Short conversations; or, An easy road to the temple of fame; which all may reach who endeavour to be good. ; [Four lines of verse]

Short conversations; or, An easy road to the temple of fame; which all may reach who endeavour to be good. ; [Four lines of verse]

Table of contents

§

Title page

Short Conversations, &c.

DIALOGUE I.

DIALOGUE II.

DIALOGUE III.

DIALOGUE IV.

DIALOGUE V.

DIALOGUE VI.

DIALOGUE VII.

DIALOGUE VIII.

DIALOGUE IX.

§

§

[Page]

[Page]

[figure]

§

§

[Page]

Short Conversations OR, AN EASY ROAD TO THE Temple of Fame; WHICH ALL MAY REACH WHO ENDEAVOUR TO BE GOOD.

For social Converse, you will find,

Can please and edify the Mind;

And those who heedful do attend,

May gain much Knowledge from a Friend.

[...] and sold by SAMUEL HALL, No. 53, Cornhill, BOSTON.

1794.

Short Conversations, &c.

[Page]

DIALOGUE I.

MAMMA and MARY ANN.

MAMMA.

WHAT did you cry for, Mary Ann, just now when you were up stairs? [...] heard you cry sadly; as if you had been hurt; were you hurt, my dear?

[Page]MARY ANN.

NO, I was not hurt, Madam, but I do not like to tell you what I cried for, because I think you will be angry, and that is the reason why I do not like to tell you, so pray do not ask me any more, Mamma.

MAMMA.

Yes, my dear, I shall ask you, because I always want to know every thing that you do and say when I do not see you; so pray, my dear, do tell me, speak the truth, and be sure you do not tell me a fib, for that would make me very angry indeed.

MARY ANN.

Molly had set a bason of water upon the table, and bid me not touch it; but I did not mind her, and put my hand into it, and threw it over; and when she [Page]

[figure]

came to me to wipe my hands, she took away the bason, and I cried and screamed because she took the bason away; and she told me I was very naughty; and I do not like that you should know I am naughty.

[Page]MAMMA.

I think you have been a sad silly girl indeed, not to mind what Molly said to you, and to cry for the bason; I could not have thought my Mary Ann could be so silly; but I am very glad you have told me the truth. I love you dearly for that; you must never tell fibs, you know; only very naughty children tell fibs, and speak what is not true; that is the worst thing they can do.

MARY ANN.

What! is telling a fib worse than crying and screaming for the bason and water?

MAMMA.

Yes, a great deal worse indeed. That was not like a good girl, and I hope you will not cry again; if you do you [Page] must have a handkerchief tied over your eyes to catch your tears; but if you tell fibs you must be whipped very hard indeed, and shook, and have your mouth tied up, that you may not speak at all. And you must go without your dinner; for when your mouth is tied up you cannot eat, you know. It would be a sad thing to be so punished: beside, I should never know how to believe any thing you said, if you did not always speak the truth; so I hope you will never be so naughty as to tell fibs; and then I shall never be angry with you: Shall I tell you a story of a naughty girl who told fibs?

[Page]MARY ANN.

Yes, Madam, if you please.

MAMMA.

Once there lived a little girl who used to tell fibs, and not always speak the truth. One day she was going to play up stairs by herself; her Mamma said, do not go to the window, Peggy, and she answered no Madam. But she told a fib, and did not keep her word; for while she was at play she went to the window, and stood up to open it, and tumbled into the street, and bruised and hurt herself sadly, and knocked out three of her teeth. Only think what a sad thing that was; but it was her own fault, and she deserved it, you know, for telling a fib, and not keeping her word, going to the window when she told her [Page]

[figure]

Mamma she would not. I hope you will remember this history, and never tell fibs about any thing; for if you should, you will always be hurt too.

MARY ANN.

If I told a fib about any thing else, and did not fall out of the window, I should not be hurt, should I?

[Page]MAMMA.

Yes, you would! for you would be beat a great deal with the rod, and that I am sure would hurt you very much indeed; you cannot think how bad it would be, and that you would not like should you, my love?

MARY ANN.

No, that I should no [...] I do not think I shall ever tell fibs.

MAMMA.

I hope not, my dear; you must always be a good girl, and speak the truth, and then Papa and Mamma, and every body will love you; so come here and give me a kiss.

