"This story," continued Miss Simmons, "is continually coming into my mind, when I see anybody imagine himself of great importance, because he has adopted some particular mode of dress, or the grimaces of those that call themselves fashionable people. Nor do I ever see Master Mash or Compton without thinking of the lion's skin, and expecting every moment to hear them bray."

Harry laughed very heartily at this story; but now their attention was called towards the company, who had ranged themselves by pairs for country-dancing. Miss Simmons, who was very fond of this exercise, then asked Harry if he had never practised any of these dances. Harry said, "it had happened to him three or four times at home, and that he believed he should not be puzzled about any of the figures." "Well, then," said the young lady, "to show how little I regard their intended mortification, I will stand up and you shall be my partner." So they rose and placed themselves at the bottom of the whole company according to the laws of dancing, which appoint that place for those who come last.

And now the music began to strike up in a more joyous strain; the little dancers exerted themselves with all their activity, and the exercise diffused a glow of health and cheerfulness over the faces of the most pale and languid. Harry exerted himself here with much better success than he had lately done in the minuet. He had great command over all his limbs, and was very well versed in every play that gives address to the body, so that he found no difficulty in practising all the varied figures of the dances, particularly with the assistance of Miss Simmons, who explained to him everything that appeared embarrassing.

But now, by the continuance of the dance, all who were at first at the upper end had descended to the bottom, where, by the laws of the diversion, they ought to have waited quietly till their companions, becoming in their turn uppermost, had danced down to their former places. But when Miss Simmons and Harry expected to have had their just share of the exercise, they found that almost all their companions had deserted them and retired to their places. Harry could not help wondering at this behaviour; but Miss Simmons told him with a smile, that it was only of a piece with the rest, and she had often remarked it at country assemblies, where all the gentry of a county were gathered together. "This is frequently the way," added she, "that those who think themselves superior to the rest of the world choose to show their importance." "This is a very bad way indeed," replied Harry; "people may choose whether they will dance or practise any particular diversion, but, if they do, they ought to submit to the laws of it without repining; and I have always observed among the little boys whom I am acquainted with, that wherever this disposition prevails, it is the greatest proof of a bad and contemptible temper." "I am afraid," replied Miss Simmons, "that your observations will hold universally true, and that those who expect so much for themselves, without being willing to consider their fellow-creatures in turn, in whatever station they are found, are always the most mean, ignorant, and despicable of the species."

"I remember," said Harry, "reading a story of a great man called Sir Philip Sydney. This gentleman was reckoned not only the bravest but the politest person in all England. It happened that he was sent over the sea to assist some of our allies against their enemies. After having distinguished himself in such a manner as gained him the love and esteem of all the army, this excellent man one day received a shot which broke his thigh, as he was bravely fighting at the head of his men. Sir Philip Sydney felt that he was mortally wounded, and was obliged to turn his horse's head, and retire to his tent, in order to have his wound examined. By the time that he had reached his tent, he not only felt great agonies from his wound, but the heat of the weather, and the fever which the pain produced, had excited an intolerable thirst, so that he prayed his attendants to fetch him a little water. With infinite difficulty some water was procured and brought to him, but, just as he was raising the cup to his lips, he chanced to see a poor English soldier, who had been mortally wounded in the same engagement, and lay upon the ground faint and bleeding, and ready to expire. The poor man was suffering, like his general, from the pain of a consuming thirst, and therefore, though respect prevented him from asking for any, he turned his dying eyes upon the water with an eagerness which sufficiently explained his sufferings. Upon this the excellent and noble gentleman took the cup, which he had not yet tasted, from his lips, and gave it to his attendants, ordering them to carry it to the wounded soldier, and only saying, 'this poor man wants it still more than I do.'"

"This story," added Harry, "was always a particular favourite with Mr Barlow, and he has often pointed it out to me as an example not only of the greatest virtue and humanity, but also of that elevated method of thinking which constitutes the true gentleman. 'For what is it,' I have heard him say, 'that gives a superiority of manners, but the inclination to sacrifice our own pleasures and interests to the well-being of others?' An ordinary person might have pitied the poor soldier, or even have assisted him, when he had first taken care of himself; but who, in such a dreadful extremity as the brave Sydney was reduced to, would be capable of even forgetting his own sufferings to relieve another, who had not acquired the generous habit of always slighting his own gratifications for the sake of his fellow-creatures?"

As Harry was conversing in this manner, the little company had left off dancing, and were refreshing themselves with a variety of cakes and agreeable liquors, which had been provided for the occasion. Tommy Merton and the other young gentleman were now distinguishing themselves by their attendance upon the ladies, whom they were supplying with everything they chose to have, but no one thought it worth his while to wait upon Miss Simmons. When Harry observed this, he ran to the table, and upon a large waiter brought her cakes and lemonade, which he presented, if not with a better grace, with a more sincere desire to oblige than any of the rest. But, as he was stooping down to offer her the choice, Master Mash unluckily passed that way, and, elated by the success of his late piece of ill-nature, determined to attempt a second still more brutal than the first. For this reason, just as Miss Simmons was helping herself to some wine and water, Mash, pretending to stumble, pushed Harry in such a manner that the greater part of the contents of the glasses was discharged full into her bosom. The young lady coloured at the insult, and Harry, who instantly perceived that it had been done on purpose, being no longer able to contain his indignation, seized a glass that was only half-emptied, and discharged the contents full into the face of the aggressor. Mash, who was a boy of violent passion, exasperated at this retaliation, which he so well deserved, instantly caught up a drinking glass, and flung it full at the head of Harry. Happy was it for him that it only grazed his head without taking the full effect; it, however, laid bare a considerable gash, and Harry was in an instant covered with his own blood, the sight of which provoked him the more, and made him forget both the place and the company where he was, so that, flying upon Mash with all the fury of just revenge, a dreadful combat ensued, which put the whole room in a consternation.

But Mr Merton soon appeared, and with some difficulty separated the enraged champions. He then inquired into the subject of the contest, which Master Mash endeavoured to explain away as an accident. But Harry persisted in his account with so much firmness, in which he was corroborated by Miss Simmons, that Mr Merton readily perceived the truth. Mash, however, apologised for himself in the best manner that he was able, by saying, that he only meant to play Master Harry an innocent trick, but that he had undesignedly injured Miss Simmons.

Whatever Mr Merton felt, he did not say a great deal; he, however, endeavoured to pacify the enraged combatants, and ordered assistance to Harry to bind up the wound, and clean him from the blood which had now disfigured him from head to foot.

Mrs Merton, in the mean time, who was sitting at the upper end of the room amidst the other ladies, had seen the fray, and been informed that it was owing to Harry's throwing a glass of lemonade in Master Mash's face. This gave Mrs Compton an opportunity of indulging herself again in long invectives against Harry, his breeding, family, and manners. "She never," she said, "had liked the boy, and now he had justified all her forebodings upon the subject. Such a little vulgar wretch could never have been witness to anything but scenes of riot and ill-manners; and now he was brawling and fighting in a gentleman's house, just as he would do at one of the public houses to which he was used to go with his father."

While she was in the midst of this eloquent harangue Mr Merton came up, and gave a more unprejudiced narrative of the affair. He acquitted Harry of all blame, and said that it was impossible, even for the mildest temper in the world, to act otherwise upon such unmerited provocation. This account seemed wonderfully to turn the scale in Harry's favour; though Miss Simmons was no great favourite with the young ladies, yet the spirit and gallantry which he had discovered in her cause began to act very forcibly on their minds. One of the young ladies observed, "that if Master Harry was better dressed he would certainly be a very pretty boy;" another said, "she had always thought he had a look above his station;" and a third remarked "that, considering he had never learned to dance, he had by no means a vulgar look."

This untoward accident having thus been amicably settled, the diversions of the evening went forward. But Harry, who had now lost all taste for genteel company, took the first opportunity of retiring to bed, where he soon fell asleep, and forgot both the mortification and bruises he had received. In the mean time the little company below found means to entertain themselves till past midnight, and then retired to their chambers.

