Tommy.—Oh sir! nothing can be too bad for that cruel animal. I would have her killed as she killed the poor bird.

Mr Barlow.—But do you imagine that she did it out of any particular malice to your bird, or merely because she was hungry, and accustomed to catch her prey in that manner?

Tommy considered some time, but at last he owned that he did not suspect the cat of having any particular spite against his bird, and therefore he supposed she had been impelled by hunger.

Mr Barlow.—Have you never observed that it was the property of that species to prey upon mice and other little animals?

Tommy.—Yes, sir, very often.

Mr Barlow.—And have you ever corrected her for so doing, or attempted to teach her other habits?

Tommy.—I cannot say I have. Indeed I have seen little Harry, when she had caught a mouse and was tormenting it, take it from her and give it liberty; but I have never meddled with her myself.

Mr Barlow.—Are you not then more to be blamed than the cat herself? You have observed that it was common to the whole species to destroy mice and little birds, whenever they could surprise them; yet you have taken no pains to secure your favourite from the danger; on the contrary, by rendering him tame, and accustoming him to be fed, you have exposed him to a violent death, which he would probably have avoided had he remained wild. Would it not then be just, and more reasonable, to endeavour to teach the cat that she must no longer prey upon little birds, than to put her to death for what you have never taught her was an offence?

Tommy.—But is that possible?

Mr Barlow.—Very possible, I should imagine; but we may at least try the experiment.

Tommy.—But why should such a mischievous creature live at all?

Mr Barlow.—Because, if you destroy every creature that preys upon others, you would perhaps leave few alive.

Tommy.—Surely, sir, the poor bird which that naughty cat has killed, was never guilty of such a cruelty.

Mr Barlow.—I will not answer for that. Let us observe what they live upon in the fields; we shall then be able to give a better account.

Mr Barlow then went to the window and desired Tommy to come to him, and observe a robin which was then hopping upon the grass with something in its mouth, and asked him what he thought it was.

Tommy.—I protest, sir, it is a large worm. And now he has swallowed it! I should never have thought that such a pretty bird could have been so cruel.

Mr Barlow.—Do you imagine that the bird is conscious of all that is suffered by the insect?

Tommy.—No, sir.

Mr Barlow.—In him, then, it is not the same cruelty which it would be in you, who are endowed with reason and reflection. Nature has given him a propensity for animal food, which he obeys in the same manner as the sheep and ox when they feed upon grass, or as the ass when he browses upon the furze or thistles.

Tommy.—Why, then, perhaps the cat did not know the cruelty she was guilty of in tearing that poor bird to pieces?

Mr Barlow.—No more than the bird we have just seen is conscious of his cruelty to the insect. The natural food of cats consists in rats, mice, birds, and such small animals as they can seize by violence or catch by craft. It was impossible she should know the value you set upon your bird, and therefore she had no more intention of offending you than had she caught a mouse.

Tommy.—But if that is the case, should I have another tame bird, she would kill it as she has done this poor fellow.

Mr Barlow.—That, perhaps, may be prevented. I have heard people that deal in birds affirm there is a way of preventing cats from meddling with them.

Tommy.—Oh dear, sir, I should like to try it. Will you not show me how to prevent the cat from killing any more birds?

Mr Barlow.—Most willingly; it is certainly better to correct the faults of an animal than to destroy it. Besides, I have a particular affection for this cat, because I found her when she was a kitten, and have bred her up so tame and gentle that she will follow me about like a dog. She comes every morning to my chamber-door and mews till she is let in; and she sits upon the table at breakfast and dinner as grave and polite as a visitor, without offering to touch the meat. Indeed, before she was guilty of this offence, I have often seen you stroke and caress her with great affection; and puss, who is by no means of an ungrateful temper, would always pur and arch her tail, as if she was sensible of your attention.

In a few days after this conversation another robin, suffering like the former from the inclemency of the season, flew into the house, and commenced acquaintance with Tommy. But he, who recollected the mournful fate of his former bird, would not encourage it to any familiarity, till he had claimed the promise of Mr Barlow, in order to preserve it from danger. Mr Barlow, therefore, enticed the new guest into a small wire-cage, and, as soon as he had entered it, shut the door, in order to prevent his escaping. He then took a small gridiron, such as is used to broil meat upon, and, having almost heated it red hot, placed it erect upon the ground, before the cage in which the bird was confined. He then contrived to entice the cat into the room, and observing that she fixed her eye upon the bird, which she destined to become her prey, he withdrew the two little boys, in order to leave her unrestrained in her operations. They did not retire far, but observed her from the door fix her eyes upon the cage, and begin to approach it in silence, bending her body to the ground, and almost touching it as she crawled along. When she judged herself within a proper distance, she exerted all her agility in a violent spring, which would probably have been fatal to the bird, had not the gridiron, placed before the cage, received the impression of her attack. Nor was the disappointment the only punishment she was destined to undergo; the bars of the gridiron had been so thoroughly heated that, in rushing against them, she felt herself burned in several parts of her body, and retired from the field of battle mewing dreadfully and full of pain; and such was the impression which this adventure produced, that, from this time, she was never again known to attempt to destroy birds.

The coldness of the weather still continuing, all the wild animals began to perceive the effects, and, compelled by hunger, approached nearer to the habitations of man and the places they had been accustomed to avoid. A multitude of hares—the most timorous of all animals—were frequently seen scudding about the garden in search of the scanty vegetables which the severity of the season had spared. In a short time they had devoured all the green herbs which could be found, and, hunger still oppressing them, they began to gnaw the very bark of the trees for food. One day, as Tommy was walking in the garden, he found that even the beloved tree which he had planted with his own hands, and from which he had promised himself so plentiful a produce of fruit, had not escaped the general depredation, but had been gnawed round at the root and killed.

Tommy, who could ill brook disappointment, was so enraged to see his labours prove abortive, that he ran with tears in his eyes to Mr Barlow, to demand vengeance against the devouring hares. "Indeed," said Mr Barlow, "I am sorry for what they have done, but it is now too late to prevent it." "Yes," answered Tommy, "but you may have all those mischievous creatures shot, that they may do no further damage." "A little while ago," replied Mr Barlow, "you wanted to destroy the cat, because she was cruel and preyed upon living animals, and now you would murder all the hares, merely because they are innocent, inoffensive animals that subsist upon vegetables." Tommy looked a little foolish, but said, "he did not want to hurt them for living upon vegetables, but for destroying his tree." "But," said Mr Barlow, "how can you expect the animal to distinguish your trees from any other? You should therefore have fenced them round in such a manner as might have prevented the hares from reaching them; besides, in such extreme distress as animals now suffer from the want of food, I think they may be forgiven if they trespass a little more than usual."

Mr Barlow then took Tommy by the hand and led him into a field at some distance, which belonged to him, and which was sown with turnips. Scarcely had they entered the field before a flock of larks rose up in such innumerable quantities as almost darkened the air. "See," said Mr Barlow, "these little fellows are trespassing upon my turnips in such numbers, that in a short time they will destroy every bit of green about the field; yet I would not hurt them on any account. Look round the whole extent of the country, you will see nothing but a barren waste, which presents no food either to bird or beast. These little creatures, therefore, assemble in multitudes here, where they find a scanty subsistence, and though they do me some mischief, they are welcome to what they can find. In the spring they will enliven our walks by their agreeable songs."

Tommy.—How dreary and uncomfortable is this season of winter; I wish it were always summer.

Mr Barlow.—In some countries it is so; but there the inhabitants complain more of the intolerable heat than you do of the cold. They would with pleasure be relieved by the agreeable variety of cooler weather, when they are panting under the violence of a scorching sun.

Tommy.—Then I should like to live in a country that was never either disagreeably hot or cold.

Mr Barlow.—Such a country is scarcely to be found; or if it is, contains so small a portion of the earth as to leave room for very few inhabitants.

Tommy.—Then I should think it would be so crowded that one would hardly be able to stir, for everybody would naturally wish to live there.

Mr Barlow.—There you are mistaken, for the inhabitants of the finest climates are often less attached to their own country than those of the worst. Custom reconciles people to every kind of life, and makes them equally satisfied with the place in which they are born. There is a country called Lapland, which extends a great deal further north than any part of England, which is covered with perpetual snows during all the year, yet the inhabitants would not exchange it for any other portion of the globe.

Tommy.—How do they live in so disagreeable a country?

Mr Barlow.—If you ask Harry, he will tell you. Being a farmer, it is his business to study the different methods by which men find subsistence in all the different parts of the earth.

Tommy.—I should like very much to hear, if Harry will be so good as to tell me.