[Page]

DIALOGUE II.

MAMMA and SOPHY.

SOPHY.

MAMMA, is not Betty Brown very poor?

MAMMA.

Yes, my dear.

SOPHY.

Then why do you love her?

MAMMA.

Because she is very good, and that is all that I love people for, it does not signify whether they are poor or rich, if they are good, every body loves them.

SOPHY.

No, I do not. I do not love [Page] poor people because they wear such shabby gowns and hats.

MAMMA.

But, my dear, it is very naughty not to love them, because you do not like their clothes: if they had no clothes on, you should love them just the same. Do not

[figure]

[Page] you love your sister when she is undressed, and going to-bed?

SOPHY.

Yes, I do; but I should not like that she should wear such a green frock as Mrs. Brown's gown, and such a shabby hat.

MAMMA.

Do not you love her then when she is in the garden and has her old black bonnet and cloak on? And do not you love me when I wear my old hat and blue gown in a morning, as well as when I put on my flowered gown? May be you do not think the gown pretty, but you love me as well, do not you?

SOPHY.

Yes, that I do, I love you always.

[Page]MAMMA.

Why do you love me?

SOPHY.

Because you are very kind and good-humoured, and take care of me, and I know you are good always.

MAMMA.

And so is Betty Brown; and a great many poor people, and I love them for that reason.

SOPHY.

But do not you like Mrs. Profuse? What nice gowns she wears; and what pretty caps, and hats, and such shining rings! Do not you like her? for she is very rich; is not she a fine lady?

MAMMA.

Yes, my dear, she is a fine lady, but indeed I do not like her much: she is not good humoured. Did not you hear how cross she spoke to her sister? I do [Page]

[figure]

not love cross people! She would not let her sister touch her, so I cannot like her, though I do think her gown and hat is much prettier than Betty Brown's; but she is not half so good, therefore I do not love her half so well.

[Page]SOPHY.

And pray, Mamma, do you love John Spear?

MAMMA.

Yes, I do believe he is a very good man too, and he is very kind to make your shoes: what would you do if he would not make them? Should you like to go without shoes, and hurt your feet with the stones?

SOPHY.

No, but why could not you make them?

MAMMA.

Because I do not know how, nor does your Papa know how. Neither could your Papa or I build houses; so do not you think we are much obliged to those people who build them for us? And we ought to love them to be sure, though [Page]

[figure]

their clothes are dirty. If they had better clothes on, they would spoil them in pulling about the bricks to make houses with.

SOPHY.

Why then if people are good, I must love them, must I?

MAMMA.

Yes, that you must, or I am sure nobody will love you half so well as they do poor little girls who are good.

[Page]

DIALOGUE III.

MAMMA and JENNY.

MAMMA.

WHAT are you crying for, Jenny? I do not like to see little girls cry! Come hither and tell me what is the matter with you.

JENNY.

Because the cake my uncle sent me is not so big as my sister's; and I do not like that it should be less than her's.

MAMMA.

O fie, naughty girl! I shall take it all away from you; are you not ashamed to cry for such a thing? If your uncle had sent only one cake, you should [Page]

[figure]

have been much obliged to him, and been very well pleased to have had a bit of it; but when he has sent you a whole one, I could never have thought you would have [Page] but you have been so very silly and greedy about these cakes, that you must not have any indeed at present.

[figure]

[Page]

DIALOGUE IV.

MAMMA and SOPHY.

SOPHY.

MAMMA, why cannot my doll talk? She has got a mouth, and nose, and eyes, and ears, and hands, and feet. I wish she could talk, and run about! Why cannot she?

MAMMA.

Because, my dear, she is not alive; it is only a bit of wood made in the shape of a child for you to play with; and wood, you know, cannot talk, nor move about without it is carried.

[Page]SOPHY.

What is wood?

MAMMA.

Trees, when they are cut down and made into chairs, and tables, and dolls, are called wood. Your doll was made of a little bit of a tree, so it cannot talk, you know.

SOPHY.

But if she were alive could she talk?

MAMMA.

Yes, my dear.

SOPHY.

Then why cannot the dog and cat talk? They are alive, have they never been taught? When I can spell I will teach my puss to spell too, and if I hold the book she cannot tear it, and she shall read pretty stories, and so shall Cato.