The next morning they rose later than usual; and, as several of the young gentlemen, who had been invited to the preceding evening's diversion, were not to return till after dinner, they agreed to take a walk into the country. Harry went with them as usual, though Master Mash, by his misrepresentations, had prejudiced Tommy and all the rest against him. But Harry, who was conscious of his own innocence, and began to feel the pride of injured friendship, disdained to give an explanation of his behaviour, since his friend was not sufficiently interested about the matter to demand one.

While they were walking slowly along the common they discovered at a distance a prodigious crowd of people, all moving forward in the same direction. This attracted the curiosity of the little troop, and on inquiry they found there was going to be a bull-baiting. Instantly an eager desire seized upon all the little gentry to see the diversion. One obstacle alone presented itself, which was, that their parents, and particularly Mrs Merton, had made them promise that they would avoid every species of danger. This objection was, however, removed by Master Billy Lyddall, who remarked, "that there could be no danger in the sight, as the bull was to be tied fast, and could therefore do them no harm; besides," added he, smiling, "what occasion have they to know that we have been at all? I hope we are not such simpletons as to accuse ourselves, or such telltales as to inform against one another?" "No! no! no!" was the universal exclamation from all but Harry, who had remained profoundly silent on the occasion. "Master Harry has not said a word," said one of the little folks; "sure he will not tell of us." "Indeed," said Harry, "I don't wish to tell of you; but if I am asked where we have been, how can I help telling?" "What!" answered Master Lyddall, "can't you say that we have been walking along the road, or across the common, without mentioning anything further?" "No," said Harry, "that would not be speaking truth; besides, bull-baiting is a very cruel and dangerous diversion, and therefore none of us should go to see it, particularly Master Merton, whose mother loves him so much, and is so careful about him."

This speech was not received with much approbation by those to whom it was addressed. "A pretty fellow," said one, "to give himself these airs, and pretend to be wiser than every one else!"

"What!" said Master Compton, "does this beggar's brat think that he is to govern gentlemen's sons, because Master Merton is so good as to keep company with him?" "If I were Master Merton," said a third, "I'd soon send the little impertinent jackanapes home to his own blackguard family." And Master Mash, who was the biggest and strongest boy in the whole company, came up to Harry, and grinning in his face, said, "So all the return that you make to Master Merton for his goodness to you is to be a spy and an informer, is it, you little dirty blackguard?"

Harry, who had long perceived and lamented the coolness of Master Merton towards him, was now much more grieved to see that his friend was not only silent, but seemed to take an ill-natured pleasure in these insults, than at the insults themselves which were offered to him. However, as soon as the crowd of tormentors which surrounded him would give him leave to speak, he coolly answered, "that he was as little a spy and informer as any of them; and, as to begging, he thanked God he wanted as little of them as they did of him;" "besides," added he, "were I even reduced so low as that, I should know better how to employ my time than to ask charity of any one here."

This sarcastic answer, and the reflections that were made upon it, had such an effect upon the too irritable temper of Master Merton, that, in an instant, forgetting his former obligations and affection to Harry, he strutted up to him, and clenching his fist, asked him, "whether he meant to insult him?"

"Well done, Master Merton!" echoed through the whole society; "thrash him heartily for his impudence." "No, Master Tommy," answered Harry; "it is you and your friends here that insult me."

"What!" answered Tommy, "are you a person of such consequence that you must not be spoken to? You are a prodigious fine gentleman, indeed." "I always thought you one till now," answered Harry.

"How, you rascal!" said Tommy; "do you say that I am not a gentleman? Take that!" and immediately struck Harry upon the face with his fist. His fortitude was not proof against this treatment; he turned his face away, and only said, in a low tone of voice, "Master Tommy, Master Tommy, I never should have thought it possible you could have treated me in this unworthy manner;" then, covering his face with both his hands, he burst into an agony of crying.

But the little troop of gentlemen, who were vastly delighted with the mortification which Harry had received, and had formed a very different opinion of his prowess, from the patience which he had hitherto exerted, began to gather round and repeat their persecutions. Coward, and blackguard, and tell-tale echoed in a chorus through the circle; and some, more forward than the rest, seized him by the hair, in order that he might hold up his head and show his pretty face.

But Harry, who now began to recollect himself, wiped his tears with his hand, and, looking up, asked them with a firm tone of voice and a steady countenance, why they meddled with him; then, swinging round, he disengaged himself at once from all who had taken hold of him. The greatest part of the company gave back at this question, and seemed disposed to leave him unmolested; but Master Mash, who was the most quarrelsome and impertinent boy present, advanced, and looking at Harry with a contemptuous sneer, said, "this is the way we always treat such little blackguards as you, and if you have not had enough to satisfy you, we'll willingly give you some more." "As to all your nicknames and nonsense," answered Harry, "I don't think it worth my while to resent them; but though I have suffered Master Merton to strike me, there's not another in the company shall do it, or, if he chooses to try, he shall soon find whether or not I am a coward."

Master Mash made no answer to this, but by a slap of the face, which Harry returned by a punch of his fist, which had almost overset his antagonist, in spite of his superiority of size and strength. This unexpected check from a boy, so much less than himself, might probably have cooled the courage of Mash, had he not been ashamed of yielding to one whom he had treated with so much unmerited contempt. Summoning, therefore, all his resolution, he flew at Harry like a fury, and as he had often been engaged in quarrels like this, he struck him with so much force, that, with the first blow he aimed, he felled him to the ground. Harry, foiled in this manner, but not dismayed, rose in an instant, and attacked his adversary with redoubled vigour, at the very moment when he thought himself sure of the victory. A second time did Mash, after a short but severe contest, close with his undaunted enemy, and, by dint of superior strength, roughly hurled him to the ground.

The little troop of spectators, who had mistaken Harry's patient fortitude for cowardice, began now to entertain the sincerest respect for his courage, and gathered round the combatants in silence. A second time did Harry rise and attack his stronger adversary with the cool intrepidity of a veteran combatant. The battle now began to grow more dreadful and more violent. Mash had superior strength and dexterity, and greater habitude of fighting; his blows were aimed with equal skill and force, and each appeared sufficient to crush an enemy so much inferior in size, in strength, in years; but Harry possessed a body hardened to support pain and hardship; a greater degree of activity; a cool, unyielding courage, which nothing could disturb or daunt. Four times had he been now thrown down by the irresistible strength of his foe; four times had he risen stronger from his fall, covered with dirt and blood, and panting with fatigue, but still unconquered. At length, from the duration of the combat, and his own violent exertions, the strength of Mash began to fail; enraged and disappointed at the obstinate resistance he had met with, he began to lose all command of his temper, and strike at random; his breath grew short, his efforts were more laborious, and his knees seemed scarcely able to sustain his weight; but actuated by rage and shame, he rushed with all his might upon Harry, as if determined to crush him with one last effort. Harry prudently stepped back, and contented himself with parrying the blows that were aimed at him, till, seeing that his antagonist was almost exhausted by his own impetuosity, he darted at him with all his force, and by one successful blow levelled him with the ground.

An involuntary shout of triumph now burst from the little assembly of spectators; for such is the temper of human beings, that they are more inclined to consider superiority of force than justice; and the very same boys, who just before were loading Harry with taunts and outrages, were now ready to congratulate him upon his victory. He, however, when he found his antagonist no longer capable of resistance, kindly assisted him to rise, and told him "he was very sorry for what had happened;" but Mash, oppressed at once with the pain of his bruises, and the disgrace of his defeat, observed an obstinate silence.