Harry.—You must know then, Master Tommy, that in the greatest part of this country which is called Lapland, the inhabitants neither sow nor reap; they are totally unacquainted with the use of corn, and know not how to make bread; they have no trees which bear fruit, and scarcely any of the herbs which grow in our gardens in England; nor do they possess either sheep, goats, hogs, cows, or beasts.

Tommy.—That must be a disagreeable country indeed! What then have they to live upon?

Harry.—They have a species of deer, which is bigger than the largest stags which you may have seen in the gentlemen's parks in England, and very strong. These animals are called reindeer, and are of so gentle a nature that they are easily tamed, and taught to live together in herds, and to obey their masters. In the short summer which they enjoy, the Laplanders lead them out to pasture in the valleys, where the grass grows very high and luxuriant. In the winter, when the ground is all covered over with snow, the deer have learned to scratch away the snow, and find a sort of moss which grows underneath it, and upon this they subsist. These creatures afford not only food, but raiment, and even houses to their masters. In the summer, the Laplander milks his herds and lives upon the produce; sometimes he lays by the milk in wooden vessels, to serve him for food in winter. This is soon frozen so hard that, when they would use it, they are obliged to cut it in pieces with a hatchet. Sometimes the winters are so severe that the poor deer can scarcely find even moss, and then the master is obliged to kill part of them and live upon the flesh. Of the skins he makes warm garments for himself and his family, and strews them thick upon the ground, to sleep upon. Their houses are only poles stuck slanting into the ground, and almost joined at top, except a little hole which they leave to let out the smoke. These poles are either covered with the skins of animals, or coarse cloth, or sometimes with turf and the bark of trees. There is a little hole left in one side, through which the family creep into their tent, and they make a comfortable fire to warm them, in the middle. People that are so easily contented are totally ignorant of most of the things that are thought so necessary here. The Laplanders have neither gold, nor silver, nor carpets, nor carved work in their houses; every man makes for himself all that the real wants of life require, and with his own hands performs everything which is necessary to be done. Their food consists either in frozen milk, or the flesh of the reindeer, or that of the bear, which they frequently hunt and kill. Instead of bread they strip off the bark of firs, which are almost the only trees that grow upon those dismal mountains, and, boiling the inward and more tender skin, they eat it with their flesh. The greatest happiness of these poor people is to live free and unrestrained; therefore they do not long remain fixed to any spot, but, taking down their houses, they pack them up along with the little furniture they possess, and load them upon sledges, to carry and set them up in some other place.

Tommy.—Have you not said that they have neither horses nor oxen? Do they then draw these sledges themselves?

Harry.—I thought I should surprise you, Master Tommy. The reindeer which I have described are so tractable, that they are harnessed like horses, and draw the sledges with their masters upon them nearly thirty miles a-day. They set out with surprising swiftness, and run along the snow, which is frozen so hard in winter that it supports them like a solid road. In this manner do the Laplanders perform their journeys, and change their places of abode as often as is agreeable. In the spring they lead their herds of deer to pasture upon the mountains; in the winter they come down into the plains, where they are better protected against the fury of the winds; for the whole country is waste and desolate, destitute of all the objects which you see here. There are no towns, nor villages; no fields enclosed or cultivated; no beaten roads; no inns for travellers to sleep at; no shops to purchase the necessaries or conveniences of life at; the face of the whole country is barren and dismal; wherever you turn your eyes, nothing is to be seen but lofty mountains, white with snow, and covered with ice and fogs; scarcely any trees are to be seen, except a few stunted firs and birches. These mountains afford a retreat to thousands of bears and wolves, which are continually pouring down and prowling about to prey upon the herds of deer, so that the Laplanders are continually obliged to fight them in their own defence. To do this, they fix large pieces of flat board, about four or five feet long, to the bottom of their feet, and, thus secured, they run along, without sinking into the snow, so nimbly, that they can overtake the wild animals in the chase. The bears they kill with bows and arrows, which they make themselves. Sometimes they find out the dens where they have laid themselves up in winter, and then they attack them with spears, and generally overcome them. When a Laplander has killed a bear, he carries it home in triumph, boils the flesh in an iron pot (which is all the cooking they are acquainted with), and invites all his neighbours to the feast. This they account the greatest delicacy in the world, and particularly the fat, which they melt over the fire and drink; then, sitting round the flame, they entertain each other with stories of their own exploits in hunting or fishing, till the feast is over. Though they live so barbarous a life, they are a good-natured, sincere, and hospitable people. If a stranger comes among them, they lodge and entertain him in the best manner they are able, and generally refuse all payment for their services, unless it be a little bit of tobacco, which they are immoderately fond of smoking.

Tommy.—Poor people! how I pity them, to live such an unhappy life! I should think the fatigues and hardships they undergo must kill them in a very short space of time.

Mr Barlow.—Have you then observed that those who eat and drink the most, and undergo the least fatigue, are the most free from disease?

Tommy.—Not always; for I remember that there are two or three gentlemen who come to dine at my father's, who eat an amazing quantity of meat, besides drinking a great deal of wine, and these poor gentlemen have lost the use of almost all their limbs. Their legs are so swelled, that they are almost as big as their bodies; their feet are so tender that they cannot set them to the ground; and their knees so stiff, that they cannot bend them. When they arrive, they are obliged to be helped out of their coaches by two or three people, and they come hobbling in upon crutches. But I never heard them talk about anything but eating and drinking in all my life. Mr Barlow.—And did you ever observe that any of the poor had lost the use of their limbs by the same disease?

Tommy.—I cannot say I have.

Mr Barlow.—Then, perhaps, the being confined to a scanty diet, to hardship, and to exercise, may not be so desperate as you imagine. This way of life is even much less so than the intemperance in which too many of the rich continually indulge themselves. I remember lately reading a story on this subject, which, if you please, you shall hear. Mr Barlow then read the following

"HISTORY OF A SURPRISING CURE OF THE GOUT."

"In one of the provinces of Italy there lived a wealthy gentleman, who, having no taste either for improving his mind or exercising his body, acquired a habit of eating almost all day long. The whole extent of his thoughts was, what he should eat for dinner, and how he should procure the greatest delicacies. Italy produces excellent wine, but these were not enough for our epicure; he settled agents in different parts of France and Spain, to buy up all the most generous and costly wines of those countries. He had correspondence with all the maritime cities, that he might be constantly supplied with every species of fish; every poulterer and fishmonger in the town was under articles to let him have his choice of rarities. He also employed a man on purpose to give directions for his pastry and desserts. As soon as he had breakfasted in the morning, it was his constant practice to retire to his library (for he, too, had a library, although he never opened a book). When he was there, he gravely seated himself in an easy chair, and, tucking a napkin under his chin, ordered his head cook to be sent in to him. The head cook instantly appeared attended by a couple of footmen, who carried each a silver salver of prodigious size, on which were cups containing sauces of every different flavour which could be devised. The gentleman, with the greatest solemnity, used to dip a bit of bread in each, and taste it, giving his orders upon the subject with as much earnestness and precision as if he had been signing papers for the government of a kingdom. When this important affair was thus concluded, he would throw himself upon a couch, to repair the fatigues of such an exertion, and refresh himself against dinner. When that delightful hour arrived, it is impossible to describe either the variety of fish, flesh, and fowl which was set before him, or the surprising greediness with which he ate of all; stimulating his appetite with the highest sauces and richest wines, till at length he was obliged to desist, not from being satisfied, but from mere inability to contain more.

"This kind of life he had long pursued, but at last became so corpulent that he could hardly move; his belly appeared prominent like a mountain, his face was bloated, and his legs, though swelled to the size of columns, seemed unable to support the prodigious weight of his body. Added to this, he was troubled with continual indigestions and racking pains in several of his limbs, which at length terminated in a violent fit of the gout. The pains, indeed, at length abated, and this unfortunate epicure returned to all his former habits of intemperance. The interval of ease, however, was short, and the attacks of his disease becoming more and more frequent, he was at length deprived of the use of almost all his limbs.