[Page]

[figure]

MAMMA.

But my love, cats and dogs cannot learn to read▪ it is not the nature of them; nothing can read but men, and women, and boys, and girls.

SOPHY.

But I dare say Mamma, if you would be so kind as to teach puss every day [Page] as you do me, she would soon learn to talk, and read too. She can say mew, mew, mew; and those are little words, so I will try to teach her some more.

MAMMA.

But when she says mew, it is called mewing; and when the dog says, bow wow, it is called barking: they cannot say any thing else; but people who can talk can say every thing.

[Page]

DIALOGUE V.

PAPA and CHARLES.

PAPA.

WHAT is the matter with you, Charles? Why do you look so grave?

CHARLES.

Because a boy who was going by the door, kicked poor Pompey, and made him howl sadly. I am sure he hurt him, and I do not like that he should be hurt! Do you, Papa?

PAPA.

No indeed I do not. I think he must have been a very naughty boy▪ [Page]

[figure]

which way did he go? I have a great mind to go after him and punish him, for I am sure he deserves to be beat and hurt himself; he would not like that, I fancy, neither did the dog like it; but every body [Page] who hurts any thing for the purpose, ought to be hurt themselves as Jack Jones was.

CHARLES.

Pray, Sir, tell me how he was hurt?

PAPA.

Jack Jones was a very naughty boy, who used to be pleased with tormenting

[figure]

[Page] every thing he could catch, and one day he tied a cat to a little cart, which was much heavier than she could draw along; and then called her his horse, and beat her, because she did not draw it after her. But while he was at play so cruelly, his Papa came in, and saw what he was about, which made him very angry indeed. So he tied Jack to the rolling stone, and then took the horsewhip and beat him as he had beat the cat, and asked him how he liked to be served so? How he liked to be whipped as he whipped the cat? I do not like it at all, said Jack. Then why did you think poor puss liked it? said his Papa. Remember, you must never [Page] hurt any thing, if you do not like to be hurt yourself; I shall always hurt you sadly when you hurt any thing else. Soon after Jack caught a chicken, and, like a naughty boy as he was, pulled off some of its feathers; so his papa took hold of him and said, I told you, Jack, that I would punish you, and so I will. You have pulled off the feathers from the chicken; if you had feathers I would pluck them off, and you would feel how sadly it hurt, but as you have not any feathers, I shall pull off some hair. So he took hold of Jack's head and pulled off a great many hairs, which hurt him a great deal indeed; and then he tied his hands behind him for a considerable time, so that he could not [Page]

[figure]

play nor feed himself at all. Was not that a sad thing, Charles; but do not you think he deserved it?

CHARLES.

Yes, indeed I do, Sir, I think he was very naughty, would not you serve me so if I were to be so cruel?

[Page]PAPA.

Yes, that indeed, Charles, I should▪ and if you beat any thing, I should beat you; if you kicked any thing, I would kick you; if you pinched any thing I should pinch you; and if you would not feed your dog, you should have no victuals yourself▪ but you are my good little boy, and will never do so; will you, my dear?

CHARLES.

No, Papa, that I will not; for I do not like to be naughty.

[Page]

DIALOGUE VI.

MAMMA and POLLY.

MAMMA.

POLLY, who gave you that doll, my dear? it looks like a very nice one.

[figure]

[Page]POLLY.

(My aunt, Madam, do not you think she was very kind?)

MAMMA.

Yes, indeed, I do! What did you say to her for it?

POLLY.

(I did not say any thing, she gave it to me without asking for it.)

MAMMA.

But did not you say, I thank you, Madam, I am much obliged to you; and make a pretty courtesy to her?

POLLY.

(No, I did not; I forgot that.)

MAMMA.

But, my dear, you should never forget to be civil. It is very rude not to say I thank you, Madam, when any body gives you any thing, or does any [...] you: pray go and thank her now [...] forget another time. Do you [...] I am saying to you?

[Page]POLLY.

Yes.

MAMMA.

Is that all you say, Polly? You should say, yes Madam, and turn round whilst I am talking: never look out of the window, and turn your back towards those who are so kind as to take notice of you; that is just as animals do, who do not understand what is said to them, but you understand, do not you, my love?

POLLY.

Yes, Madam, I do.

MAMMA.

