, come, shew us something else, and let the poor fly alone, at least till we are gone.

DUVERNIE.

(Turning towards Henry) I don't know what to shew you—we do not seem to have any thing you like—let me think.

While he is ruminating, Emmiline throws up the sash, and the butterfly escapes.

EMMILINE.

(Capering about) It is gone! It is gone! How glad I am, I have saved its life!

DUVERNIE.

What is gone?

CLARA.

The butterfly.

DUVERNIE.

How provoking, I may be the whole day seeking for such another; [Page] I wish, cousin, you would have left it alone.

HENRY.

Well, do not grieve yourself any more about it, find us some better entertainment, for we have no desire to be present at the execution even of a poor harmless fly. Have you no drawings, no shells, no medals, to shew us.

DUVERNIE.

Oh! no, a gentleman once gave us a parcel of shells, but I know not what became of them; very stupid amusement I think that of looking over these kind of things; and then as to drawing, it is very pretty for those who can do it, but I have no patience; if I cannot do any thing like my copy in five minutes, I tear and throw into the fire.

Henry and Clara, disgusted with their companions, proposed a walk in the garden, which was cheerfully agreed to; but here they were surprised at the disorder which seemed to reign around them. "Have you a good gardener?" [Page] said Henry, "your garden is not kept so nice as mamma's." "Oh! a very good one, and three laborers besides," replied Miss Duvernie, "but papa is always making a racket about the garden; Robert will drive his puppies over the flower beds; it is a pity to be sure, and costs papa a great deal of money. Old Colin tells me very often, he is tired of endeavoring to keep it neat. And well he may, for my brother very often brings his rabbits and his pigs here to play with." Notwithstanding the state of derangement in which every thing appeared, the young people passed an hour or two very pleasantly, and it was here Miss Duvernie informed them that her brother expected some friends to pass the afternoon with him. "I wish I could persuade them to come into the garden, and play with us," she cried, "but I know they will think themselves above it. They hate to be considered as children. They will do nothing but play at cards. Robert generally loses, and he is [Page] so out of humor when they are gone, nobody dares to speak to him, not even papa and mamma.

HENRY.

What then, are you permitted to play for money?

Miss DUVERNIE.

Certainly; neither my brother nor I would play if we were not. You do not surely take us for two babies, who set down to be amused by giving one card for another?

CLARA.

I am sure then Henry will not be of your party, for mamma would be extremely displeased were he to play for money. I could read you a charming little drama she wrote for us, on this subject, I believe I have it in my letter case.

Miss DUVERNIE.

Oh! do, and we will sit down in this arbor. I love to hear any one read, though I hate the trouble of it myself.

"You may amuse yourselves as you please," said Master Duvernie, "but I own I wonder what entertainment you can derive from hearing another person [Page] read. I am going to the stables to shew Henry our new coach horses, and the pretty poney that papa bought the other day. Come cousin, do not mind these stupid girls; come along!" (Taking him by the arm.)

Miss DUVERNIE.

You are very unpolite, brother, to leave us. You had better stay and hear the pretty story Clara is going to read. I dare to say it contains an excellent lesson for you.

This part of his sister's speech was not heard by young Duvernie. Already were he and Henry several paces off; Clara with Emmiline and their companions placed themselves in the arbor, where she read aloud the following drama:

[Page]

CHAP. IX.
THE LITTLE GAMESTER.
A Drama in two Acts.

PERSONS.

Master BENSON,

CHAS. VALANCOUR,

Mrs. VALANCOUR,

EMILY.

1

Scene 1st, a Parlor. Master Benson and Charles at cards.

BENSON.

An ace, you must give me four.

CHARLES.

(Counting them reluctantly) One—two—three—four. Oh! I have not a single knave to save me. The game is yours.

BENSON.

It is so; and sixpence that we played for.

CHARLES.

Was ever any thing so unfortunate! This is the sixth you have won, [Page] and my last. (Giving him the money, he says aside to Emily, How provoking!)

EMILY.

(Aloud) Why did you play for money? Did not mamma desire that you would not?

BENSON.

Come, come, let's have another game. Fortune may perhaps be more kind. I am sure we played fair.

CHARLES.

I believe it; but if you win this also, what have I to pay you with? Mamma will be angry if I change my crown piece.

BENSON.

Pshaw! how will she know it? Some of the servants will change it for you, no doubt, if you ask them. Besides, the game may be yours. You make as much fuss about losing two or three sixpences, as if you had lost as many guineas. Why, Bob Sharp and I frequently play for half crowns, and I sometimes lose four or five of a night. Come, let us play again.

EMILY.

Permit me to advise you not, brother. You know it would displease mamma; do you not remember how [Page] much she said to us, on the subject, the other day. Besides, should you lose, how unhappy it will make you, to part with the present our dear aunt was so kind as to make you!

BENSON.