Just at this moment their attention was engaged by a new and sudden spectacle. A bull of the largest size and greatest beauty was led across the plain, adorned with ribbons of various colours. The majestic animal suffered himself to be led along, an unresisting prey, till he arrived at the spot which was destined for the theatre of his persecutions. Here he was fastened to an iron ring, which had been strongly let into the ground, and whose force they imagined would be sufficient to restrain him, even in the midst of his most violent exertions. An innumerable crowd of men, of women, of children, then surrounded the place, waiting with eager curiosity for the inhuman sport which they expected. The little party which had accompanied Master Merton were now no longer to be restrained; their friends, their parents, admonition, duty, promises, were all forgotten in an instant, and, solely intent upon gratifying their curiosity, they mingled with the surrounding multitude.

Harry, although reluctantly, followed them at a distance; neither the ill-usage he had received, nor the pain of his wounds, could make him unmindful of Master Merton or careless of his safety. He knew too well the dreadful accidents which frequently attend these barbarous sports, to be able to quit his friend till he had once more seen him in a place of safety.

And now the noble animal, that was to be thus wantonly tormented, was fastened to the ring by a strongly-twisted cord, which, though it confined and cramped his exertions, did not entirely restrain them. Although possessed of almost irresistible strength, he seemed unwilling to exert it, and looked round upon the infinite multitude of his enemies with a gentleness that ought to have disarmed their animosity.

Presently a dog of the largest size and most ferocious courage was let loose, who, as soon as he beheld the bull, uttered a savage yell, and rushed upon him with all the rage of inveterate animosity. The bull suffered him to approach with the coolness of deliberate courage, but just as the dog was springing up to seize him, he rushed forward to meet his foe, and putting his head to the ground, canted him into the air several yards; and had not the spectators run and caught him upon their backs and hands, he would have been crushed to pieces in the fall. The same fate attended another, and another dog, which were let loose successively; the one was killed upon the spot, while the other, who had a leg broken in the fall, crawled howling and limping away. The bull, in the meanwhile, behaved with all the calmness and intrepidity of an experienced warrior; without violence, without passion, he waited every attack of his enemies, and then severely punished them for their rashness.

While this was transacting, to the diversion not only of the rude and illiterate populace, but to that of the little gentry with Master Merton, a poor, half-naked Black came up, and humbly implored their charity. He had served, he told them, on board an English vessel, and even showed them the scars of several wounds he had received; but now he was discharged, and without friends, and without assistance, he could scarcely find food to support his wretched life, or clothes to cover him from the wintry wind.

Some of the young gentry, who, from a bad education, had been little taught to feel or pity the distress of others, were base enough to attempt to jest upon his dusky colour and foreign accent; but Master Merton, who, though lately much corrupted and changed from what he had been with Mr Barlow, preserved a great degree of generosity, put his hand into his pocket in order to relieve him, but unfortunately found nothing to give. The foolish profusion which he had lately learned from the young gentlemen at his father's house, had made him waste in cards, in playthings, in trifles, all his stock of money, and now he found himself unable to relieve that distress which he pitied.

Thus repulsed on every side, and unassisted, the unfortunate Black approached the place where Harry stood, holding out the tattered remains of his hat, and imploring charity. Harry had not much to give, but he took sixpence out of his pocket, which was all his riches, and gave it with the kindest look of compassion, saying, "Here, poor man, this is all I have; if I had more, it should be at your service." He had no time to add more, for at that instant three fierce dogs rushed upon the bull at once, and by their joint attacks rendered him almost mad. The calm deliberate courage which he had hitherto shown was now changed into rage and desperation: he roared with pain and fury; flashes of fire seemed to come from his angry eyes, and his mouth was covered with foam and blood. He hurried round the stake with incessant toil and rage, first aiming at one, then at another of the persecuting dogs that harassed him on every side, growling and baying incessantly, and biting him in every part. At length, with a furious effort that he made, he trampled one of his foes beneath his feet, and gored a second to that degree that his bowels came through the wound, and at the same moment the cord, which had hitherto confined him, snapped asunder, and let him loose upon the affrighted multitude.

It is impossible to conceive the terror and dismay which instantly seized the crowd of spectators. Those who before had been hallooing with joy, and encouraging the fury of the dogs with shouts and acclamations, were now scattered over the plain, and fled from the fury of the animal whom they had been so basely tormenting. The enraged bull meanwhile rushed like lightning over the plain, trampling some, goring others, and taking ample vengeance for the injuries he had received. Presently he rushed with headlong fury towards the spot where Master Merton and his associates stood; all fled with wild affright, but with a speed that was not equal to that of the pursuer. Shrieks, and outcries, and lamentations were heard on every side; and those who, a few minutes before, had despised the good advice of Harry, would now have given the world to be safe in the houses of their parents. Harry alone seemed to preserve his presence of mind; he neither cried out nor ran, but, when the dreadful animal approached, leaped nimbly aside, and the bull passed on, without embarrassing himself about his escape.

Not so fortunate was Master Merton; he happened to be the last of the little troop of fliers, and full in the way which the bull had taken. And now his destruction appeared certain; for as he ran, whether through fear or the inequality of the ground, his foot slipped, and down he tumbled in the very path of the enraged pursuing animal. All who saw imagined his fate inevitable; and it would certainly have proved so, had not Harry, with a courage and presence of mind above his years, suddenly seized a prong which one of the fugitives had dropped, and at the very moment when the bull was stooping to gore his defenceless friend, advanced and wounded him in the flank. The bull in an instant turned short, and with redoubled rage made at his new assailant; and it is probable that, notwithstanding his intrepidity, Harry would have paid the price of his assistance to his friend with his own life, had not an unexpected succour arrived; for in that instant the grateful Black rushed on like lightning to assist him, and assailing the bull with a weighty stick that he held in his hand, compelled him to turn his rage upon a new object. The bull, indeed, attacked him with all the impetuosity of revenge; but the Black jumped nimbly aside and eluded his fury. Not contented with this, he wheeled round his fierce antagonist, and seizing him by the tail, began to batter his sides with an unexpected storm of blows. In vain did the enraged animal bellow and writhe himself about in all the convulsions of madness; his intrepid foe, without ever quitting his hold, suffered himself to be dragged about the field, still continuing his discipline, till the creature was almost spent with the fatigue of his own violent agitations. And now some of the boldest of the spectators, taking courage, approached to his assistance, and throwing a well-twisted rope over his head, they at length, by the dint of superior numbers, completely mastered the furious animal, and bound him to a tree.

In the meanwhile, several of Mr Merton's servants, who had been sent out after the young gentlemen, approached and took up their young master, who, though without a wound, was almost dead with fear and agitation. But Harry, after seeing that his friend was perfectly safe, and in the hands of his own family, invited the Black to accompany him, and instead of returning to Mr Merton's, took the way which led to his father's house.

While these scenes were passing, Mrs Merton, though ignorant of the danger of her son, was not undisturbed at home. Some accounts had been brought of Harry's combat, which served to make her uneasy, and to influence her still more against him. Mrs Compton too, and Miss Matilda, who had conceived a violent dislike to Harry, were busy to inflame her by their malicious representations.

While she was in these dispositions, Mr Merton happened to enter, and was at once attacked by all the ladies upon the subject of this improper connection. He endeavoured for a long time to remove their prejudices by reason; but when he found that to be impossible, he contented himself with telling his wife, that a little time would perhaps decide which were the most proper companions for their son; and that till Harry had done something to render himself unworthy of their notice, he never could consent to their treating him with coldness or neglect.

At this moment, a female servant burst into the room, with all the wildness of affright, and cried out with a voice that was scarcely articulate, "Oh, madam, madam; such an accident! poor dear Master Tommy."

"What of him, for pity's sake?" cried out Mrs Merton, with an impatience and concern that sufficiently marked her feelings. "Nay, madam," answered the servant, "he is not much hurt, they say; but little Sandford has taken him to a bull-baiting, and the bull has gored him, and William and John are bringing him home in their arms."

These words were scarcely delivered when Mrs Merton uttered a violent shriek, and was instantly seized with an hysteric fit; and while the ladies were all employed in assisting her, and restoring her senses, Mr Merton, who, though much alarmed, was more composed, walked precipitately out to learn the truth of this imperfect narration.