I thought you did, and I am very glad to hear you say Madam. Pray never let me again hear you say, yes or no, in that disagreeable way. My dear, do not you see that Mrs. Bright has dropped [Page] her scissars, run and pick them up; make haste; you should always go directly when any thing is dropped, and pick it up for whoever dropped it.

POLLY.

Why must I pick it up?

MAMMA.

Because you are a little girl, and little girls always should: it looks good-humoured and civil, and will make people love you, if they see you behave prettily.

POLLY.

Here they are, I have picked them up.

MAMMA.

But, my dear, what a manner of speaking is that. O fie! pray do not speak so rudely, I am quite ashamed of you.

POLLY.

What should I say then?

[Page]

[figure]

MAMMA.

You should have said, You have dropped your scissars, Madam; and then picked them up, and made a courtesy when you gave them into the lady's hand.

[Page]POLLY.

I will not say so again Madam.

MAMMA.

I hope not, my dear, for I do not like to see you behave so rudely. Hold up your head; put back your shoulders; turn out your toes. Do not scratch your

[figure]

[Page] head, Polly; that does not look pretty; and if it should itch a little, never mind that, it will soon be over, and Polly must not mind trifles.

[Page]

DIALOGUE VII.

MAMMA and SALLY.

SALLY.

PRAY, Mamma, which do you think the best girl, Miss Round or myself?

MAMMA.

Indeed, my dear, I do not know; I am not so well acquainted with Miss Round as I am with you, so you know I cannot judge which is best.

SALLY.

But you have seen her a great many times, and you have seen her very often naughty, have not you?

MAMMA.

Yes, I have seen her naughty [Page] a great many times; but not half so often as I have you, my dear.

SALLY.

Was not she a great deal naughtier than I was last night?

MAMMA.

Yes, because last night you were very good, but the night before, when you were at Miss Pippin's, you were very naughty. If you remember, you behaved like a very silly child, and cried when you were in the garden.

SALLY.

But pray do not I hem much neater than she does?

MAMMA.

Yes, but she stitches better than you do.

SALLY.

I am sure I hold up my head a great deal better; and you say little girls should hold up their heads

[Page]

[figure]

MAMMA.

So I do, and I say too that little girls should turn out their toes, and make pretty courtesies; and that she does much better than you indeed. And she oftener says Sir, and Madam, when she speaks to any body, than you do; so that [Page] altogether I think she is as good as you are.

SALLY.

And I am sure I think I am a very good girl.

MAMMA.

O, my dear, you should never say so: people should never praise themselves, that looks very foolish indeed; if you are good, every body will see it, and you should leave it for them to say so; though I am afraid if people knew how often you are naughty and cry, they would not think you very good; and as you do know yourself, if you will but recollect that, I fancy you cannot think yourself a very good girl. Do not you know that you cry sometimes and fret, because you have not your pudding given to you [Page] at dinner just at the time you want it; or because you want to sit up in the window, or go into the garden; and sometimes you do not do as you are bid, and do not speak

[figure]

as you should do when you are spoken to. Only recollect all these things, and I think you will not call yourself good; for indeed [Page] till you leave off being so silly, nobody will think you so.

SALLY.

Then when may I call myself a good girl?

MAMMA.

I tell you my dear, people never call themselves good; it does not sound pretty at all; but if ever you should like to have other people think you so, you must leave off every thing that is silly; and always do every thing that is quite right; and if ever you should come to be so good, we will talk about it again;—but I am in a hurry now, and must go up stairs.

[Page]

DIALOGUE VIII.

PAPA and PHILIP.

PHILIP.

LOOK here Papa, see what a nice wheelbarrow I have made with cards,

[figure]

[Page] have not I? I have made the wheel of cork. Is it not a very nice one, Sir?

PAPA.

Yes, it is a very good one, did you cut the cards yourself? Did not somebody help you?

PHILIP.

No, nobody helped me. I did it all myself. Do not you think I am a clever boy; and that when I grew up, I shall be a clever man?

PAPA.