Unhappy, Miss! Then he would be a very foolish boy. I suppose it was given him to do what he liked with.

EMILY.

Certainly; but not to be made an improper use of. (Aside to Charles. Do, dear Charles, let me persuade you.)

CHARLES.

(Angrily) Be quiet, Emily, I want no more of your advice.

BENSON.

That's right: Do not let the pert admonitions of a sister govern your actions. You'll play—will you not?

CHARLES.

I will.

EMILY.

Fie, brother; is then mamma's displeasure of so little consequence to you?

CHARLES.

It is no business of your's, Emily. I have lost my money, and am [Page] resolved to play till I get some of it again. (They engage. Emily leans on her brother's chair, and looks at him with great anxiety, saying frequently, I fear brother you will lose.)

CHARLES.

Fortune does not seem much to favor me. I will try again. (They continue playing, Benson wins several games.)

CHARLES.

(Rising) I have lost indeed! Cruel fortune! What shall I do.

EMILY.

Imprudent boy! Why would you not be advised? I am younger, it is true; yet, had you followed my persuasions, this would not have happened.

CHARLES.

(Taking out his purse) Do, Emily, try if you can get this crown changed. It was the gift of my dear aunt, yet it must go. I have nothing to save it. Oh! that I had followed a good parent's council, and never played for money!

EMILY.

Keep it, my dear brother. Your debt is not so large but I can discharge it. Give this half crown to your [Page] friend, and promise me never to contract another.

CHARLES.

Excuse me, Emily, this money I know you have long laid apart for the purchase of a new book. My folly indeed must not deprive you of it.

EMILY.

Since you will not accept it, I must present it to Master Benson? (Gives the money to Benson, who with a profound bow puts it into his pocket) And now, my dear Charles, be assured, that concern for your fault, which your countenance betrays at this moment, gives me more pleasure than any book I could have purchased. In it I read your sorrow, and your reformation.

Exit Emily.

BENSON.

That sister of your's is a kind girl, Charles!

CHARLES.

She is—and her kindness distresses me, for I feel how unworthy I am of this last proof of it.

BENSON.

Nonsense! why be such a fool as to let what has passed give you a moment's uneasiness?

[Page]CHARLES.

Did I deserve what she has done for me, it would not; but I have been a very wicked boy in disobeying mamma. My sister too—she was going to buy the Flowers of Ancient History tomorrow, and it will not be in my power to repay by that time what I owe her, and then mamma will be so displeased with me.

BENSON.

How should she know any thing of the matter? unless you appear before her with that demure visage, like the Knight of the sorrowful countenance! I protest Charles, you are quite ridiculous; a mere baby! ready to cry for fear mamma should be angry, and because you have disappointed your sister of buying a new book! Whereas a boy of spirit would laugh at this, and court again the favors of fortune. Who knows but another trial may be propitious? At least, you would have a chance of paying part of what you owe your sister. since the thought of being in debt is so afflicting to you.

[Page]CHARLES.

May it ever be so! I should think myself a monster were I capable of retaining what is another's due, without remorse. I know not how it is, I sat down to cards for amusement, but they have not procured me the slightest satisfaction. I have disobeyed the best of parents; it is this that stifles every sensation of pleasure. Yet, were I sure of being successful—I would try again—Emily must be repaid—but if I lose—I dare not hazard it.

BENSON.

Pshaw! your sister is not here now to see you; and surely if she was, you are not so scrupulous as to mind her. We might have a charming game in her absence, not that I should care for her a straw, if she was [...]ere, were I in your place. Come listen to what I am going to propose. I will even stake the whole I have won of you, and if you should be so unfortunate as to lose, will only ask for that pretty purse you drew out of your pocket just now, without its contents. I would not for the [Page] world take the valuable dear crown piece you are so fond of. Come, let us change the game. What do you say to cribbage?

CHARLES.

Since I must play, what you please. (Sits carelessly down to the card table, for the first two or three deals they are nearly equal.) Should I have the good fortune to be able to pay Emily, how happy I should be! (They deal again, after Charles has counted his hand.)

BENSON

says, Stay, my good friend, what have we here? Fifteen four, fifteen six, fifteen eight, and six, (the queens you see) are fourteen, I am up—just up. Unlucky, faith, since you were within so few of me! However, it cannot be helped. Come, my good fellow, the purse we agreed for, you know; debts of honor must always be settled,

CHARLES.

(Sighing) We did, indeed, agree for it; yet I would rather it had been for any thing else. This purse, (taking it from his pocket) my dear Emily worked and presented to me on my [Page] recovery from inoculation: But fairly won it is yours, (giving it) and may you make a better use of it—than—I have. (Retires and bursts into tears.)

Enter Servant.

SERVANT.

Master Benson's servant is come.

Exit Footman.

BENSON.