He had not proceeded far before he met the crowd of children and servants, one of whom carried Tommy Merton in his arms. As soon as he was convinced that his son had received no other damage than a violent fright, he began to inquire into the circumstances of the affair; but before he had time to receive any information, Mrs Merton, who had recovered from her fainting, came running wildly from the house. When she saw that her son was safe, she caught him in her arms, and began to utter all the incoherent expressions of a mother's fondness. It was with difficulty that her husband could prevail upon her to moderate her transports till they were within. Then she gave a loose to her feelings in all their violence, and for a considerable time was incapable of attending to anything but the joy of his miraculous preservation.

At length, however, she became more composed, and observing that all the company were present, except Harry Sandford, she exclaimed, with sudden indignation, "So I see that little abominable wretch has not had the impudence to follow you in; and I almost wish that the bull had gored him, as he deserved." "What little wretch do you mean, mamma?" said Tommy. "Whom can I mean," cried Mrs Merton, "but that vile Harry Sandford, whom your father is so fond of, and who had nearly cost you your life, by leading you into danger?" "He! mamma," said Tommy; "he lead me into danger! He did all he could to persuade me not to go, and I was a very naughty boy, indeed, not to take his advice."

Mrs Merton stood amazed at this information, for her prejudices had operated so powerfully upon her mind, that she had implicitly believed the guilt of Harry upon the imperfect evidence of the maid. "Who was it, then," said Mr Merton, "could be so imprudent?" "Indeed, papa," answered Tommy, "we were all to blame, all but Harry, who advised and begged us not to go, and particularly me, because he said it would give you so much uneasiness when you knew it, and that it was so dangerous a diversion."

Mrs Merton looked confused at her mistake, but Mrs Compton observed, that she supposed "Harry was afraid of the danger, and therefore, had wisely kept out of the way." "Oh, no, indeed, madam," answered one of the little boys, "Harry is no coward, though we thought him so at first, when he let Master Tommy strike him, but he fought Master Mash in the bravest manner I ever saw; and though Master Mash fought very well, yet Harry had the advantage; and I saw him follow us at a little distance, and keep his eye upon Master Merton all the time, till the bull broke loose, and then I was so frightened that I do not know what became of him." "So this is the little boy," said Mr Merton, "whom you were for driving from the society of your children. But let us hear more of this story, for as yet I know neither the particulars of his danger nor his escape." Upon this one of the servants, who, from some little distance, had seen the whole affair, was called in and examined. He gave them an exact account of all of Tommy's misfortune; of Harry's bravery; of the unexpected succour of the poor Black; and filled the whole room with admiration, that such an action, so noble, so intrepid, so fortunate, should have been achieved by such a child.

Mrs Merton was now silent with shame at reflecting upon her own unjust prejudices, and the ease with which she had become the enemy of a boy who had saved the life of her darling son, and who appeared as much superior in character to all the young gentlemen at her house as they exceeded him in rank and fortune. The young ladies now forgot their former objections to his person and manners, and—such is the effect of genuine virtue—all the company conspired to extol the conduct of Harry to the skies.

But Mr Merton, who had appeared more delighted than all the rest with the relations of Harry's intrepidity, now cast his eyes round the room and seemed to be looking for his little friend; but when he could not find him, he said, with some concern, "Where can be our little deliverer? Sure he can have met with no accident, that he has not returned with the rest!" "No," said one of the servants; "as to that, Harry Sandford is safe enough, for I saw him go towards his own home in company with the Black." "Alas!" answered Mr Merton, "surely he must have received some unworthy treatment, that could make him thus abruptly desert us all. And now I recollect I heard one of the young gentlemen mention a blow that Harry had received. Surely, Tommy, you could not have been so basely ungrateful as to strike the best and noblest of your friends!" Tommy, at this, hung down his head, his face was covered with a burning blush, and the tears began silently to trickle down his cheeks.

Mrs Merton remarked the anguish and confusion of her child, and catching him in her arms, was going to clasp him to her bosom, with the most endearing expressions, but Mr Merton, hastily interrupting her, said, "It is not now a time to give way to fondness for a child, who, I fear, has acted the basest and vilest part that can disgrace a human being, and who, if what I suspect be true, can be only a dishonour to his parents." At this, Tommy could no longer contain himself, but burst into such a violent transport of crying, that Mrs Merton, who seemed to feel the severity of Mr Merton's conduct with still more poignancy than her son, caught her darling up in her arms and carried him abruptly out of the room, accompanied by most of the ladies, who pitied Tommy's abasement, and agreed that there was no crime he could have been guilty of which was not amply atoned for by such charming sensibility.

But Mr Merton, who now felt all the painful interest of a tender father, and considered this as the critical moment which was to give his son the impression of worth or baseness for life, was determined to examine this affair to the utmost. He, therefore, took the first opportunity of drawing the little boy aside who had mentioned Master Merton's striking Harry, and questioned him upon the subject. But he, who had no particular interest in disguising the truth, related the circumstances nearly as they had happened; and though he a little softened the matter in Tommy's favour, yet, without intending it, he held up such a picture of his violence and injustice, as wounded his father to the soul.



CHAPTER VIII.

Arrival of Mr Barlow—Story of Polemo—Tommy's repentance—Story of Sophron and Tigranes—Tommy as an Arabian Horseman—His Mishap—Tommy's intrepidity—The Poor Highlander's story—Tommy's Sorrow for his conduct to Harry—Conclusion of the Story of Sophron and Tigranes—Tommy's resolution to study nothing but "reason and philosophy"—Visits Harry and begs his forgiveness—The Grateful Black's Story—Tommy takes up his abode at Farmer Sandford's—The Grateful Black's account of himself—Mr Merton's visit to the Farm—The unexpected present—Conclusion.

While Mr Merton was occupied by these uneasy feelings, he was agreeably surprised by a visit from Mr Barlow, who came accidentally to see him, with a perfect ignorance of all the great events which had so recently happened.

Mr Merton received this worthy man with the sincerest cordiality; but there was such a gloom diffused over all his manners that Mr Barlow began to suspect that all was not right with Tommy, and therefore purposely inquired after him, to give his father an opportunity of speaking. This Mr Merton did not fail to do; and taking Mr Barlow affectionately by the hand, he said, "Oh, my dear Sir, I begin to fear that all my hopes are at an end in that boy, and all your kind endeavours thrown away. He has just behaved in such a manner as shows him to be radically corrupted, and insensible of every principle but pride." He then related to Mr Barlow every incident of Tommy's behaviour; making the severest reflections upon his insolence and ingratitude, and blaming his own supineness, that had not earlier checked these boisterous passions, that now burst forth with such a degree of fury that threatened ruin to his hopes.

"Indeed," answered Mr Barlow, "I am very sorry to hear this account of my little friend; yet I do not see it in quite so serious a light as yourself; and though I cannot deny the dangers that may arise from a character so susceptible of false impressions, and so violent, at the same time, yet I do not think the corruption either so great or so general as you seem to suspect. Do we not see, even in the most trifling habits of body or speech, that a long and continual attention is required, if we would wish to change them, and yet our perseverance is, in the end, generally successful; why, then, should we imagine that those of the mind are less obstinate, or subject to different laws? Or why should we rashly abandon ourselves to despair, from the first experiments that do not succeed according to our wishes?"

"Indeed," answered Mr Merton, "what you say is perfectly consistent with the general benevolence of your character, and most consolatory to the tenderness of a father. Yet I know too well the general weakness of parents in respect to the faults of their children not to be upon my guard against the delusions of my own mind. And when I consider the abrupt transition of my son into everything that is most inconsistent with goodness,—how lightly, how instantaneously he seems to have forgotten everything he had learned with you,—I cannot help forming the most painful and melancholy presages of the future."