O! I do not know what to say to that; you must learn a great many things indeed, before you will be either a clever boy, or clever man. This wheelbarrow is very well made, and the cards are cut smooth and even, but many people can do some few things well, who yet are not clever. [Page]Billy Blue can make nice boxes of paper, and cut out horses, and cows; but he cannot read or spell a word, and I am sure that is not being a clever boy. Tom Wright draws houses, and trees, and makes very pretty carts, but then he cannot read; neither does he come when he is called, or do as he is bid, but stands with his fingers in his mouth, and looks so silly and cross, that I am sure he is not clever at all. Neither, Philip, will you be a clever boy, unless you take great pains to learn to read, and write, and every thing that you are taught, and are always good humoured, and do not cry as you did this morning, because your sister took away your ball; you never will be thought clever till you [Page]

[figure]

are quite good, and leave off behaving so like a baby as you sometimes do.

PHILIP.

When do I behave like a baby?

PAPA.

When you do not do as you are bid the moment you are spoken to; and when you fret, and cry, and do not eat your [Page] bread, because it is not cut in the shape you want it: do not you remember crying the other day, when your bread was cut thicker than you happened to wish it should be, because you wanted to call it bread and butter? Do not you remember it Philip?

PHILIP.

Yes, I do, I wanted to have it thinner, to look like bread and butter.

PAPA.

May be so! But how like a baby was it to cry for that reason! People cannot have always what they want. I want your uncle to come here to day: but should you not think me very silly if I were to cry because he cannot come? Should not you think I behaved more like [Page] your little sister Ann, who is a baby, than like a man?

PHILIP.

Yes, indeed, I should.

PAPA.

And if I did cry, should you think me clever?

PHILIP.

No, that I should not. I should think you looked very silly.

PAPA.

To be sure I should! And so are you, when you behave so; therefore if you want to be clever, you must be very good indeed, and mind every thing that is said to you, for that is the only way to make you clever.

[Page]

DIALOGUE IX.

MAMMA and ELIZA.

MAMMA.

MY dear little Eliza you are a very good girl indeed, and I love you dearly. Come, and give me a kiss: you cannot think how much I love you when you are so good; and how much pleasure it gives me, to see you behave so well. It always gives Papa and Mamma great pleasure to have their children good! and you like to do every thing you can to please us, do not you, my love?

[Page]ELIZA.

Yes, indeed Madam I do; for I am sure you are very kind to me, and take great care of me, and put yourselves to a great deal of trouble to teach me to read, and write, and work, and to give me victuals, and to make my cloaths. I am sure I ought to be very good indeed, for that is all that I can do to please you. I am too little to take any care of you, and as I have got no money to buy victuals or drink for you, nor can make your cloaths, so I should be very good that I may give you as little trouble as possible. When I am older and have money of my own, I will buy things for you, and then I will make all your cloaths, Mamma, as you now [Page] do mine, and you and papa shall play with my doll, as my sister and I do now, whilst we sit at work for you.

[figure]

MAMMA.

You are very kind, my dear, and if you are always so good I shall not mind the trouble you give me. I will do [Page] any thing for good girls. But, my love, when you and your sister are big enough to work for your Papa, and me, we shall not want to play with your dolls, we shall never be children again.

ELIZA.

Shall not you be children, when we are women?

MAMMA.

No, Eliza! we shall never be children any more.

ELIZA.

What then shall you be?

MAMMA.

An old man and an old woman.

ELIZA.

And will you look ugly when you are old?

MAMMA.

Yes, my dear, I fancy we shall look ugly enough. Old people are [Page] never very pretty; but that does not signify at all if they are good: I hope when we are old, we shall be good, and good-humoured, and then you will love us; shall you not Eliza, though we should be ugly?

ELIZA.

Yes, I shall love you.

MAMMA.

I hope so. All good children always love their parents; and then when they grow up, and have little boys and girls of their own, they are beloved by them. Shall I tell you a history of a good girl and a naughty girl?

ELIZA.

Yes, Madam, pray do: I like that you should tell me histories.

MAMMA.