"In this unhappy state he determined to consult a physician that lived in the same town, and had the reputation of performing many surprising cures. 'Doctor,' said the gentleman to the physician, when he arrived, 'you see the miserable state to which I am reduced.' 'I do, indeed,' answered the physician, 'and I suppose you have contributed to it by your intemperance.' 'As to intemperance,' replied the gentleman, 'I believe few have less to answer for than myself; I indeed love a moderate dinner and supper, but I never was intoxicated with liquor in my life.' 'Probably, then, you sleep too much?' said the physician. 'As to sleep,' said the gentleman, 'I am in bed nearly twelve hours every night, because I find the sharpness of the morning air extremely injurious to my constitution; but I am so troubled with a plaguy flatulency and heartburn, that I am scarcely able to close my eyes all night; or if I do, I find myself almost strangled with wind, and awake in agonies.' 'That is a very alarming symptom, indeed,' replied the doctor; 'I wonder so many restless nights do not entirely wear you out.' 'They would, indeed,' answered the gentleman, 'if I did not make shift to procure a little sleep two or three times a-day, which enables me to hold out a little longer.' 'As to exercise,' continued the doctor, 'I fear you are not able to use a great deal.' 'Alas!' answered the sick man, 'while I was able, I never failed to go out in my carriage once or twice a-week, but in my present situation I can no longer bear the gentlest motion; besides disordering my whole frame, it gives me such intolerable twitches in my limbs, that you would imagine I was absolutely falling to pieces.' 'Your case,' answered the physician, 'is indeed bad, but not quite desperate, and if you could abridge the quantity of your food and sleep, you would in a short time find yourself much better.' 'Alas!' answered the sick man, 'I find you little know the delicacy of my constitution, or you would not put me upon a method which will infallibly destroy me. When I rise in the morning, I feel as if all the powers of life were extinguished within me; my stomach is oppressed with nausea, my head with aches and swimming, and above all, I feel such an intolerable sinking in my spirits, that, without the assistance of two or three cordials, and some restorative soup, I am confident I never could get through the morning. Now, doctor, I have such confidence in your skill, that there is no pill or potion you can order me which I will not take with pleasure, but as to a change in my diet, that is impossible.' 'That is,' answered the physician, 'you wish for health without being at the trouble of acquiring it, and imagine that all the consequences of an ill-spent life are to be washed away by a julep, or a decoction of senna. But as I cannot cure you upon those terms, I will not deceive you for an instant. Your case is out of the power of medicine, and you can only be relieved by your own exertions.' 'How hard is this,' answered the gentleman, 'to be thus abandoned to despair even in the prime of life! Cruel and unfeeling doctor, will you not attempt anything to procure me ease?' 'Sir,' answered the physician, 'I have already told you everything I know upon the subject. I must, however, acquaint you, that I have a brother physician who lives at Padua, a man of the greatest learning and integrity, who is particularly famous for curing the gout. If you think it worth your while to consult him, I will give you a letter of recommendation, for he never stirs from home, even to attend a prince.'

"Here the conversation ended; for the gentleman, who did not like the trouble of the journey, took his leave of the physician, and returned home very much dispirited. In a little while he either was, or fancied himself, worse; and as the idea of the Paduan physician had never left his head, he at last resolutely determined to set out upon the journey. For this purpose he had a litter so contrived that he could lie recumbent, or recline at his ease, and eat his meals. The distance was not above one day's tolerable journey, but the gentleman wisely resolved to make four of it, for fear of over-fatiguing himself. He had, besides, a loaded waggon attending, filled with everything that constitutes good eating; and two of his cooks went with him, that nothing might be wanting to his accommodation on the road.

"After a wearisome journey he at length arrived within sight of Padua, and eagerly inquiring after the house of Doctor Ramozini, was soon directed to the spot; then, having been helped out of his carriage by half-a-dozen of his servants, he was shown into a neat but plain parlour, from which he had the prospect of twenty or thirty people at dinner in a spacious hall. In the middle of them was the learned doctor himself, who with much complaisance invited the company to eat heartily. 'My good friend,' said the doctor to a pale-looking man on his right hand, 'you must eat three slices more of this roast-beef, or you will never lose your ague.' 'My friend,' said he to another, 'drink off this glass of porter; it is just arrived from England, and is a specific for nervous fevers.' 'Do not stuff your child so with macaroni,' added he, turning to a woman, 'if you wish to cure him of the scrofula.' 'Good man,' said he to a fourth, 'how goes on the ulcer in your leg?' 'Much better, indeed,' replied the man, 'since I have lived at your honour's table.' 'Well,' replied the physician, 'in a fortnight you will be perfectly cured, if you do but drink wine enough.'

"'Thank heaven!' said the gentleman, who had heard all this with infinite pleasure, 'I have at last met with a reasonable physician; he will not confine me to bread and water, nor starve me under pretence of curing me, like that confounded quack from whose clutches I have so luckily escaped.'

"At length the doctor dismissed his company, who retired loading him with thanks and blessings. He then approached the gentleman, and welcomed him with the greatest politeness, who presented him with his letters of recommendation, which, after the physician had perused, he thus accosted him:—'Sir, the letter of my learned friend has fully instructed me in the particulars of your case; it is indeed a difficult one, but I think you have no reason to despair of a perfect recovery. If,' added he, 'you choose to put yourself under my care, I will employ all the secrets of my art for your assistance. But one condition is absolutely indispensable; you must send away all your servants, and solemnly engage to follow my prescriptions for at least a month; without this compliance I would not undertake the cure even of a monarch.' 'Doctor,' answered the gentleman, 'what I have seen of your profession does not, I confess, much prejudice me in their favour; and I should hesitate to agree to such a proposal from any other individual.' 'Do as you like, sir,' answered the physician; 'the employing me or not is entirely voluntary on your part; but as I am above the common mercenary views of gain, I never stake the reputation of so noble an art without a rational prospect of success; and what success can I hope for in so obstinate a disorder, unless the patient will consent to a fair experiment of what I can effect?' 'Indeed,' replied the gentleman, 'what you say is so candid, and your whole behaviour so much interests me in your favour, that I will immediately give you proofs of the most unbounded confidence.'

"He then sent for his servants and ordered them to return home, and not to come near him till a whole month was elapsed. When they were gone, the physician asked him how he supported the journey? 'Why, really,' answered he, 'much better than I could have expected. But I feel myself unusually hungry; and therefore, with your permission, shall beg to have the hour of supper a little hastened.' 'Most willingly,' answered the doctor; 'at eight o'clock everything shall be ready for your entertainment. In the meantime you will permit me to visit my patients.'

"While the physician was absent, the gentleman was pleasing his imagination with the thoughts of the excellent supper he should make. 'Doubtless,' said he to himself, 'if Signor Ramozini treats the poor in such an hospitable manner, he will spare nothing for the entertainment of a man of my importance. I have heard there are delicious trouts and ortolans in this part of Italy; I make no doubt but the doctor keeps an excellent cook, and I shall have no reason to repent the dismission of my servants.'

"With these ideas he kept himself some time amused; at length his appetite growing keener and keener every instant, from fasting longer than ordinary, he lost all patience, and, calling one of the servants of the house, inquired for some little nice thing to stay his stomach till the hour of supper. 'Sir,' said the servant, 'I would gladly oblige you; but it is as much as my place is worth; my master is the best and most generous of men, but so great is his attention to his house patients, that he will not suffer one of them to eat, unless in his presence. However, sir, have patience; in two hours more the supper will be ready, and then you may indemnify yourself for all.'

"Thus was the gentleman compelled to pass two hours more without food—a degree of abstinence he had not practised for almost twenty years. He complained bitterly of the slowness of time, and was continually inquiring what was the hour.

"At length the doctor returned punctual to his time, and ordered the supper to be brought in. Accordingly six dishes were set upon the table with great solemnity, all under cover; and the gentleman flattered himself he should now be rewarded for his long abstinence. As they were sitting down to table, the learned Ramozini thus accosted his guest:—'Before you give a loose to your appetite, sir, I must acquaint you that, as the most effectual method of subduing this obstinate disease, all your food and drink will be mixed up with such medicinal substances as your case requires. They will not be indeed discoverable by any of your senses; but as their effects are equally strong and certain, I must recommend to you to eat with moderation.'

"Having said this, he ordered the dishes to be uncovered, which, to the extreme astonishment of the gentleman, contained nothing but olives, dried figs, dates, some roasted apples, a few boiled eggs, and a piece of hard cheese!

"'Heaven and earth!' cried the gentleman, losing all patience at this mortifying spectacle, 'is this the entertainment you have prepared for me, with so many speeches and prefaces? Do you imagine that a person of my fortune can sup on such contemptible fare as would hardly satisfy the wretched peasants whom I saw at dinner in your hall?' 'Have patience, my dear sir,' replied the physician; 'it is the extreme anxiety I have for your welfare that compels me to treat you with this apparent incivility. Your blood is all in a ferment with the violent exercise you have undergone; and were I rashly to indulge your craving appetite, a fever or a pleurisy might be the consequence. But to-morrow I hope you will be cooler, and then you may live in a style more adapted to your quality.'