"Alas, sir," answered Mr Barlow, "what is the general malady of human nature but this very instability which now appears in your son? Do you imagine that half the vices of men arise from real depravity of heart? On the contrary, I am convinced that human nature is infinitely more weak than wicked, and that the greater part of all bad conduct springs rather from want of firmness than from any settled propensity to evil."

"Indeed," replied Mr Merton, "what you say is highly reasonable; nor did I ever expect that a boy so long indulged and spoiled should be exempt from failings. But what particularly hurts me is to see him proceed to such disagreeable extremities without any adequate temptation—extremities that, I fear, imply a defect of goodness and generosity—virtues which I always thought he had possessed in a very great degree."

"Neither," answered Mr Barlow, "am I at all convinced that your son is deficient in either. But you are to consider the prevalence of example, and the circle to which you have lately introduced him. If it is so difficult even for persons of a more mature age and experience to resist the impressions of those with whom they constantly associate, how can you expect it from your son? To be armed against the prejudices of the world, and to distinguish real merit from the splendid vices which pass current in what is called society, is one of the most difficult of human sciences. Nor do I know a single character, however excellent, that would not candidly confess he has often made a wrong election, and paid that homage to a brilliant outside which is only due to real merit."

"You comfort me very much," said Mr Merton, "but such ungovernable passion, such violence and impetuosity——"

"Are indeed very formidable," replied Mr Barlow, "yet, when they are properly directed, frequently produce the noblest effects. You have, I doubt not, read the story of Polemo, who, from a debauched young man, became a celebrated philosopher, and a model of virtue, only by attending a single moral lecture."

"Indeed," said Mr Merton, "I am ashamed to confess that the various employments and amusements in which I have passed the greater part of my life have not afforded me as much leisure for reading as I could wish. You will therefore oblige me very much by repeating the story you allude to."

"THE STORY OF POLEMO."

"Polemo (said Mr Barlow) was a young man of Athens, and although he was brought up with the most tender solicitude and care by his mother, and at one time promised fair to be of a studious and virtuous turn of mind, as he appeared very fond of reading, and much attached to literary pursuits, and would frequently retire into the fields, and for hours sit upon the stump of a tree, with his book before him,—still, after a few years, he became so distinguished by his excesses, that he was the aversion of all the discreeter part of the city. He led a life of intemperance and dissipation, and was constantly surrounded by a set of loose young men who imitated and encouraged his vices; and when they had totally drowned the little reason they possessed in copious draughts of wine, they were accustomed to sally out, and practise every species of absurd and licentious frolic.

"One morning they were thus wandering about, after having spent the night as usual, when they beheld a great concourse of people that were listening to the discourse of a celebrated philosopher named Xenocrates. The greater part of the young men, who still retained some sense of shame, were so struck with this spectacle, that they turned out of the way; but Polemo, who was more daring and abandoned than the rest, pressed forward into the midst of the audience. His figure was too remarkable not to attract universal notice; for his head was crowned with flowers, his robe hung negligently about him, and his whole body was reeking with perfumes; besides, his look and manner were such as very little qualified him for such a company. Many of the audience were so displeased at this interruption, that they were ready to treat the young man with great severity; but the venerable philosopher prevailed upon them not to molest the intruder, and calmly continued his discourse, which happened to be upon the dignity and advantages of temperance.

"As the sage proceeded in his oration, he descanted upon this subject, with so much force and eloquence that the young man became more composed and attentive, as it were in spite of himself. Presently the philosopher grew still more animated in his representation of the shameful slavery which attends the giving way to our passions, and the sublime happiness of reducing them all to order; and then the countenance of Polemo began to change, and the expression of it to be softened; he cast his eyes in mournful silence upon the ground, as if in deep repentance for his own contemptible conduct. Still the aged speaker increased in vehemence; he seemed to be animated with the sacred genius of the art which he professed, and to exercise an irresistible power over the minds of his hearers. He drew the portrait of an ingenious and modest young man who had been bred up to virtuous toils and manly hardiness; he painted him triumphant over all his passions, and trampling upon human fears and weakness: 'Should his country be invaded, you see him fly to its defence, and ready to pour forth all his blood; calm and composed he appears, with a terrible beauty, in the front of danger; the ornament and bulwark of his country; the thickest squadrons are penetrated by his resistless valour, and he points the path of victory to his admiring followers. Should he fall in battle, how glorious is his lot; to be cut off in the honourable discharge of his duty; to be wept by all the brave and virtuous, and to survive in the eternal records of fame?'

"While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo seemed to be transported with a sacred enthusiasm; his eyes flashed fire, his countenance glowed with martial indignation, and the whole expression of his person was changed. Presently the philosopher, who had remarked the effect of his discourse, painted in no less glowing colours the life and manners of an effeminate young man; 'Unhappy youth,' said he, 'what word shall I find equal to thy abasement? Thou art the reproach of thy parents, the disgrace of thy country, the scorn or pity of every generous mind. How is nature dishonoured in thy person, and all her choicest gifts abortive! That strength which would have rendered thee the glory of thy city and the terror of her foes, is basely thrown away on luxury and intemperance; thy youth and beauty are wasted in riot, and prematurely blasted by disease. Instead of the eye of fire, the port of intrepidity, the step of modest firmness, a squalid paleness sits upon thy face, a bloated corpulency enfeebles thy limbs, and presents a picture of human nature in its most abject state. But hark! the trumpet sounds; a savage band of unrelenting enemies has surrounded the city, and are preparing to scatter flames and ruin through the whole! The virtuous youth, that have been educated to nobler cares, arm with generous emulation, and fly to its defence. How lovely do they appear, dressed in resplendent arms, and moving slowly on in close impenetrable phalanx! They are animated by every motive which can give energy to a human breast, and lift it up to the sublimest achievements. Their hoary sires, their venerable magistrates, the beauteous forms of trembling virgins, attend them to the war, with prayers and acclamations. Go forth, ye generous bands, secure to meet the rewards of victory or the repose of honourable death! Go forth, ye generous bands, but unaccompanied by the wretch I have described! His feeble arm refuses to bear the ponderous shield; the pointed spear sinks feebly from his grasp; he trembles at the noise and tumult of the war, and flies like the hunted hart to lurk in shades and darkness. Behold him roused from his midnight orgies, reeking with wine and odours, and crowned with flowers, the only trophies of his warfare; he hurries with trembling steps across the city; his voice, his gait, his whole deportment, proclaim the abject slave of intemperance, and stamp indelible infamy upon his name.'

"While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo listened with fixed attention. The former animation of his countenance gave way to a visible dejection; presently his lips trembled and his cheeks grew pale; he was lost in melancholy recollection, and a silent tear was observed to trickle down. But when the philosopher described a character so like his own, shame seemed to take entire possession of his soul; and, rousing as from a long and painful lethargy, he softly raised his hand to his head, and tore away the chaplets of flowers, the monuments of his effeminacy and disgrace; he seemed intent to compose his dress into a more decent form, and wrapped his robe about him, which before hung loosely waving with an air of studied effeminacy. But when Xenocrates had finished his discourse, Polemo approached him with all the humility of conscious guilt, and begged to become his disciple, telling him that he had that day gained the most glorious conquest that had ever been achieved by reason and philosophy, by inspiring with the love of virtue a mind that had been hitherto plunged in folly and sensuality. Xenocrates embraced the young man, and admitted him among his disciples. Nor had he ever reason to repent of his facility; for Polemo, from that hour, abandoned all his former companions and vices, and by his uncommon ardour for improvement, very soon became celebrated for virtue and wisdom, as he had before been for every contrary quality."

"Thus," added Mr Barlow, "you see how little reason there is to despair of youth, even in the most disadvantageous circumstances. It has been justly observed, that few know all they are capable of: the seeds of different qualities frequently lie concealed in the character, and only wait for an opportunity of exerting themselves; and it is the great business of education to apply such motives to the imagination as may stimulate it to laudable exertions. For thus the same activity of mind, the same impetuosity of temper, which, by being improperly applied, would only form a wild, ungovernable character, may produce the steadiest virtues, and prove a blessing both to the individual and his country."