I will not keep him a moment. Good night, my dear friend—do not cry—poor boy!—poor dear little fellow! I cannot help smiling though, to think how odd it was, I should be so provokingly fortunate—don't grieve—don't afflict yourself, it could not be helped. I'll take particular care of the favorite purse—be assured I will, sweet, pretty little bauble. Adieu! now don't lament it—don't cry.

Exit Benson.

CHARLES.

(Alone) How miserable I am!—but what can disobedience expect? Shame and unhappiness are its consequences. Never till this moment did I dread a mother's presence. Why was I persuaded to play again? I might [Page] have saved my purse—Emily—my dear Emily, I fear, cannot love me after such imprudence. I must not let her know of it; yet how conceal it? It will be the first time in my life I ever attempted to deceive any one—and the best of sisters—no—it is not to be done. (Weeps.)

(After a short pause) This day in which I had promised myself so much pleasure, how void of any has it passed! A mother's kind indulgence would not even direct my choice in a playfellow. On this my birthday, no restraint was laid on my inclinations. I fixed on Benson. Till this day I thought him my friend, but where is now my esteem for him? His pernicious advice has rendered me criminal; but in saying this, perhaps, I wrong him. It was, I fear, my own vile inclinations that led me on. Why was I not affected by the tender admonitions of a sister? Ah! how have I repaid her kindness! Even parted from her present, that present which I have [Page] so often declared never should be given away. How wretched this thought makes me; I, that used to fly with rapture to meet the most affectionate of mother's, now tremble at her approach. If she sees I have been weeping, it will give her pain, and the cause of all my sorrow must be disclosed, for I am not quite so lost to what is right, as to assert a falsehood. I will retire through this door into the garden, from thence to my favorite arbor; and there endeavor to compose myself, in that loved retreat, where I have passed so many hours of uninterrupted tranquillity; but they were hours of innocence:—The present, clouded with guilt, can produce only shame and remorse, the fruits of my imprudence.

[Exeunt.

End of the First Act.

[Page]

CHAP. X.

ACT II.

Scene changes to an Arbor. Charles discovered sitting pensively; Emily enters—runs up to him, carrying in her hand a little basket.

EMILY.

Look, my dear brother, how do you like this basket?

CHARLES.

(Endeavoring to be cheerful) It is exceedingly pretty.

EMILY.

I am glad you think so. I made it on purpose for you. You were complaining the other day, you had nothing to put your strawberries in, when you had gathered them; I therefore desired the gardener to procure me some willow twigs, with which I made this. You look serious, my dear Charles; if you dislike it, I dare to say I can make [Page] another, perhaps a better; at least, I will try.

CHARLES.

(sighing) No, that you shall not, my dear sister; this is by far too good for me.

EMILY.

You must not say so, brother, I am sensible it might have been better done; but as a first attempt, a token of my affection, and wish to please you, I hoped you would accept it. (Embracing him.)

CHARLES.

I do accept it, my dear Emily, and will take better care of it, than I have of—(weeps.)

EMILY.

Of what, dear Charles? What can thus distress you?

CHARLES.

I know not how to inform you, Emily; yet I have a heart that detests deception. You must hear of it—but your displeasure—

EMILY.

Why do you think of that; you know I am no longer displeased with you. What means this emotion—these tears? What can have happened? Oh! tell me—I beseech you.

[Page]CHARLES.

Well then, notwithstanding your well meant caution, I played—again—believe me, only allured by the hope of being able to return what you so generously lent me; but fortune was still adverse. Oh! my sister—I lost.

EMILY.

(sighing) Alas! what did you play for?

CHARLES.

Benson, knowing I had not a farthing left, except the crown piece which I was resolved not to part with, proposed if I lost—the—lit—tle—pu—rse—you ga—ve me, should—be his. (Sobbing violently.)

EMILY.

Well, do not let this afflict you. I will rise early tomorrow, and begin netting you a new one; yet I am extremely concerned that, whatever was your motive, you should be induced to play again. But you are too good, too sensible of it, I am sure, to relapse into the same error even at the persuasions of a friend. (Mrs. Valancour crosses the stage at a distance with a small packet in her hand.) I see mamma coming this [Page] way—run behind those trees, my dear Charles. You know if she sees you have been crying, it will make her very uneasy; be cheerful, I beg of you. (He retires—Meeting her mamma) Where are you going, my dear mamma?

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

Only to the gate, my love, with this trifle for a poor woman, who from her own account, has met with accumulated misfortunes. Affected by her distress, I went in to look up these few things for herself and famished infants. Lucy is following with some provisions for them.

EMILY.

May I go with you?

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

By all means; I never yet made a donation of this kind but in the presence of my children; for scenes like these give more impressive lessons of humanity and benevolence, than all that can be said by men or books upon the subject. But where is my darling boy? His little hand was ever the first to relieve the sorrows of the unfortunate.

[Page]EMILY.

I will go and call him, mamma.

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

Do so, my dear, you will soon run and overtake us. (Emily goes towards the arbor.)