"The gentleman began to comfort himself with this reflection, and, as there was no help, he at last determined to wait with patience another night. He accordingly tasted a few of the dates and olives, ate a piece of cheese with a slice of excellent bread, and found himself more refreshed than he could have imagined was possible from such a homely meal. When he had nearly supped, he wanted something to drink, and observing nothing but water upon the table, desired one of the servants to bring him a little wine. 'Not as you value the life of this illustrious gentleman,' cried out the physician. 'Sir,' added he, turning to his guest, 'it is with inexpressible reluctance that I contradict you, but wine would be at present a mortal poison; therefore, please to content yourself, for one night only, with a glass of this most excellent and refreshing mineral water.'

"The gentleman was again compelled to submit, and drank the water with a variety of strange grimaces. After the cloth was removed, Signor Ramozini entertained the gentleman with some agreeable and improving conversation for about an hour, and then proposed to his patient that he should retire to rest. This proposal the gentleman gladly accepted, as he found himself fatigued with his journey, and unusually disposed to sleep. The doctor then retired, and ordered one of his servants to show the gentleman to his chamber.

"He was accordingly conducted into a neighbouring room, where there was little to be seen but a homely bed, without furniture, with nothing to sleep upon but a mattress almost as hard as the floor. At this the gentleman burst into a violent passion again: 'Villain,' said he to the servant, 'it is impossible your master should dare to confine me to such a wretched dog-hole! Show me into another room immediately!' 'Sir,' answered the servant, with profound humility, 'I am heartily sorry the chamber does not please you, but I am morally certain I have not mistaken my master's order; and I have too great a respect for you to think of disobeying him in a point which concerns your precious life.' Saying this he went out of the room, and shutting the door on the outside, left the gentleman to his meditations. They were not very agreeable at first; however, as he saw no remedy, he undressed himself and entered the wretched bed, where he presently fell asleep while he was meditating revenge upon the doctor and his whole family.

"The gentleman slept so soundly that he did not awake till morning; and then the physician came into his room, and with the greatest tenderness and civility inquired after his health. He had indeed fallen asleep in very ill-humour; but his night's rest had much composed his mind, and the effect of this was increased by the extreme politeness of the doctor, so that he answered with tolerable temper, only making bitter complaints of the homeliness of his accommodation.

"'My dearest sir,' answered the physician, 'did I not make a previous agreement with you that you should submit to my management? Can you imagine that I have any other end in view than the improvement of your health? It is not possible that you should in everything perceive the reasons of my conduct, which is founded upon the most accurate theory and experience. However, in this case, I must inform you that I have found out the art of making my very beds medicinal; and this you must confess, from the excellent night you have passed. I cannot impart the same salutary virtues to down or silk, and therefore, though very much against my inclinations, I have been compelled to lodge you in this homely manner. But now, if you please, it is time to rise.'

"Ramozini then rang for the servants, and the gentleman suffered himself to be dressed. At breakfast the gentleman expected to fare a little better, but his relentless guardian would suffer him to taste nothing but a slice of bread and a porringer of water-gruel—all which he defended, very little to his guest's satisfaction, upon the most unerring principles of medical science.

"After breakfast had been some time finished, Dr Ramozini told his patient it was time to begin the great work of restoring him to the use of his limbs. He accordingly had him carried into a little room, where he desired the gentleman to attempt to stand. 'That is impossible,' answered the patient, 'for I have not been able to use a leg these three years.' 'Prop yourself, then, upon your crutches, and lean against the wall to support yourself,' answered the physician. The gentleman did so, and the doctor went abruptly out, and locked the door after him. He had not been long in this situation before he felt the floor of the chamber, which he had not before perceived to be composed of plates of iron, grow immoderately hot under his feet. He called the doctor and his servants, but to no purpose; he then began to utter loud vociferations and menaces, but all was equally ineffectual; he raved, he swore, he promised, he entreated, but nobody came to his assistance, and the heat grew more intense every instant. At length necessity compelled him to hop upon one leg in order to rest the other, and this he did with greater agility than he could conceive was possible; presently the other leg began to burn, and then he hopped again upon the other. Thus he went on, hopping about with this involuntary exercise, till he had stretched every sinew and muscle more than he had done for several years before, and thrown himself into a profuse perspiration.

"When the doctor was satisfied with the exertions of his patient, he sent into the floor an easy chair for him to rest upon, and suffered the floor to cool as gradually as it had been heated. Then it was that the sick man for the first time began to be sensible of the real use and pleasure of repose; he had earned it by fatigue, without which it can never prove either salutary or agreeable.

"At dinner the doctor appeared again to his patient, and made him a thousand apologies for the liberties he had taken with his person. These excuses he received with a kind of sullen civility. However, his anger was a little mitigated by the smell of a roasted pullet, which was brought to table and set before him. He now, from exercise and abstinence, began to find a relish in his victuals which he had never done before, and the doctor permitted him to mingle a little wine with his water. These compliances, however, were so extremely irksome to his temper, that the month seemed to pass away as slowly as a year. When it was expired, and his servants came to ask his orders, he instantly threw himself into his carriage without taking leave either of the doctor or his family. When he came to reflect upon the treatment he had received, his forced exercises, his involuntary abstinence, and all the other mortifications he had undergone, he could not conceive but it must be a plot of the physician he had left behind, and full of rage and indignation, drove directly to his house in order to reproach him with it.

"The physician happened to be at home, but scarcely knew his patient again, though after so short an absence. He had shrunk to half his former bulk, his look and colour were mended, and he had entirely thrown away his crutches. When he had given vent to all that his anger could suggest, the physician coolly answered in the following manner:—'I know not, sir, what right you have to make me these reproaches, since it was not by my persuasion that you put yourself under the care of Doctor Ramozini.' 'Yes, sir, but you gave me a high character of his skill and integrity.' 'Has he then deceived you in either, or do you find yourself worse than when you put yourself under his care?' 'I cannot say that,' answered the gentleman; 'I am, to be sure, surprisingly improved in my digestion; I sleep better than ever I did before; I eat with an appetite; and I can walk almost as well as ever I could in my life.' 'And do you seriously come,' said the physician, 'to complain of a man that has affected all these miracles for you in so short a time, and, unless you are now wanting to yourself, has given you a degree of life and health which you had not the smallest reason to expect.'

"The gentleman who had not sufficiently considered all these advantages, began to look a little confused, and the physician thus went on:—'All that you have to complain of is, that you have been involuntarily your own dupe, and cheated into health and happiness. You went to Dr Ramozini, and saw a parcel of miserable wretches comfortably at dinner. That great and worthy man is the father of all about him; he knows that most of the diseases of the poor, originate in their want of food and necessaries, and therefore benevolently assists them with better diet and clothing. The rich, on the contrary, are generally the victims of their own sloth and intemperance, and, therefore, he finds it necessary to use a contrary method of cure—exercise, abstinence, and mortification. You, sir, have indeed been treated like a child, but it has been for your own advantage. Neither your bed, nor meat, nor drink, has ever been medicated; all the wonderful change that has been produced has been by giving you better habits, and rousing the slumbering powers of your own constitution. As to deception, you have none to complain of, except what proceeded from your own foolish imagination, which persuaded you that a physician was to regulate his conduct by the folly and intemperance of his patient. As to all the rest, he only promised to exert all the secrets of his art for your cure; and this, I am witness he has done so effectually, that, were you to reward him with half your fortune, it would hardly be too much for his deserts.'

"The gentleman, who did not want either sense or generosity, could not help feeling the force of what was said. He therefore made a handsome apology for his behaviour, and instantly despatched a servant to Dr Ramozini, with a handsome present, and a letter expressing the highest gratitude; and so much satisfaction did he find in the amendment of his health and spirits, that he never again relapsed into his former habits of intemperance, but, by constant exercise and uniform moderation, continued free from any considerable disease to a very comfortable old age."

"Indeed," said Tommy, "this is a very diverting, comical story; and I should like very much to tell it to the gouty gentlemen that come to our house." "That," answered Mr Barlow, "would be highly improper, unless you were particularly desired. Those gentlemen cannot be ignorant that such unbounded indulgence of their appetites can only tend to increase the disease; and therefore you could teach them nothing new on the subject. But it would appear highly improper for such a little boy as you to take upon him to instruct others, while he all the time wants so much instruction himself." "Thus," continued Mr Barlow, "you see by this story (which is applicable to half the rich in most countries), that intemperance and excess are fully as dangerous as want and hardships. As to the Laplanders, whom you were in so much pain about, they are some of the healthiest people whom the world produces. They generally live to an extremely old age, free from all the common diseases which we are acquainted with, and subject to no other inconveniency than blindness, which is supposed to arise from the continual prospect of snow, and the constant smoke with which they are surrounded in their huts."



CHAPTER V.

Lost in the Snow—Jack Smithers' Home—Talk about the Stars—Harry's pursuit of The Will-o'-the-Wisp—Story of the Avalanche—Town and Country compared—The Power of the Lever—The Balance—The Wheel and Axle—Arithmetic—Buying a Horse—History of Agesilaus—History of Leonidas.