"I am infinitely obliged to you for this story," said Mr Merton; "and as my son will certainly find a Xenocrates in you, I wish that you may have reason to think him in some degree a Polemo. But since you are so kind as to present me these agreeable hopes, do not leave the work unfinished, but tell me what you think the best method of treating him in his present critical situation." "That," said Mr Barlow, "must depend, I think, upon the workings of his own mind. He has always appeared to me generous and humane, and to have a fund of natural goodness amid all the faults which spring up too luxuriantly in his character. It is impossible that he should not be at present possessed with the keenest shame for his own behaviour. It will be your first part to take advantage of these sentiments, and instead of a fleeting and transitory sensation, to change them into fixed and active principles. Do not at present say much to him upon the subject. Let us both be attentive to the silent workings of his mind, and regulate our behaviour accordingly."

This conversation being finished, Mr Merton introduced Mr Barlow to the company in the other room. Mrs Merton, who now began to be a little staggered in some of the opinions she had been most fond of, received him with uncommon civility, and all the rest of the company treated him with the greatest respect. But Tommy, who had lately been the oracle and admiration of all this brilliant circle, appeared to have lost all his vivacity; he, indeed, advanced to meet Mr Barlow with a look of tenderness and gratitude, and made the most respectful answers to all his inquiries; but his eyes were involuntarily turned to the ground, and silent melancholy and dejection were visible in his face.

Mr Barlow remarked, with the greatest pleasure, these signs of humility and contrition, and pointed them out to Mr Merton the first time he had an opportunity of speaking to him without being overheard; adding, "that, unless he was much deceived, Tommy would soon give ample proofs of the natural goodness of his character, and reconcile himself to all his friends." Mr Merton heard this observation with the greatest pleasure, and now began to entertain some hopes of seeing it accomplished.

After the dinner was over most of the young gentlemen went away to their respective homes. Tommy seemed to have lost much of the enthusiasm which he had lately felt for his polite and accomplished friends; he even appeared to feel a secret joy at their departure, and answered with a visible coldness at professions of regard and repeated invitations. Even Mrs Compton herself, and Miss Matilda, who were also departing, found him as insensible as the rest; though they did not spare the most extravagant praises and the warmest professions of regard.

And now, the ceremonies of taking leave being over, and most of the visitors departed, a sudden solitude seemed to have taken possession of the house, which was lately the seat of noise, and bustle, and festivity. Mr and Mrs Merton and Mr Barlow were left alone with Miss Simmons and Tommy, and one or two others of the smaller gentry who had not yet returned to their friends.

As Mr Barlow was not fond of cards, Mr Merton proposed, after the tea-table was removed, that Miss Simmons, who was famous for reading well, should entertain the company with some little tale or history adapted to the comprehension even of the youngest. Miss Simmons excused herself with the greatest modesty; but on Mrs Merton's joining in the request, she instantly complied, and fetching down a book, read the following story of

"SOPHRON AND TIGRANES."

"Sophron and Tigranes were the children of two neighbouring shepherds that fed their flocks in that part of Asia which borders upon Mount Lebanon. They were accustomed to each other from earliest infancy; and the continual habit of conversing at length produced a tender and intimate friendship.

"Sophron was larger and more robust of the two; his look was firm but modest, his countenance placid, and his eyes were such as inspired confidence and attachment. He excelled most of the youth of the neighbourhood in every species of violent exercise—such as wrestling, boxing, and whirling heavyweights; but his triumphs were constantly mixed with so much humanity and courtesy, that even those who found themselves vanquished could feel no envy towards their conqueror.

"On the contrary, Tigranes was of a character totally different. His body was less strong than that of Sophron, but excellently proportioned and adapted to every species of fatigue; his countenance was full of fire, but displeased by an excess of confidence; and his eyes sparkled with sense and meaning, but bore too great an expression of uncontrolled fierceness.

"Nor were these two youths less different in the application of their faculties than in the nature of them; for Tigranes seemed to be possessed by a restless spirit of commanding all his equals, while Sophron, contented with the enjoyment of tranquillity, desired nothing more than to avoid oppression.

"Still, as they assisted their parents in leading every morning their flocks to pasture, they entertained each other with rural sports; or, while reposing under the shade of arching rocks during the heat of the day, conversed with all the ease of childish friendship. Their observations were not many; they were chiefly drawn from the objects of nature which surrounded them, or from the simple mode of life to which they had been witness; but even here the diversity of their characters was sufficiently expressed.

"'See,' said Tigranes, one day, as he cast his eyes upwards to the cliffs of a neighbouring rock, 'that eagle which riseth into the immense regions of air, till he absolutely soars beyond the reach of sight; were I a bird, I should choose to resemble him, that I might traverse the clouds with a rapidity of a whirlwind, and dart like lightning upon my prey.' 'That eagle,' answered Sophron, 'is the emblem of violence and injustice; he is the enemy of every bird, and even of every beast, that is weaker than himself; were I to choose, I should prefer the life of yonder swan, that moves so smoothly and inoffensively along the river; he is strong enough to defend himself from injury, without opposing others, and therefore he is neither feared nor insulted by other animals.'

"While Sophron was yet speaking, the eagle, who had been hovering in the air, darted suddenly down at some distance, and seizing a lamb, was bearing it away in his cruel talons; when, almost in the same instant, a shepherd, who had been watching all his motions from a neighbouring hill, let fly an arrow with so unerring an aim, that it pierced the body of the bird, and brought him headlong to the ground, writhing in the agonies of death.

"'This,' said Sophron, 'I have often heard, is the fate of ambitious people; while they are endeavouring to mount beyond their fellows they are stopped by some unforeseen misfortune.' 'For my part,' said Tigranes, 'I had rather perish in the sky than enjoy an age of life, basely chained down and grovelling upon the surface of the earth.' 'What we either may enjoy,' answered Sophron, 'is in the hand of Heaven; but may I rather creep during life than mount to commit injustice, and oppress the innocent.'

"In this manner passed the early years of the two friends. As they grew up to manhood the difference of their tempers became more visible, and gradually alienated them from each other. Tigranes began to despise the uniform labours of the shepherd and the humble occupations of the country; his sheep were neglected, and frequently wandered over the plains without a leader to guard them in the day, or bring them back at night; and the greater part of his time was employed in climbing rocks, or in traversing the forest, to seek for eagles' nests, or in piercing with his arrows the different wild animals which inhabit the woods. If he heard the horn of the hunter, or the cry of the hound, it was impossible to restrain his eagerness; he regarded neither the summer's sun nor the winter's frost while he was pursuing his game; the thickest woods, the steepest mountains, the deepest rivers, were unable to stop him in his career, and he triumphed over every danger and difficulty, with such invincible courage as made him at once an object of terror and admiration to all the youth in the neighbourhood. His friend Sophron alone beheld his exploits neither with terror nor admiration. Of all his comrades, Sophron was the only one whom Tigranes still continued to respect; for he knew that, with a gentleness of temper which scarcely anything could exasperate, he possessed the firmest courage and a degree of bodily strength which rendered that courage invincible. He affected, indeed, to despise the virtuous moderation of his friend, and ridiculed it with some of his looser comrades as an abject pusillanimity; but he felt himself humbled whenever he was in his company as before a superior being, and therefore gradually estranged himself from his society.