Scene changes to a Gate at the farthest end of the Garden. The beggar woman and children without. While Mrs. Valancour is giving the things, Emily and Charles come up to her. Charles, eagerly taking his mother's hand, says,

Mamma, will you be so kind to lend me something to give this poor wanderer?

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

Certainly my love.

(Mrs. Valancour, Emily, and Charles give money to the poor woman; who after blessing them for their charity, leaves the gate.) As they return towards the house Mrs. Valancour says, "Your conduct, my son, rather surprised me. It is the first time since I have given you a weekly allowance, that I [Page] have seen you borrow money. But, perhaps, I am going to judge too hastily. You may have met with objects before this poor woman related her tale of sorrows. Their misfortunes might have been more pathetically told. Your little heart bled perhaps at their sufferings; and you gave to their distress all you could command. (Charles, sobbing, hides his face in his sister's bosom.)

CHARLES.

Oh; mamma, I dare not look at you. You are too good. It is not to the poor or the distressed I have given.—Oh! no—I have been very naughty, indeed I have.

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

What have you done, my son?

CHARLES.

I tremble to tell you; yet I am sure you would be more displeased were I to tell a lie, or seek to conceal my fault.

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

This candor leads me to hope you have not committed any very great crime.

[Page]CHARLES.

Indeed I have; for, oh! disobedience is not amongst the number of trifling failings. Oh! my dear mamma, I never was so unhappy in my life.

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

What, my son, can make you thus miserable?

CHARLES.

My own imprudence. You left Benson and me at cards, with a strict injunction not to play for money; but scarcely had you left us, when he proposed it, endeavoring to persuade me, there could be no harm in it—at length I consented—lost all my little stock, and more, which Emily generously paid for me. Not content with this, we engaged again. My sister was not present. Again I lost, and to defray my debt, have parted with the purse she made for me. The crown I would not dispose of; yet, I believe, I should not have felt more, had he won even that, than I do now. (Weeps.)

EMILY.

Oh! look not so displeased, my dear mamma. He will not, I am sure, repeat a fault of this nature. It [Page] was at the persuasions of a loved companion that he played so long.

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

So are sometimes whole families ruined, by the artful counsels of ill chosen friends. I am, indeed, greatly displeased; and tremble to think, Charles, that should this love of gain, this spirit of deep play, increase with your years, you will become a perfect gamester. How many have been rendered miserable for life by this detestable character. Ought not a mother's heart to ach, when she beholds the strong propensity of an only son to this horrid vice—of him—who has already played for money contrary to all her admonitions? (During this speech, Charles falls upon his knees, and looks in the most supplicating manner at Mrs. Valancour.) Can I, my son, have any further dependence on your word? Your disobedience shocks me. Your imprudence has not only deprived you of my esteem, but of the noblest pleasure the human heart can enjoy—that of relieving from your own [Page] purse the sorrows of the distressed. You have also incurred the dishonor of being in debt, both to your sister and me. Thus, the love of play leads from one extremity to another, till poverty and ruin are the consequence. At the age of ten years, you have, by not following my advice, made yourself a bankrupt. So early led into the paths of error, what may I in future expect from a conduct so reproachable? I shudder, left the increase of years should render it such as even a mother cannot pardon. (Emily raising him.)

EMILY.

But, mamma, since I am sure you cannot like Master Benson, who has made my brother so naughty, why did you permit him to be invited today?

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

To teach your brother a lesson, which I hope he will never forget. I observed he displayed a particular attachment to Charles, who returned his attentions with real affection. I, who knew his character, wished to shew my son how unworthy he was [Page] of this; but artless himself, I could not bring him to suspect the little hypocrite. I observed, with inexpressible concern, the taste which he had inspired him with, for the most detestable of all vices. To cure him of this, I permitted him today to make choice of a playmate, almost assured Benson would be the one he would like to invite. I gave them cards, and purposely left the room, that Charles might have an opportunity of discovering the true character of his supposed friend, whose parents, I am sorry to affirm, are people of the most dissolute morals; who have taken no care to instruct him, beyond the expertest method of cheating, or dividing a pack of cards. What is your opinion of Benson now, Charles? Is that person our friend, whose counsels and opinions render us miserable, and teach us to deviate from the paths of duty?

CHARLES.

Oh! no dear mamma. I am now convinced those only are our real friends, who point out our failings, [Page] and who instruct us in the method to amend them. I fear I have offended almost past forgiveness; yet I would wish you to be again my friend. Will you, my good mother? Henceforth I will be guided on every occasion by your advice, and never again disobey you. Had I given up all acquaintance with this wicked boy sooner, and believed him such as you from the first of our intimacy represented him to me, I should now have been happy; I should have possessed your esteem, the approbation of my own heart, and my mother would have been my friend. (Turns and looks tenderly upon her.)