Some few days after this conversation, when the snow had nearly disappeared, though the frost and cold continued, the two little boys went out to take a walk. Insensibly they wandered so far that they scarcely knew their way, and therefore resolved to return as speedily as possible; but unfortunately, in passing through a wood, they entirely missed the track, and lost themselves. To add to their distress, the wind began to blow most bitterly from the north, and a violent shower of snow coming on, obliged them to seek the thickest shelter they could find. They happened fortunately to be near an aged oak, the inside of which gradually decaying, was worn away by time, and afforded an ample opening to shelter them from the storm. Into this the two little boys crept safe, and endeavoured to keep each other warm, while a violent shower of snow and sleet fell all around, and gradually covered the earth. Tommy, who had been little used to hardships, bore it for some time with fortitude, and without uttering a complaint. At length hunger and fear took entire possession of his soul, and turning to Harry, with watery eyes and a mournful voice, he asked him what they should do? "Do?" said Harry, "we must wait here, I think, till the weather clears up a little, and then we will endeavour to find the way home."

Tommy.—But what if the weather should not clear up at all?

Harry.—In that case we must either endeavour to find our way through the snow, or stay here, where we are so conveniently sheltered.

Tommy.—But oh! what a dreadful thing it is to be here all alone in this dreary wood! And then I am so hungry and so cold; oh that we had but a little fire to warm us!

Harry.—I have heard that shipwrecked persons, when they have been cast away upon a desert coast, have made a fire to warm themselves by rubbing two pieces of wood together till they caught fire; or here is a better thing; I have a large knife in my pocket, and if I could but find a piece of flint, I could easily strike fire with the back of it.

Harry then searched about, and after some time found a couple of flints, though not without much difficulty, as the ground was nearly hidden with snow. He then took the flints, and striking one upon the other with all his force, he shivered them into several pieces; out of those he chose the thinnest and sharpest, and telling Tommy, with a smile, that he believed that would do, he struck it several times against the back of his knife, and thus produced several sparks of fire. "This," said Harry, "will be sufficient to light a fire, if we can but find something of a sufficiently combustible nature to kindle from these sparks." He then collected the driest leaves he could find, with little decayed pieces of wood, and piling them into a heap, endeavoured to kindle a blaze by the sparks which he continually struck from his knife and the flint. But it was in vain; the leaves were not of a sufficiently combustible nature, and while he wearied himself in vain, they were not at all the more advanced. Tommy, who beheld the ill success of his friend, began to be more and more terrified, and in despair asked Harry again what they should do. Harry answered, that as they had failed in their attempt to warm themselves, the best thing they could do was to endeavour to find their way home, more especially as the snow had now ceased, and the sky was become much clearer. This Tommy consented to, and with infinite difficulty they began their march; for, as the snow had completely covered every tract, and the daylight began to fail, they wandered at random through a vast and pathless wood. At every step which Tommy took he sank almost to his knees in snow. The wind was bleak and cold, and it was with much difficulty that Harry could prevail upon him to continue his journey. At length, however, as they thus pursued their way with infinite toil, they came to some lighted embers, which either some labourers or some wandering passenger had lately quitted, and which were yet unextinguished. "See," said Harry with joy, "see what a lucky chance is this! here is a fire ready lighted for us, which needs only the assistance of a little wood to make it burn." Harry again collected all the dry pieces he could find, and piled them upon the embers, which in a few minutes began to blaze, and diffused a cheerful warmth. Tommy then began to warm and chafe his almost frozen limbs over the fire with infinite delight. At length he could not help observing to Harry, that he never could have believed that a few dried sticks could have been of so much consequence to him. "Ah!" answered Harry, "Master Tommy, you have been brought up in such a manner, that you never knew what it was to want anything; but that is not the case with thousands and millions of people. I have seen hundreds of poor children that have neither bread to eat, fire to warm, nor clothes to cover them. Only think, then, what a disagreeable situation they must be in; yet they are so accustomed to hardship that they do not cry in a twelvemonth as much as you have done within this quarter of an hour."

"Why," answered Tommy, a little disconcerted at the observation of his crying, "it cannot be expected that gentlemen should be able to bear all these inconveniences as well as the poor." "Why not," answered Harry, "is not a gentleman as much a man as the poor can be? and if he is a man, should he not accustom himself to support everything that his fellow-creatures do?"

Tommy.—That is very true; but he will have all the conveniences of life provided for him; victuals to eat, a good warm bed, and a fire to warm him.

Harry.—But he is not sure of having all these things as long as he lives. Besides, I have often observed the gentlemen and ladies in our neighbourhood riding about in coaches, and covered from head to foot, yet shaking with the least breath of air, as if they all had agues, while the children of the poor run about barefooted upon the ice, and divert themselves with making snow-balls.

Tommy.—That is indeed true; for I have seen my mother's visitors sitting over the largest fire that could be made, and complaining of cold, while the labourers out of doors were stripped to their shirts to work, and never minded it in the least.

Harry.—Then I should think that exercise, by which a person can warm himself when he pleases, is an infinitely better thing than all these conveniences you speak of; because, after all, they will not hinder a person from being cold, but exercise will warm him in an instant.

Tommy.—But then it is not proper for gentlemen to do the same kind of work with the common people.

Harry.—But is it not proper for a gentleman to have his body stout and hardy?

Tommy.—To be sure it is.

Harry.—Why, then, he must sometimes labour and use his limbs, or else he will never be able to do it.

Tommy.—What! cannot a person be strong without working?

Harry.—You can judge for yourself. You very often have fine young gentlemen at your father's house, and are any of them as strong as the sons of the farmers in the neighbourhood, who are always used to handle a hoe, a spade, a fork, and other tools?

Tommy.—Indeed, I believe that is true, for I think I am become stronger myself since I have learned to divert myself in Mr Barlow's garden.

As they were conversing in this manner, a little boy came singing along, with a bundle of sticks at his back; and as soon as Harry saw him, he recollected him, and cried out, "As I am alive, here as I am is Jack Smithers, the little ragged boy that you gave the clothes to in the summer! He lives, I dare say, in the neighbourhood, and either he or his father will now show us the way home."



Harry then spoke to the boy, and asked him if he could show them the way out of the wood. "Yes, surely I can," answered the boy; "but I never should have thought of seeing Master Merton out so late in such a tempestuous night as this; but, if you will come with me to my father's cottage, you may warm yourself at our fire, and father will run to Mr Barlow to let him know you are safe."

Tommy accepted the offer with joy, and the little boy led them out of the wood, and in a few minutes they came to a small cottage which stood by the side of the road, which, when they entered, they saw a middle-aged woman busy in spinning; the eldest girl was cooking some broth over the fire; the father was sitting in the chimney-corner, and reading a book, while three or four ragged children were tumbling upon the floor, and creeping between their father's legs.

"Daddy," said the little boy, as he came in, "here is Master Merton, who was so good to us all in the summer; he has lost his way in the wood, and is almost perished in the snow."

The man upon this arose, and with much civility desired the two little boys to seat themselves by the fire, while the good woman ran to fetch her largest faggot, which she threw upon the fire, and created a cheerful blaze in an instant. "There, my dear little master," said she, "you may at least refresh yourself by our fire, and I wish I had anything to offer you that you could eat; but I am afraid you would never be able to bear such coarse brown bread as we poor folks are obliged to eat." "Indeed," said Tommy, "my good mother, I have fasted so long, and I am so hungry, that I think I could eat anything." "Well, then," answered the woman, "here is a little bit of gammon of bacon which I will broil for you upon the embers, and if you can make a supper you are heartily welcome."

While the good woman was thus preparing supper the man had closed his book, and placed it with great respect upon a shelf, which gave Tommy the curiosity to ask him what he was reading about. "Master," answered the man, "I was reading the Book which teaches me my duty towards man, and my obligations to God; I was reading the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and teaching it to my children."

Tommy.—Indeed, I have heard of that good Book; Mr Barlow has often read part of it to me, and promised I should read it myself. That is the Book they read at church; I have often heard Mr Barlow read it to the people; and he always reads it so well and so affectingly that everybody listens, and you may hear even a pin drop upon the pavement.

The Man.—Yes, master, Mr Barlow is a worthy servant and follower of Jesus Christ himself; he is the friend of all the poor in the neighbourhood; he gives us food and medicines when we are ill, and he employs us when we can find no work; but what we are even more obliged to him for than the giving us food and raiment, and life itself, he instructs us in our duty, makes us ashamed of our faults, and teaches us how we may be happy, not only here, but in another world. I was once an idle, abandoned man myself, given up to swearing and drinking, neglecting my family, and taking no thought for my poor wife and children; but since Mr Barlow has taught me better things, and made me acquainted with this blessed book, my life and manners, I hope, are much amended, and I do my duty better to my poor family.