"Sophron, on the contrary, entertained the sincerest regard for his friend; but he knew his defects, and trembled for the consequences which the violence and ambition of his character might one day produce. Whenever Tigranes abandoned his flocks, or left his rustic tasks undone, Sophron had the goodness to supply whatever he had omitted. Such was the vigour of his constitution, that he was indefatigable in every labour, nor did he ever exert his force more willingly than in performing these voluntary duties to his absent friend. Whenever he met with Tigranes he accosted him in the gentlest manner, and endeavoured to win him back to his former habits and manners. He represented to him the injury he did his parents, and the disquietude he occasioned in their minds by thus abandoning the duties of his profession. He sometimes, but with the greatest mildness, hinted at the coldness with which Tigranes treated him, and reminded his friend of the pleasing intercourse of their childhood. But all his remonstrances were vain; Tigranes heard him at first with coolness, then with impatience or contempt, and at last avoided him altogether.

"Sophron had a lamb which he had formerly saved from the devouring jaws of a wolf, who had already bitten him in several places, and destroyed his dam. The tenderness with which this benevolent young man had nursed and fed him during his infancy, had so attached him to his master, that he seemed to prefer his society to that of his own species. Wherever Sophron went, the faithful lamb accompanied him like his dogs, lay down beside him when he reposed, and followed close behind when he drove the rest of the flock to pasture. Sophron was equally attached to his dumb companion: he often diverted himself with his innocent gambols, fed him with the choicest herbs out of his hands, and when he slept at nights the lamb was sure to repose beside him.

"It happened about this time that Tigranes, as he was one day exploring the woods, discovered the den of a she-wolf, in which she had left her young ones while she went out to search for prey. By a caprice that was natural to his temper, he chose out the largest of the whelps, carried it home to his house, and brought it up as if it had been a useful and harmless animal. While it was yet but young it was incapable of doing mischief; but as it increased in age and strength, it began to show signs of a bloody and untameable disposition, and made all the neighbouring shepherds tremble for the safety of their flocks. But as the courage and fierceness of Tigranes had now rendered him formidable to all his associates, and the violence of his temper made him impatient of all opposition, they did not speak to him on the subject; and as to his own parents, he had long learned to treat them with indifference and contempt. Sophron alone, who was not to be awed by fear, observing the just apprehensions of the neighbourhood, undertook the task of expostulating with his friend, and endeavoured to prevail upon him to part with a beast so justly odious, and which might in the end prove fatal whenever his natural rage should break out into open acts of slaughter. Tigranes heard him with a sneer of derision, and only answered, that 'if a parcel of miserable rustics diverted themselves with keeping sheep, he, who had a more elevated soul, might surely entertain a nobler animal for his diversion.' 'But should that nobler animal prove a public mischief,' coolly replied Sophron, 'you must expect that he will be treated as a public enemy.' 'Woe be to the man,' answered Tigranes, brandishing his javelin, and sternly frowning, 'that shall dare to meddle with anything that belongs to me.' Saying this, he turned his back upon Sophron, and left him with disdain.

"It was not long before the very event took place which had been so long foreseen. The wolf of Tigranes, either impelled by the accidental taste of blood, or by the natural fierceness of his own temper, fell one day upon the sheep, with such an unexpected degree of fury that he slaughtered thirty of them before it was possible to prevent him. Sophron happened at that time to be within view; he ran with amazing swiftness to the place, and found the savage bathed in blood, tearing the carcass of a lamb he had just slain. At the approach of the daring youth the wolf began to utter a dismal cry, and, quitting his prey, seemed to prepare himself for slaughter of another kind. Sophron was entirely unarmed, and the size and fury of the beast, which rushed forward to attack him, might well have excused him had he declined the combat. But he, consulting only his native courage, wrapped his shepherd's cloak around his left arm, to resist the first onset of his enemy, and, with a determined look and nimble pace, advanced towards his threatening adversary. In an instant the wolf sprang upon him, with a horrid yell; but Sophron nimbly eluded his attack, and suddenly throwing his vigorous arms about the body of his adversary, compelled him to struggle for his own safety. It was then that he uttered cries more dreadful than before; and as he writhed about in all the agitations of pain and madness, he gnashed his terrible teeth with impotent attempts to bite, while the blood and foam which issued from his jaws rendered his figure still more horrible than before. But Sophron, with undaunted courage, still maintained his hold, and grasping him with irresistible strength, prevented him from using either his teeth or claws in his own defence. It was not long before the struggles and violence of the wolf grew perceptibly weaker from fatigue, and he seemed to wish to decline a further combat with so formidable a foe, could he have found means to escape. Sophron then collected all his strength, and, seizing his fainting adversary by the neck and throat, grasped him still tighter in his terrible hands, till the beast, incapable either of disengaging himself or breathing, yielded up the contest and his life together.

"It was almost in this moment that Tigranes passed that way, and unexpectedly was witness to the triumphs of Sophron, and the miserable end of his favourite. Inflamed with pride and indignation, Tigranes uttered dreadful imprecations against his friend, who in vain attempted to explain the transaction, and rushing upon him with all the madness of inveterate hate, aimed a javelin at his bosom. Sophron was calm as he was brave; he saw the necessity of defending his own life against the attacks of a perfidious friend, and, with a nimble spring, at once eluded the weapon and closed with his antagonist. The combat was then more equal, for each was reduced to depend upon his own strength and activity. They struggled for some time with all the efforts which disappointed rage could inspire on the one side, and a virtuous indignation on the other. At length the fortune, or rather the force and coolness of Sophron, prevailed over the blind impetuous fury of Tigranes; he at once exerted his whole remaining strength, with such success that he hurled his adversary to the ground, where he lay, bleeding, vanquished, and unable to rise. 'Thou scarcely,' said Sophron, 'deservest thy life from my hands, who couldst so wantonly and unjustly attempt to deprive me of mine; however, I will rather remember thy early merits than my recent injuries.' 'No,' replied the raging Tigranes, 'load me not with thy odious benefits; but rather rid me of a life which I abhor, since thou hast robbed me of my honour.' 'I will never hurt thee,' replied Sophron, 'but in my own just defence; live to make a better use of life, and to have juster ideas of honour.' Saying this, he assisted Tigranes to rise, but finding his temper full of implacable resentment, he turned another way, and left him to go home alone.

"It was not long after this event that a company of soldiers marched across the plains where Sophron was feeding his flocks, and halted to refresh themselves under the shade of some spreading trees. The officer who commanded them was struck with the comely figure and expressive countenance of Sophron. He called the young man to him, and endeavoured to inflame him with a military ardour, by setting before him the glory which might be acquired by arms, and ridiculing the obscurity of a country life. When he thought he had sufficiently excited his admiration, he proposed to him that he should enrol himself in his company; and promised him every encouragement which he thought most likely to engage the passions of a young man. Sophron thanked him, with humility, for his offers, but told him he had an aged father, who was now become incapable of maintaining himself, and therefore that he could accept of no offers, however advantageous they might appear, which would interfere with the discharge of this duty. The officer replied, and ridiculed the scruples of the young man; but, finding him inflexible in his resolution, he at last turned from him with an air of contempt, and called his men to follow him, muttering, as he went, reflections on the stupidity and cowardice of Sophron.

"The party had not proceeded far, before, by ill fortune, they came to the place where Sophron's favourite lamb was feeding; and as the animal had not yet learned to dread the cruelty of the human species, it advanced towards them with all the confidence of unsuspicious innocence. 'This is a lucky accident,' cried one of the soldiers, with a brutal satisfaction; 'fortune was not willing we should go without a supper, and has therefore sent us a present.' 'A happy exchange,' answered a second; 'a fat sheep for a lubberly shepherd; and the coward will no doubt think himself happy to sleep in a whole skin at so small an expense.' Saying this, he took the lamb, and bore it away in triumph, uttering a thousand threats and execrations against the master if he should dare to reclaim it.