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

Believe me, I am as much so, as ever, at this moment. Consider me in future as your truest friend, and you will not fail of being happy. Who can discharge the duties of that office so well as an affectionate parent, who, even while employed in the painful task of correction, feels her heart make a thousand excuses for the [Page] frailties of youth? Remember, my son, in the happiness of her children, is that of a mother centered. Every deviation of their's from what is right, fills her with a thousand terrors. Their disobedience is as a dagger to her bosom. Think what are her cares, her apprehensions! (Charles interrupting her.)

CHARLES.

I feel them all in your anxiety for me. Oh! how wicked I have been to give you so much pain▪ Indeed, I had not done it, could I have thought what would have been your sufferings, dear, dear mamma. Will you not look at me?—Believe me my conduct shall never more cause you an hour's uneasiness. Forgive me this once—(kneeling)—do not weep. It is I who have caused those tears, what anguish do they give me! I cannot in—deed—I can—not bear to see you thus di—stressed. (Sobs.)

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

(Raising him.) I will believe you, my dear child, and in this embrace, be all your errors forgotten. [Page] (Embracing him.) If not repeated, they shall never be mentioned to you again. This sincere contrition shews you are worthy to be owned my son. And may the incidents of this day preserve you in future from the feigned friendship of the artful hypocrite, and leave in your tender heart a fixed and permanent aversion to the dangerous and destructive character of a gamester!

EMILY.

Kiss me too, dear mamma. I am so glad my dear brother is forgiven; I cannot bear any thing should distress him. When you are displeased, his little eyes lose all their vivacity.

Mrs. VALANCOUR.

I embrace you both, my children. May you ever cherish those sentiments, which will render you the ornaments of society. For such will make you dearer to me than I have power to express, and contribute to your own happiness—as much as to that of an affectionate parent.

[Exeunt.

End of the Second Act.

[Page]

CHAP. XI.

"WHAT a charming drama," said Miss Duvernie, "and how delightfully you have read it. I wish I could read as well as you do; but papa will not let us have a governess."

CLARA.

And cannot you improve yourselves without one; we have no governess, mamma instructs us.

Miss A. DUVERNIE.

Your mamma has more patience than ours, I dare to say; if we do not like to do a thing immediately as she wishes us, she is so out of humor.

EMMILINE.

And do you really oblige her to speak more than once to you?

Miss DUVERNIE.

Oh! yes, often five or six times, if I want to finish what I am about.

EMMILINE.

It is no wonder then that she speaks crossly to you; a parent's wishes ought to be in every instance immediately obeyed. Consider, my dear [Page] cousin, that all our attentions, all that we can do for them, is very inadequate for what they have done for us.

CLARA.

I am sure if you thought of these things, Adelaide, you would not so often suffer passion and obstinacy to get the better of you.

Miss DUVERNIE.

Why, I do sometimes set a resolution to behave well, but am sorry to say, I cannot keep to it. I would give any thing to be like you.

CLARA.

If there is any thing praise worthy in my conduct, I am indebted to my dear mamma for it. I fear I have given her a great deal of trouble, for till within these few months I was sullen, haughty, and ill humored; and when we first came into Switzerland, I could find no pleasure in any thing, I regretted the gaieties of Paris, and books were then my aversion.

Miss DUVERNIE.

And how have you managed to correct all these faults, in so short a time?

[Page]CLARA.

It was my affection for the best of parents, that induced me to labor at improvement; I saw the uneasiness my conduct gave her, and her continual endeavors to make me happy; and since to be good was the only way I could contribute to her felicity, I resolved to become so. She would frequently read aloud select passages from the best authors, explain them to us, and make observations. This insensibly inspired me with a taste for that rational amusement, which can render the deepest solitude agreeable.

Miss A. DUVERNIE.

But are you not sometimes very dull at the Chateau? If you like books ever so well, you cannot read always.

EMMILINE.

Nor do we. We have a thousand ways to procure amusement. Music fills up no small portion of our time, then work, riding on horseback, our gardens, the greenhouse, the hothouses, these ever afford us a variety of entertainment.

[Page]Miss DUVERNIE.

And are these all your diversions?

CLARA.

No. There is one superior to all, but I must not call it by the name of diversion. It is a sensation of delight; I cannot describe it to you, but, were you to visit with us the cottages of the poor, you would feel it; where to relieve the pains of the sick and the wants of the indigent, unfolds at once the secret of happiness, and shews that the most exalted pleasures of humanity are centered in benevolence.

Miss DUVERNIE.

And do you really always accompany your mamma, into the dirty huts of the cottagers?

CLARA.

Always; we all go with her.

Miss DUVERNIE.

Our mother would not suffer us to go into such places. In very frosty weather, or when we hear any of them are ill, she sends money and what is comfortable to them. She would not go herself for the world, I am sure. I hate even to meet the vallage [Page] children in the road, they are so dirty, so ill behaved, so vulgar.

EMMILINE.