"That indeed you do, Robin," answered the woman; "there is not now a better and kinder husband in the world; you have not wasted an idle penny or a moment's time these two years; and, without that unfortunate fever, which prevented you from working last harvest, we should have the greatest reason to be contented."

"Have we not the greatest reason now," answered the man, "to be not only contented, but thankful for all the blessings we enjoy? It is true that I, and several of the children, were ill this year for many weeks; but did we not all escape, through the blessing of God, and the care of good Mr Barlow and this worthy Master Sandford, who brought us victuals so many days, with his own hands, when we otherwise should perhaps have starved? Have I not had very good employment ever since; and do I not now earn six shillings a-week, which is a very comfortable thing, when many poor wretches as good as I are starving, because they cannot find employment?"

"Six shillings a-week! six shillings a-week!" answered Tommy in amazement; "and is that all you and your wife and children have to live on for a whole week!"

The Man.—Not all, master; my wife sometimes earns a shilling or eighteenpence a-week by spinning, and our eldest daughter begins to do something that way, but not much.

Tommy.—That makes seven shillings and sixpence a-week. Why, I have known my mother give more than that to go to a place where outlandish people sing. I have seen her and other ladies give a man a guinea for dressing their hair; and I know a little miss, whose father gives half-a-guinea a time to a little Frenchman, who teaches her to jump and caper about the room.

"Master," replied the man, smiling, "these are great gentlefolks that you are talking about; they are very rich, and have a right to do what they please with their own; it is the duty of us poor folks to labour hard, take what we can get, and thank the great and wise God that our condition is no worse."

Tommy.—What! and is it possible that you can thank God for living in such a house as this, and earning seven shillings and sixpence a-week?

The Man.—To be sure I can, master. Is it not an act of His goodness that we have clothes and a warm house to shelter us, and wholesome food to eat? It was but yesterday that two poor men came by, who had been cast away in a storm, and lost their ship and all they had. One of the poor men had scarcely any clothes to cover him, and was shaking all over with a violent ague; and the other had his toes almost mortified by walking bare-footed in the snow. Am I not a great deal better off than these poor men, and perhaps than a thousand others, who are at this time tossed about upon the waves, or cast away, or wandering about the world, without a shed to cover them from the weather; or imprisoned for debt? Might I not have gone on in committing bad actions, like many other unhappy men, till I had been guilty of some notorious crime, which might have brought me to a shameful end? And ought not I to be grateful for all these blessings which I possess without deserving them?

Tommy, who had hitherto enjoyed all the good things of this life, without reflecting from whom he had received them, was very much struck with the piety of this honest and contented man; but as he was going to answer, the good woman, who had laid a clean, though coarse, cloth upon the table, and taken up her savoury supper in an earthen plate, invited them to sit down; an invitation which both the boys obeyed with the greatest pleasure, as they had eaten nothing since the morning. In the meantime the honest man of the house had taken his hat and walked to Mr Barlow's, to inform him that his two pupils were safe in the neighbourhood.

Mr Barlow had long suffered the greatest uneasiness at their absence, and not contented with sending after them on every side, was at that very time busy in the pursuit, so that the man met him about half-way from his own house. As soon as Mr Barlow heard the good news, he determined to return with the man, and reached his house just as Tommy Merton had finished one of the heartiest meals he had ever made.

The little boys rose up to meet Mr Barlow, and thanked him for his kindness, and the pains he had taken to look after them, expressing their concern for the accident which had happened, and the uneasiness which, without designing it, they had occasioned; but he, with the greatest good-nature, advised them to be more cautious for the future, and not to extend their walks so far; then, thanking the worthy people of the house, he offered to conduct them, and they all three set out together in a very cold, but fine and star-light evening.

As they went home Mr Barlow renewed his caution, and told them the dangers they had incurred. "Many people," said he, "in your situation, have been surprised by an unexpected storm, and, losing their way, have perished with cold. Sometimes, both men and beasts, not being able to discern their accustomed track, have fallen into deep pits filled up and covered with the snow, where they have been found buried several feet deep, and frozen to death." "And is it impossible," said Tommy, "in such a case to escape?" "In general it is," said Mr Barlow; "but there have been some extraordinary instances of persons who have lived several days in that condition, and yet have been taken out alive; to-morrow you shall read a remarkable story to that purpose."

As they were walking on, Tommy looked up at the sky, where all the stars glimmered with unusual brightness, and said, "What an innumerable number of stars is here! I think I never observed so many before in all my life!" "Innumerable as they appear to you," said Mr Barlow, "there are persons that have not only counted all you now see, but thousands more, which are at present invisible to your eye." "How can that be?" inquired Tommy, "for there is neither beginning nor end; they are scattered so confusedly about the sky, that I should think it as impossible to number them, as the flakes of snow that fell to-day while we were in the wood."

At this Mr Barlow smiled, and said, that he believed Harry could give him a different account, although perhaps he could not number them all. "Harry," said he, "cannot you show your companion some of the constellations?" "Yes," answered Harry, "I believe I remember some that you have been so good as to teach me." "But pray, sir," said Tommy, "what is a constellation?"

"Those," answered Mr Barlow, "who first began to observe the heavens as you do now, have observed certain stars, remarkable either for their brightness or position. To these they have given a particular name that they might the more easily know them again, and discourse of them to others; and these particular clusters of stars, thus joined together and named, they call constellations. But come, Harry, you are a little farmer, and can certainly point out to us Charles' Wain."

Harry then looked up to the sky, and pointed out seven very bright stars towards the north. "You are right," said Mr Barlow; "four of these stars have put the common people in mind of the four wheels of a waggon, and the three others of the horses, therefore they have called them by this name. Now, Tommy, look well at these, and see if you can find any seven stars in the whole sky that resemble them in their position."

Tommy.—Indeed, sir, I do not think I can.

Mr Barlow.—Do you not think, then, that you can find them again?

Tommy.—I will try, sir. Now, I will take my eye off, and look another way. I protest I cannot find them again. Oh! I believe, there they are. Pray, sir (pointing with his finger), is not that Charles' Wain?

Mr Barlow.—You are right; and, by remembering these stars, you may very easily observe those which are next to them, and learn their names too, till you are acquainted with the whole face of the heavens.

Tommy.—That is indeed very clever and very surprising. I will show my mother Charles' Wain the first time I go home; I daresay she has never observed it.

Mr Barlow.—But look on the two stars which compose the hinder wheel of the waggon, and raise your eye up towards the top of the sky; do you not see a very bright star, that seems to be almost, but not quite, in a line with the two others?

Tommy.—Yes, sir; I see it plainly.

Mr Barlow.—That is called the Pole-star; it never moves from its place, and by looking full at it, you may always find the north.

Tommy.—Then if I turn my face towards that star, I always look to the north.

Mr Barlow.—You are right.

Tommy.—Then I shall turn my back to the south.

Mr Barlow.—You are right again; and now cannot you find the east and the west?

Tommy.—Is it not the east where the sun rises?

Mr Barlow.—Yes; but there is no sun to direct you now.

Tommy.—Then, sir, I cannot find it out.

Mr Barlow.—Do not you know, Harry?

Harry.—I believe, sir, that if you turn your face to the north, the east will be on the right hand, and the west on the left.

Mr Barlow.—Perfectly right.

Tommy.—That is very clever indeed; so then, by knowing the Pole-star, I can always find north, east, west, and south. But you said that the Pole-star never moves; do the other stars, then, move out of their places?

Mr Barlow.—That is a question you may learn to answer yourself, by observing the present appearance of the heavens, and then examining whether the stars change their places at any future time.

Tommy.—But, sir, I have thought that it would be a good contrivance, in order to remember their situation, if I were to draw them upon a bit of paper.

Mr Barlow.—But how would you do that?

Tommy.—I would make a mark upon the paper for every star in Charles' Wain; and I would place the marks just as I see the stars placed in the sky; and I would entreat you to write the names for me; and this I would do till I was acquainted with all the stars in the heavens.

Mr Barlow.—That would be an excellent way, but you see a paper is flat; is that the form of the sky?

Tommy.—No; the sky seems to rise from the earth on every side, like the dome of a great church.

Mr Barlow.—Then if you were to have some round body, I should think it would correspond to the different parts of the sky, and you might place your stars with more exactness.

Tommy.—That is true, indeed, sir; I wish I had just such a globe.

Mr Barlow.—Well, just such a globe I will endeavour to procure you.

Tommy.—Sir, I am much obliged to you, indeed. But of what use is it to know the stars?