There were two little girls, one's name was Ann and the other Clara. [Page] Miss Ann was always very good, and took great pains to do every thing that she was desired; and tried to please her Papa and Mamma, and make all her friends happy. She used often to think how much care her parents took, to teach her to write, and attended to every thing which was proper for her to learn; and if she did not mind them, she knew it was only troubling them for nothing. So if they desired her to hold up her head, or put back her shoulders, or turn out her toes, or do any thing else, she always did it directly, to save them the trouble of speaking again. You may be sure she was so very good, every body loved her, and did all they could to please her; and she was very happy, for she was [Page] quite good-humoured, and never cried. And when she grew up she was a very good woman, and because her Papa was

[figure]

lame, she used to take him by the hand, and lead him to his chair, and said, let me lead you now you are lame; for when I [Page] was a little girl, and could not go alone, you used to lead me, and take great care that I should not fall down; so now I am able to help you, pray give me leave to lead you about. Her Mamma's eyes were very bad, and she could hardly see, so Ann used to say, Pray, Madam, let me cut your victuals for you. When I was a little girl, and could not do it for myself, you every day took great care to cut mine; so pray give me leave to cut it for you now, I being able to help you; nothing gives me so much pleasure as to assist you, and work for you, and take care of you, now your eyes are bad and you cannot help yourself. In [Page] this manner Ann always behaved to her Papa and Mamma, when they were grown old; and so they always loved her dearly, and every body loved her who knew her, and used to say, See what a good woman Miss Ann is! And when she had children of her own, she taught them to be good, as her parents had taught her; and then when she grew old, and was lame, and had bad eyes, they used to take care of her, and love her, as she had loved her father and mother. This, my dear, is the history of Miss Ann. But Miss Clara was not half so good, and therefore nobody loved her. When she was little she never minded what was said to her; but troubled her Papa and Mamma [Page] to speak about the same thing a great many times, which was very naughty. She had a silly trick of putting her fingers in her mouth, and when her friends were so kind, as to trouble themselves to tell her not to do so, she would not mind them, but still kept them in her mouth, and looked very cross and foolish; as all children do, who suck their fingers or thumbs. And if they told her any thing else, she did not mind what was said to her; but was always a naughty girl. And so when she grew up she was only a naughty woman; and when her Papa and Mamma grew old and lame, she would take no care of them; but ran away and left them [Page]

[figure]

to creep after her as well as they could. Only think what a shocking naughty thing that was! not to help her poor Papa and Mamma who had been so very good and kind to her, and taken so much care of [Page] her, when she was little and could not help herself. If, when she was little, they had left her, as she left them when they were old, she would have been frozen with cold, and starved with hunger. O! what a sad naughty woman she was. And so when she had little children of her own, she did not know how to teach them to be good, because she was naughty herself, therefore they were naughty too; and when they grew to be men and women, were as cross to her, as she was to her poor old Papa and Mamma. Now, my dear, I have told you the history of a good girl, and a naughty girl: which do you think you shall chuse to be like?

[Page]ELIZA.

Like Miss Ann to be sure Madam. Clara was a cross naughty girl first▪ and then she was a cross naughty woman▪ I should not chuse to be like her. I love you Mamma, and if you were blind or lame, I am sure I would take great care of you. Though I am but little, I could lead you about now if you were lame; and I could put the victuals into your mouth, when somebody had cut it; and I could break the bread myself for you.

MAMMA.

Then you think that you will always love your Papa and Mamma; do you my dear? And will never forget how much care we take of you, now you are a little helpless child? And when you were [Page]

[figure]

a little baby and could neither stand nor speak, how we carried you about, and made our arms ache with nursing you, and gave you every thing that was proper for you though you could not ask for any thing.

Information about this book

Title statement

Short conversations; or, An easy road to the temple of fame; which all may reach who endeavour to be good. ; [Four lines of verse]

Pelham, M., 1755-1836.

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2008-09.

ID [DLPS]

N36062

ID [TCP]

N36062

ID [STC]

Shipton 47092

ID [NOTIS]

APV5000

ID [IMAGE-SET]

47092

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99000330

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. 47092.

Notes

(Evans-TCP ; no. N36062)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 47092)

Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 47092)

Source

— Short conversations; or, An easy road to the temple of fame; which all may reach who endeavour to be good. ; [Four lines of verse], Pelham, M., 1755-1836..

Extent

70 p. : ill. ; 12 cm. (32mo)

Printed and sold by Samuel Hall, no. 53, Cornhill, Boston.,. [Boston] :: 1794.. (Attributed by Welch to Dorothy Kilner, who often used the pseudonymns M.P. and Mary Pelham. Welch's attribution is based on an advertisement in "A course of lectures for Sunday evenings ... " London, [1783?].)

Creation

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