Mamma has established a little school in our neighborhood, where the poor children are supported and educated; they work for us, as well as for themselves, and we visit them every week, to inspect their improvements.

Miss DUVERNIE.

And do you really prefer this kind of life, to that you passed at Paris?

CLARA.

Undoubtedly. When you come to visit us, you will say there is not one pleasure that we have exaggerated in description.

Miss DUVERNIE.

I wish we lived with you, I am sure I can answer for myself, that I shall never be happy while I am in this house.

CLARA.

For shame, my dear, to say so: It is in your own power to render home very agreeable; and I am sure were they to see you more tractable, your papa and mamma would never be [Page] out of humor with you: Let me prevail upon you to make the experiment.

Miss DUVERNIE.

Oh! My dear cousin, if you could be always with us! we might improve.

By this time, Henry and Master Duvernie were returned from the stables. "So," cried the latter, "here you are, ladies, in the little arbor where we left you." "Yes," replied his sister, "and I believe it would have been better for you, had you remained here too, we have been most delightfully entertained." "So it seems, or you would not have staid here so long—I fancy you forget you have to dress for dinner." "Indeed I had not given it a thought," said Miss Duvernie; "but as it is so late, I suppose we must go in, and make ourselves as smart as we can for your company this afternoon. Though, I confess, I had rather stay here and converse with my cousins." The young people then proceeded to the house, which they had scarcely entered, before Miss Duvernie [Page] exclaimed, "You must come up with us, and see our wardrobe. We have such beautiful things! Clara and Emmiline were surprised to observe the disorder of their cousins' drawers, for here nothing seemed to be in its proper place, all was confusion; and half an hour was spent in searching for the dresses they proposed to wear that day. Adelaide in mistake had taken her sister's necklace, and it was with difficulty Clara and Emmiline could prevent a serious quarrel on the subject. In consequence of this dispute, the dinner bell had rung before they were half ready to go down. And when the business of the toilet was entirely completed they dreaded to meet the angry eye of Monsieur Duvernie, assured that their negligence would excite his displeasure. It did so, and when the servants were withdrawn, their failings were enumerated with increasing severity, and little else was spoken of the remainder of the day. Clara and Emmiline, much as they were disgusted with the conduct of [Page] their cousins, pitied them on the present occasion, and did all in their power to restore that domestic harmony, which their incautious behavior had interrupted. At a late hour, wearied with the numberless disagreeables of the day, they retired to rest, when Clara thus addressed her sister: "How thankful ought we to be, my dear Emmiline, for the blessings we possess in the best of parents; had our mother resembled Madame Duvernie, we should have been as miserable as Julia and Adelaide!"

CHAP. XII.

WHILE the family were at breakfast the following morning, a letter was delivered to Madame de St. Claire, which informed her, that Monsieur de St. Claire was within a few miles of the Chateau.

So great was the children's impatience to see their dear father again, that they [Page] thought every moment an hour till the necessary preparations could be made for their departure. The carriage was ordered to be got ready as soon as possible, and Madame with the sincerest joy bade a hasty adieu to her unamiable friends; having a journey of several leagues to go before they could reach the Chateau. To make the time appear less tedious, Madame de St. Claire, at the children's request, related the following little story of

THE ORPHAN COTTAGERS.

One clear wintry morning, the sprightly Juliana ran to her brother as soon as she was dressed, rejoicing that the snow was all melted, and that she should obtain permission of her mamma to take a long walk. The request was no sooner made, than granted by their indulgent parent, and they set out; but had not walked more than two or three miles before [Page] Juliana, finding herself fatigued, was persuaded by her brother to enter a small habitation which they observed to the left at a little distance from the road. It was thatched, but in many places the tempest had torn away the stubble, and left the roof exposed to all the inclemency of the season; not a window remained entire. "What a dwelling!" exclaimed little George, as he rapped softly at the door! "oh! you, whoever you are, who inhabit this cottage, permit two children, worn out with fatigue, to rest here a little while," Saying this, he rapped again, but nobody answered. The door was o'jar, and seemed to invite the young travellers to enter; but what a scene of misery there presented itself to their eyes! A beautiful girl on her knees, at the side of a bed of straw, on which lay a young child, apparently not more than six years of age, groaning with anguish; while the girl, raising her eyes filled with tears, and her hands to Heaven, exclaimed, with all the fervency of [Page] heartfelt prayer, "Oh! Almighty God, merciful Father of the orphan, preserve, I beseech Thee, this child—preserve my brother!"

She stopped. The presence of the strangers prevented her continuing. The tender heart of Juliana was already affected, and taking the hand of the poor girl, she said, with a voice interrupted by sighs, "Be comforted, your little brother will soon be well again." The girl shook her head, and looked on him as if every ray of hope had been long extinguished. "But what is the matter with him?" continued Juliana, approaching the bed, "What is his disorder? why does he lie upon straw? and why are his clothes so ragged? Poor baby! He has not even a nightcap; and the high wind blows so keen through the crevices in the wall, that when it is bad weather, the rain, I am sure, must fall upon his head."