Mr Barlow.—Were there no other use, I should think there would be a very great pleasure in observing such a number of glorious glittering bodies as are now above us. We sometimes run to see a procession of coaches, or a few people in fine clothes strutting about. We admire a large room that is painted, and ornamented, and gilded; but what is there in all these things to be compared with the sight of these luminous bodies that adorn every part of the sky?

Tommy.—That's true, indeed. My Lord Wimple's great room that I have heard all the people admire so much, is no more to be compared to it than the shabbiest thing in the world.

Mr Barlow.—That is indeed true; but there are some, and those very important, uses to be derived from an acquaintance with the stars. Harry, do you tell Master Merton the story of your being lost upon the great moor.

Harry.—You must know, Master Tommy, that I have an uncle who lives about three miles off, across the great moor that we have sometimes walked upon. Now, my father, as I am in general pretty well acquainted with the roads, very often sends me with messages to my uncle. One evening I went there so late, that it was scarcely possible to get home again before it was quite dark. It was at that time in the month of October. My uncle wished me very much to stay at his house all night, but that was not proper for me to do, because my father had ordered me to come back; so I set out as soon as I possibly could, but just as I had reached the heath, the evening grew extremely dark.

Tommy.—And were not you frightened to find yourself all alone upon such a dismal place?

Harry.—No; I knew the worst that could happen would be that I should stay there all night, and as soon as ever the morning shone, I should have found my way home. But, however, by the time that I had reached the middle of the heath, there came on such a violent tempest of wind, blowing full in my face, accompanied with such a shower, that I found it impossible to continue my way. So I quitted the track, which is never very easy to find, and ran aside to a holly-bush that was growing at some distance, in order to seek a little shelter. Here, I lay, very conveniently, till the storm was almost over; then I rose and attempted to continue my way, but unfortunately I missed the track, and lost myself.

Tommy.—That was a very dismal thing indeed.

Harry.—I wandered about a great while, but still to no purpose. I had not a single mark to direct me, because the common is so extensive, and so bare either of trees or houses, that one may walk for miles and see nothing but heath and furze. Sometimes I tore my legs in scrambling through great thickets of furze; now and then I plumped into a hole full of water, and should have been drowned if I had not learned to swim; so that at last I was going to give it up in despair, when, looking on one side, I saw a light at a little distance, which seemed to be a candle and lantern that somebody was carrying across the moor.

Tommy.—Did not that give you very great comfort?

"You shall hear," answered Harry, smiling. "At first I was doubtful whether I should go up to it; but I considered that it was not worth anybody's pains to hurt a poor boy like me, and that no person who was out on any ill design, would probably choose to carry a light. So I determined boldly to go up to it, and inquire the way."

Tommy.—And did the person with the candle and lantern direct you?

Harry.—I began walking up towards it, when immediately the light, which I had first observed on my right hand, moving slowly along by my side, changed its direction, and went directly before me, with about the same degree of swiftness. I thought this very odd; but I still continued the chase, and just as I thought I had approached very near, I tumbled into another pit full of water.

Tommy.—That was unlucky indeed.

Harry.—Well, I scrambled out, and very luckily on the same side with the light, which I began to follow again, but with as little success as ever. I had now wandered many miles about the common; I knew no more where I was than if I had been set down upon an unknown country; I had no hopes of finding my way home, unless I could reach this wandering light; and, though I could not conceive that the person who carried it could know of my being so near, he seemed to act as if he was determined to avoid me. However, I was resolved to make one attempt, and therefore I began to run as fast as I was able, hallooing out, at the same time, to the person that I thought before me, to entreat him to stop.

Tommy.—And did he?

Harry.—Instead of that, the light, which had before been moving along at a slow and easy pace, now began to dance as it were before me, ten times faster than before, so that instead of overtaking it, I found myself farther and farther behind. Still, however, I ran on, till I unwarily sunk up to the middle in a large bog, out of which I at last scrambled with a very great difficulty. Surprised at this, and not conceiving that any human being could pass over such a bog as this, I determined to pursue it no longer. But now I was wet and weary; the clouds had indeed rolled away, and the moon and stars began to shine. I looked around me, and could discern nothing but a wide, barren country, without so much as a tree to shelter me, or any animal in sight. I listened, in hopes of hearing a sheepbell, or the barking of a dog; but nothing met my ear, except the shrill whistling of the wind, which blew so cold that it chilled me to the very heart. In this situation I stopped a while to consider what I should do; and raising my eyes by accident to the sky, the first object I beheld was that very constellation of Charles' Wain, and above it I discerned the Pole-star, glimmering, as it were, from the very top of heaven. Instantly a thought came into my mind; I considered, that when I had been walking along the road which led towards my uncle's house I had often observed the Pole-star full before me; therefore it occurred to me, that if I turned my back exactly upon it, and went straight forward in a contrary direction, it must lead me towards my father's house. As soon as I had formed this resolution, I began to execute it. I was persuaded I should now escape, and therefore, forgetting my fatigue, I ran along as briskly as if I had but then set out. Nor was I disappointed; for though I could see no tracks, yet, taking the greatest care always to go on in that direction, the moon afforded me light enough to avoid the pits and bogs which are found in various parts of that wild moor; and when I had travelled, as I imagined, about three miles, I heard the barking of a dog, which gave me double vigour; and going a little farther, I came to some enclosures at the skirts of the common, which I knew, so that I then with ease found my way home, after having almost despaired of doing it.

Tommy.—Indeed, then, the knowledge of the Pole-star was of very great use to you. I am determined I will make myself acquainted with all the stars in the heavens. But did you ever find out what that light was, which danced before you in so extraordinary a manner?

Harry.—When I came home, my father told me it was what the common people called a Jack-o'-the-lantern; and Mr Barlow has since informed me that these things are only vapours, which rise out of the earth in moist and fenny places, although they have that bright appearance; and therefore told me that many people, like me, who have taken them for a lighted candle, have followed them, as I did, into bogs and ditches.

Just as Harry had finished his story, they arrived at Mr Barlow's; and after sitting some time, and talking over the accidents of the day, the little boys retired to bed. Mr Barlow was sitting alone and reading in his parlour, when, to his great surprise, Tommy came running into the room, half undressed, and bawling out, "Sir, sir, I have found it out! they move! they move!" "What moves?" said Mr Barlow. "Why, Charles' Wain moves," answered Tommy; "I had a mind to take one peep at the sky before I went to bed, and I see that all the seven stars have moved from their places a great way higher up the sky." "Well," said Mr Barlow, "you are indeed right. You have done a vast deal to-day, and to-morrow we will talk over these things again."

When the morrow came, Tommy put Mr Barlow in mind of the story he had promised him about the people buried in the snow. Mr Barlow looked him out the book, but first said, "It is necessary to give you some explanation. The country where this accident happened is a country full of rocks and mountains, so excessively high that the snow never melts upon their tops." "Never?" said Tommy; "not even in the summer?" "Not even in the summer. The valleys between these mountains are inhabited by a brave and industrious people; the sides of them, too, are cultivated, but the tops of the highest mountains are so extremely cold that the ice and snow never melt, but go on continually increasing. During a great part of the winter the weather is extremely cold, and the inhabitants confine themselves within their houses, which they have the art to render very comfortable. Almost all the roads are then impassable, and snow and ice afford the only prospect. But when the year begins to grow warmer, the snow is frequently thawed upon the sides of the mountains, and undermined by the torrents of water, which pour down with irresistible fury. Hence it frequently happens that such prodigious masses of snow fall down as are sufficient to bury beasts and houses, and even villages themselves, beneath them.

"It was in the neighbourhood of these prodigious mountains, which are called the Alps, that, on the 19th of March 1755, a small cluster of houses was entirely overwhelmed by two vast bodies of snow that tumbled down upon them from a greater height. All the inhabitants were then within doors, except one Joseph Rochia, and his son, a lad of fifteen, who were on the roof of their house clearing away the snow, which had fallen for three days incessantly. A priest going by to church advised them to come down, having just before observed a body of snow tumbling from the mountain towards them. The man descended with great precipitation, and fled with his son he knew not whither; but scarcely had he gone thirty or forty steps before his son, who followed him, fell down; on which, looking back, he saw his own and his neighbours' houses, in which were twenty-two persons in all, covered with a high mountain of snow. He lifted up his son, and reflecting that his wife, his sister, two children, and all his effects, were thus buried, he fainted away; but, soon reviving, got safe to a friend's house at some distance.