"Oh! my dear Miss!" replied the unfortunate girl, "you are yet young, [Page] and unacquainted with suffering and sorrows. You ask, why we lie upon straw? why we are covered with rags? Know then, that we are poor! We are orphans! It is now six months since we lost our dear parents by a malignant fever. During their life we had sufficient for our support, for they were very industrious. My father had a small purse almost filled with money, which he had earned by his labors; and he used often to say it was for his dear children, but when he was ill, the physician came almost every day, and I observed his visits made also to my dear mother were paid from this; so that at the death of my dear parents, which happened shortly after, there was only enough left to defray their funeral expences, and support my brother for some weeks in an illness which has continued since the measles. But it is now all gone. Four days since, I bought with our last sixpence a little loaf for him. Alas! my dear brother!—He will die—for I have not the means [Page] to preserve his life. I cannot labor in the fields at this season of the year to earn any thing, to procure him the most trifling nourishment, and he must perish with hunger." In pronouncing these words, she threw herself upon the child, who embraced her with transport, and said in a feeble voice, "Do not be uneasy, my dear sister. When I see you cry—it makes me suffer more."

"Amiable boy!" exclaimed George, (advancing towards the bed) "you shall have my hat to defend your head from the wind, which blows in on this side. Though a fine morning, it is rather cold. I will leave you also my spencer. There—I will lay it over your feet to keep them warm." "And I," interrupted Juliana, "will make you a pillow of my muff." "Dear generous children," said the poor Madelon, "is it possible you can commiserate thus our misfortunes? On my knees I thank you for all this goodness. It is too much. You must not leave with us your—" "My hat," [Page] cried George, "not even the king should remove from his head, or my spencer from his feet. I can do without them. I have others at home, and should I be a little cold as we return, I shall only experience for one hour, what you and your brother have felt for days, weeks, and months. Poor creatures! what you must have suffered." "How I pity you, good girl!" said Juliana, "though I know not what it is to be poor; but it makes me cry to see you without fire, and almost naked, in this wretched hovel. I had no idea there were such miserable beings in the world." "There are but too many in similar situations I fear," replied the dejected Madelon. "And does nobody seek them out," cried George; "I am sure if I had known yesterday you were starving with cold and hunger, I could not have sat peaceably at table, or enjoyed our comfortable fire side." "We will tell mamma," resumed Juliana, "that you are unhappy, that your little brother is perishing. [Page] She will permit us, I am sure, to return and bring you all you are in want of, and medicines for the dear boy, that I hope will entirely recover him."

Juliana at this moment forgot that their house was more than three miles off; for in taking leave of the cottagers, she promised to return in a quarter of an hour. But more than three quarters had elapsed before they found themselves at home, and in their mamma's presence, who was surprised to see her son without his hat and spencer; but this was soon explained by the interesting history of the Orphan Cottagers. "Embrace me, my dear children," said this affectionate mother, while the tears of compassion stole down her maternal cheek; "what pleasure it gives me to see you can feel for those misfortunes, which before this day you could not have formed to yourselves the smallest idea of!" "And are you willing, mamma," they demanded, "that we should return to the cottage?" "You can then," [Page] she replied, "relinquish without regret the pleasures of the ball, to which you are engaged this evening? You know that today is the birthday of your little friend Eliza, who, perhaps, would think you unpolite, were you to disappoint her of your company."

The children looked seriously at each other. "Oh! we had forgot the ball!" "But," continued Juliana, "if I go, my dear mamma, to Eliza's, I shall think all the time I am there of the troubles and the sufferings of these poor orphans. Besides, I cannot go—for I promised to see them again in a quarter of an hour. Oh! indeed I cannot go to the ball. Send some apology, dear mamma, to my friend. I shall feel more pleasure in relieving the misery of these poor children; you can have no idea of their situation, or what I would not do to relieve it." "Nor I either," cried George; "let us return to supply them with every thing that is necessary." "My dear children," she replied, "it is not my intention [Page] to deprive you of the noblest pleasure the human heart is capable of enjoying. You need not prepare for the ball these two hours. In that interval, we can return to the cottagers. I will order the carriage, and accompany you. We will bring them with us. Here they shall be taken care of, and every thing administered that their wants require. What do you say to this, my little ones? Are you willing that these orphans should share with you the affection of that mother who loves you so tenderly?" "Oh! yes, dear mamma," replied immediately Juliana, "let us fetch them—let us fetch them: They are good, and worthy your protection. If you had seen the affection of poor Madelon for her parents, how she wept when she spoke of them, and her tender anxiety for [...] little brother, you would never have forgotten it. She is so pretty too—so humble. Oh! I am sure you will love her, and the little boy is so patient, we did not hear him utter a complaint [Page] plaint all the while we were there. But here is the carriage. Oh! mamma, our dear mamma; you will also be a mother to the Orphan Cottagers!"

"Thank you, thank you, dear mamma," exclaimed Emmiline, "what a charming story! I am in love with the little Juliana, and the dear boy who left his hat and spencer with the poor children. I will repeat their history to papa. How much have we to say to him! Our good friend de Livré too—how happy he will be to know so worthy a man!"

It was late in the evening before the travellers arrived at the Chateau. Every heart palpitated with joy as they approached the gates, about which the villagers were assembled in crowds, and "Monsieur de St. Claire, our good master, is returned!" was reechoed with blessings from an hundred voices.

The reunion of these amiable partners in conjugal felicity was a scene to which no pencil can do justice, no pen describe [Page] with sufficient energy. Those only who have known the pleasure of meeting with all that is most dear to them, after a long and painful separation, can form an idea of the happiness of Madame de St. Claire and the joy of the Little Family.

FINIS.

Notes

*

Ferguson's A [...]tron [...]y, [...] of 1794, comp [...]ed the distance of Saturn at [...]30 mi [...]ion [...] miles, his diameter at 67, [...] miles, and his propo [...]tional b [...]lk at [...]00 times greater that the earth.

↵

*

Sturm's Reflections.

↵

*

Nature Displayed

↵

*

Nature Displayed.

↵

*

Adams on the Planets.

↵

*

Adams on the Planets.

↵

*

Maclaurin.

↵

*

Ferguson's Astronomy.

↵

Information about this book

Title statement

The little family. Containing a variety of moral and philosophical matter. : Written for the amusement and instruction of young persons. / By Charlotte Sanders. ; Vol. I[-II]. ; [Five lines from Thomson]

Sanders, Charlotte.

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2008-09.

ID [DLPS]

N27211

ID [TCP]

N27211

ID [STC]

Evans 36274

ID [NOTIS]

APW7473

ID [IMAGE-SET]

36274

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99013627

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 36274.

Notes

(Evans-TCP ; no. N27211)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 36274)

Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 36274)

Source

— The little family. Containing a variety of moral and philosophical matter. : Written for the amusement and instruction of young persons. / By Charlotte Sanders. ; Vol. I[-II]. ; [Five lines from Thomson], Sanders, Charlotte..

Extent

v, [2], 8-143, [1], 140 p. ; 17 cm. (12mo)

By Moore & Stebbins, for David West, no. 59, Cornhill, Boston.,. Printed at Haverhill, Massachusetts: :: 1799.. (Vol. 2 (140 p.) has separate title page.) (Dedication to "my young friends" signed: C. Sanders. Bath, July 24th, 1798.) (Error in paging: p. 133 misnumbered 123.)

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

EEBO-TCP is a partnership between the Universities of Michigan and Oxford and the publisher ProQuest to create accurately transcribed and encoded texts based on the image sets published by ProQuest via their Early English Books Online (EEBO) database (http://eebo.chadwyck.com). The general aim of EEBO-TCP is to encode one copy (usually the first edition) of every monographic English-language title published between 1473 and 1700 available in EEBO.

EEBO-TCP aimed to produce large quantities of textual data within the usual project restraints of time and funding, and therefore chose to create diplomatic transcriptions (as opposed to critical editions) with light-touch, mainly structural encoding based on the Text Encoding Initiative (http://www.tei-c.org).

The EEBO-TCP project was divided into two phases. The 25,363 texts created during Phase 1 of the project have been released into the public domain as of 1 January 2015. Anyone can now take and use these texts for their own purposes, but we respectfully request that due credit and attribution is given to their original source.

Users should be aware of the process of creating the TCP texts, and therefore of any assumptions that can be made about the data.

Text selection was based on the New Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature (NCBEL). If an author (or for an anonymous work, the title) appears in NCBEL, then their works are eligible for inclusion. Selection was intended to range over a wide variety of subject areas, to reflect the true nature of the print record of the period. In general, first editions of a works in English were prioritized, although there are a number of works in other languages, notably Latin and Welsh, included and sometimes a second or later edition of a work was chosen if there was a compelling reason to do so.

Image sets were sent to external keying companies for transcription and basic encoding. Quality assurance was then carried out by editorial teams in Oxford and Michigan. 5% (or 5 pages, whichever is the greater) of each text was proofread for accuracy and those which did not meet QA standards were returned to the keyers to be redone. After proofreading, the encoding was enhanced and/or corrected and characters marked as illegible were corrected where possible up to a limit of 100 instances per text. Any remaining illegibles were encoded as <gap>s. Understanding these processes should make clear that, while the overall quality of TCP data is very good, some errors will remain and some readable characters will be marked as illegible. Users should bear in mind that in all likelihood such instances will never have been looked at by a TCP editor.

The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines.

Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements).

Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site.