"Five days after, Joseph, being perfectly recovered, got upon the snow, with his son and two of his wife's brothers, to try if he could find the exact place where his house stood; but, after many openings made in the snow, they could not discover it. The month of April proving hot, and the snow beginning to soften, he again used his utmost endeavours to recover his effects, and to bury, as he thought, the remains of his family. He made new openings, and threw in earth to melt the snow, which on the 24th of April was greatly diminished. He broke through ice six English feet thick, with iron bars, thrust down a long pole and touched the ground; but evening coming on, he desisted.

"The next day the brother of his wife, who had heard of the misfortunes of the family, came to the house where Joseph was, and after resting himself a little, went with him to work upon the snow, where they made another opening, which led them to the house they searched for; but, finding no dead bodies in its ruins, they sought for the stable, which was about two hundred and forty English feet distant, which, having found, they heard the cry of 'Help, my dear brother!' Being greatly surprised, as well as encouraged by these words, they laboured with all diligence till they had made a large opening, through which the brother immediately went down, where the sister, with an agonising and feeble voice, told him 'I have always trusted in God and you, that you would not forsake me.' The other brother and the husband then went down, and found, still alive, the wife, about forty-five, the sister, about thirty-five, and the daughter, about thirteen years old. These they raised on their shoulders to men above, who pulled them up as if from the grave, and carried them to a neighbouring house; they were unable to walk, and so wasted that they appeared like mere skeletons. They were immediately put to bed, and gruel of rye-flour and a little butter was given to recover them.

"Some days after, the magistrate of the place came to visit them, and found the wife still unable to rise from bed, or use her feet from the intense cold she had endured, and the uneasy posture she had been in. The sister, whose legs had been bathed with hot wine, could walk with some difficulty, and the daughter needed no further remedies.

"On the magistrate's interrogating the women, they told him that, on the morning of the 19th of March, they were in the stable with a boy of six years old, and a girl of about thirteen. In the same stable were six goats, one of which having brought forth two dead kids the night before, they went to carry her a small vessel of rye-flour gruel; there were also an ass, and five or six fowls. They were sheltering themselves in a warm corner of the stable till the church-bell should ring, intending to attend the service. The wife related that, wanting to go out of the stable to kindle a fire in the house of her husband, who was clearing away the snow from the top of it, she perceived a mass of snow breaking down towards the east, upon which she went back into the stable, shut the door, and told her sister of it. In less than three minutes they heard the roof break over their heads, and also a part of the ceiling. The sister advised to get into the rack and manger, which they did. The ass was tied to the manger, but got loose by kicking and struggling, and threw down the little vessel, which they found, and afterwards used to hold the melted snow, which served them for drink.

"Very fortunately the manger was under the main prop of the stable, and so resisted the weight of the snow. Their first care was to know what they had to eat. The sister said she had fifteen chestnuts in her pockets; the children said they had breakfasted, and should want no more that day. They remembered there were thirty-six or forty cakes in a place near the stable, and endeavoured to get at them, but were not able for the snow. They called often for help, but were heard by none. The sister gave the chestnuts to the wife, and ate two herself, and they drank some snow-water. The ass was restless, and the goats kept bleating for some days, after which they heard no more of them. Two of the goats, however, being left alive and near the manger, they felt them, and found that one of them was big, and would kid, as they recollected, about the middle of April; the other gave milk, wherewith they preserved their lives. During all this time they saw not one ray of light, yet for about twenty days they had some notice of night and day from the crowing of the fowls, till they died.

"The second day, being very hungry, they ate all the chestnuts, and drank what milk the goat yielded, being very near two quarts a-day at first, but it soon decreased. The third day they attempted again, but in vain, to get at the cakes; so resolved to take all possible care to feed the goats; for just above the manger was a hay-loft, where, through a hole, the sister pulled down hay into the rack, and gave it to the goats as long as she could reach it, and then, when it was beyond her reach, the goats climbed upon her shoulders and reached it themselves.

"On the sixth day the boy sickened, and six days after desired his mother, who all this time had held him in her lap, to lay him at his length in the manger. She did so, and taking him by the hand felt it was very cold; she then put her hand to his mouth, and finding that cold likewise, she gave him a little milk; the boy then cried, 'Oh, my father is in the snow! Oh father! father!' and then expired.

"In the meanwhile the goat's milk diminished daily, and, the fowls soon after dying, they could no longer distinguish night from day; but according to their reckoning, the time was near when the other goat would kid; this she accordingly did soon, and the young one dying, they had all the milk for their own subsistence; so they found that the middle of April was come. Whenever they called this goat, it would come and lick their faces and hands, and gave them every day two quarts of milk, on which account they still bear the poor creature a great affection.

"This was the account which these poor people gave to the magistrate of their preservation."

"Dear heart!" said Tommy, when Mr Barlow had finished this account, "what a number of accidents people are subject to in this world." "It is very true," answered Mr Barlow; "but as that is the case, it is necessary to improve ourselves in every manner, that we may be able to struggle against them."

Tommy.—Indeed, sir, I begin to believe it is; for when I was less than I am now, I remember I was always fretful and hurting myself, though I had two or three people constantly to take care of me. At present I seem as if I was quite another thing; I do not mind falling down and hurting myself, or cold, or weariness, or scarcely anything which happens.

Mr Barlow.—And which do you prefer; to be as you are now, or as you were before?

Tommy.—As I am now, a great deal, sir; for then I always had something or another the matter with me. Sometimes I had a little cold, and then I was obliged to stay in for several days; sometimes a little headache, and then I was forced to take physic; sometimes the weather was too hot, then I must stay within, and the same if it was too cold; I used to be tired to death, if I did but walk a mile, and I was always eating cake and sweetmeats till I made myself sick. At present I think I am ten times stronger and healthier than ever I was in my life. But what a terrible country that must be, where people are subject to be buried in that manner in the snow! I wonder anybody will live there.

Mr Barlow.—The people who inhabit that country are of a different opinion, and prefer it to all the countries in the world. They are great travellers, and many of them follow different professions in all the different countries of Europe; but it is the only wish of almost all to return, before their death, to the mountains where they were born and have passed their youth.

Tommy.—I do not easily understand that. I have seen a great many ladies and little misses at our house, and whenever they were talking of the places where they should like to live, I have always heard them say that they hated the country of all things, though they were born and bred there. I have heard one say the country is odious, filthy, shocking, and abominable; another, that it is impossible to live anywhere but in London; and I remember once seeing a strange lady, who wrote down her observations in a book, and she said the country was all full of barbarians, and that no person of elegance (yes, that was her word) could bear it for a week.

Mr Barlow.—And yet there are thousands who bear to live in it all their lives, and have no desire to change. Should you, Harry, like to leave the country, and go to live in some town?

Harry.—Indeed, sir, I should not, for then I must leave everything I love in the world. I must leave my father and mother, who have been so kind to me; and you, too, sir, who have taken such pains to improve me, and make me good. I am convinced that I never shall find such friends again as long as I live; and what should anybody wish to live for who has no friends? Besides, there is not a field upon my father's farm that I do not prefer to every town I ever saw in my life.

Tommy.—And have you ever been in any large town?

Harry.—Once I was in Exeter, but I did not much like it; the houses seemed to me to stand so thick and close, that I think our hog-sties would be almost as agreeable places to live in; and then there are little narrow alleys where the poor live; and the houses are so high, that neither light nor air can ever get to them, and the most of them appeared so dirty and unhealthy, that it made my heart ache to look at them. And then I walked along the streets, and peeped into the shops—and what do you think I saw?

Tommy.—What?

Harry.—Why, I saw great hulking fellows, as big as our ploughmen and carters, with their heads all frizzled and curled like one of our sheep's tails, that did nothing but finger ribbons and caps for the women! This diverted me so, that I could not help laughing ready to split my sides. And then the gentlewoman, at whose house I was, took me to a place where there was a large room full of candles, and a greater number of fine gentlemen and ladies, all dressed out and showy, who were dancing about as if they were mad. But at the door of this house there were twenty or thirty ragged, half-starved women and children, who stood shivering in the rain, and begged for a bit of bread; but nobody gave it to them, or took any notice of them. So then I could not help thinking that it would be a great deal better if all the fine people would give some of their money to the poor, that they might have some clothes and victuals in their turn.

Tommy.—That is indeed true. Had I been there I should have relieved the poor people; for you know I am very good-natured and generous; but it is necessary for gentlemen to be fine and to dress well.

Harry.—It may be so; but I never saw any great good come of it, for my part. As I was walking along the streets one day, and staring about, I met two very fine and dressy young gentlemen, who looked something as you did, Master Tommy, when you first came here; so I turned off from the foot-way to let them pass, for my father always taught me to show civility to people in a higher station; but that was not enough, it seems, for just as they passed by me they gave me such a violent push, that down I came into the kennel, and dirtied myself all over from head to foot.