"Sophron was not so far removed to escape the sight of the indignity that was offered him. He followed the troop, with so much swiftness that it was not long before he overtook the soldier who was bearing away his friend, and from his load marched rather behind the rest. When Sophron approached him, he accosted him in the gentlest manner, and besought him, in words that might have touched any one but a savage, to restore his favourite; he even offered, when he found that nothing else would avail, to purchase back his own property with something of greater value; but the barbarous soldier, inured to scenes of misery, and little accustomed to yield to human entreaties, only laughed at his complaints, and loaded him with additional insults. At length he began to be tired with his importunities, and drawing his sword, and waving it before the eyes of Sophron, threatened, that if he did not depart immediately he would use him as he intended to do the lamb. 'And do you think,' answered Sophron, 'that while I have an arm to lift, or a drop of blood in my veins, I will suffer you, or any man, to rob me of what I value more than life?' The soldier, exasperated at such an insolent reply, as he termed it, aimed a blow at Sophron with his sword, which he turned aside with a stick he held in his hand, so that it glanced inoffensively down; and before he could recover the use of his weapon, Sophron, who was infinitely stronger, closed in with him, wrested it out of his hands, and hurled him roughly to the ground. Some of the comrades of the vanquished soldier came in an instant to his assistance, and without inquiring into the merits of the cause, drew their swords, and began to assail the undaunted young man; but he, brandishing the weapon which he had just seized, appeared ready to defend himself, with so much strength and courage that they did not choose to come too near.

"While they were thus engaged, the officer, who had turned back at the first noise of the fray, approached, and ordering his men to desist, inquired into the occasion of the contest. Sophron then recounted, with so much modesty and respect, the indignities and insults he had received, and the unprovoked attack of the soldier, which had obliged him to defend his own life, that the officer, who had a real respect for courage, was charmed with the behaviour of the young man. He therefore reproved his men for their disorderly manners, praised the intrepidity of Sophron, and ordered his lamb to be restored to him, with which he joyfully departed.

"Sophron was scarcely out of sight, when Tigranes, who was then by accident returning from the chase, met the same party upon their march. Their military attire and glittering arms instantly struck his mind with admiration. He stopped to gaze upon them as they passed; and the officer, who remarked the martial air and well-proportioned limbs of Tigranes, entered into conversation with him, and made him the same proposals which he had before done to Sophron. Such incentives were irresistible to a vain and ambitious mind; the young man in an instant forgot his friends, his country, and his parents, and marched away with all the pleasure that strong presumption and aspiring hopes could raise. Nor was it long before he had an opportunity of signalizing his intrepidity.

"Asia was at that time overrun by numerous bands of savage warriors, under different and independent chiefs. That country, which has in every age been celebrated for the mildness of the climate and the fertility of the soil, seems to be destined to groan under all the horrors of eternal servitude. Whether these effects are merely produced by fortune, or whether the natural advantages it enjoys have a necessary tendency to soften the minds of the inhabitants to sloth and effeminacy, it is certain that the people of Asia have, in general, been the unresisting prey of every invader. At this time several fierce and barbarous nations had broken in upon its territory, and, after covering its fertile plains with carnage and desolation, were contending with each other for the superiority.

"Under the most enterprising of these rival chiefs was Tigranes now enrolled; and in the very first engagement at which he was present, he gave such uncommon proofs of valour, that he was distinguished by the general with marks of particular regard, and became the admiration of all his comrades. Under the banners of this adventurous warrior did Tigranes toil with various fortunes during the space of many years; sometimes victorious in the fight, sometimes baffled; at one time crowned with conquest and glory, at another beset with dangers, covered with wounds, and hunted like a wild beast through rocks and forests; yet still the native courage of his temper sustained his spirits, and kept him firm in the profession which he had chosen. At length, in a decisive battle, in which the chieftain, under whom Tigranes had enlisted, contended with the most powerful of his rivals, he had the honour of retrieving the victory when his own party seemed totally routed; and, after having penetrated the thickest squadrons of the enemy, to kill their general with his own hand. From this moment he seemed to be in possession of all that his ambition could desire. He was appointed general of all the troops under the chief himself, whose repeated victories had rendered him equal in power to the most celebrated monarchs. Nor did his fortune stop even here; for, after a number of successive battles, in which his party were generally victorious by his experience and intrepidity, he was, on the unexpected death of the chief, unanimously chosen by the whole nation to succeed him.

"In the mean time Sophron, free from envy, avarice, or ambition, pursued the natural impulse of his character, and contented himself with a life of virtuous obscurity; he passed his time in rural labours, in watching his flocks, and in attending with all the duty of an affectionate child upon his aged parents. Every morning he rose with the sun, and spreading his innocent arms to heaven, thanked that Being who created all nature for the continuance of life and health, and all the blessings he enjoyed. His piety and virtue were rewarded with everything which a temperate and rational mind can ask. All his rural labours succeeded in the most ample manner; his flock was the fairest, the most healthy and numerous of the district; he was loved and esteemed by the youth of the neighbourhood, and equally respected by the aged, who pointed him out as the example of every virtue to their families; but, what was more dear than all the rest to such a mind as Sophron's, was to see himself the joy, the comfort, and support of his parents, who frequently embraced him with tears, and supplicated the Deity to reward such duty and affection with all His choicest blessings.

"Nor was his humanity confined to his own species; the innocent inhabitants of the forest were safe from the pursuit of Sophron; and all that lived under his protection were sure to meet with distinguished tenderness. 'It is enough,' said Sophron, 'that the innocent sheep supplies me with his fleece to form my winter garments, and defend me from the cold; I will not bereave him of his little life, nor stop his harmless gambols on the green, to gratify a guilty sensuality. It is surely enough that the stately heifer affords me copious streams of pure and wholesome food; I will not arm my hand against her innocent existence; I will not pollute myself with her blood, nor tear her warm and panting flesh with a cruelty that we abhor even in savage beasts. More wholesome, more adapted to human life, are the spontaneous fruits which liberal nature produces for the sustenance of man, or which the earth affords to recompense his labours.'"

Here the interest and concern which had been long visible in Tommy's face, could no longer be repressed, and tears began to trickle down his cheeks. "What is the matter, my darling?" said his mother: "what is there in the account of this young man so deeply interests and affects you?" "Alas! mamma," said Tommy, "it reminds of poor Harry Sandford; just such another good young man will he be when he is as old as Sophron; and I—and I," added he, sobbing, "am just such another worthless, ungrateful wretch as Tigranes." "But Tigranes," said Mrs Merton, "you see, became a great and powerful man; while Sophron remained only a poor and ignorant shepherd." "What does that signify, mamma?" said Tommy: "for my part, I begin to find that it is not always the greatest people that are the best or happiest; and as to ignorance, I cannot think that Sophron, who understood his duty so well to his parents and to God, and to all the world, could be called ignorant; and very likely he could read and write better than Tigranes, in spite of all his pomp and grandeur; for I am sure there is not one of the young gentlemen that went home to-day can read as well as Harry Sandford, or has half his understanding." Mr Merton could hardly help smiling at Tommy's conjecture about Sophron's reading; but he felt the greatest pleasure at seeing such a change in his sentiments; and, looking at him with more cordiality than he had done before, he told him that he was very happy to find him so sensible of his faults, and hoped he would be equally ready to amend them.

Miss Simmons then continued her narrative.

"If Sophron ever permitted himself to shed the blood of living creatures, it was those ferocious animals that wage continual war with every other species. Amid the mountains which he inhabited, there were rugged cliffs and inaccessible caverns, which afforded retreat to wolves, and bears, and tigers. Sometimes, amid the storms and snows of winter, they felt themselves pinched by hunger, and fell with irresistible fury upon the nearest flocks and herds. Not only sheep and oxen were slaughtered in these dreadful and unexpected attacks, but even the shepherds themselves were frequently the victims of their rage. If there was time to assemble for their defence, the boldest of the youth would frequently seize their arms and give battle to the invaders. In this warfare, which was equally just and honourable, Sophron was always foremost; his unequalled strength and courage made all the youth adopt him as their leader, and march with confidence under his command; and so successful were his expeditions, that he always returned loaded with the skins of vanquished enemies; and by his vigilance and intrepidity he at length either killed or drove away most of the beasts from which any danger was to be feared.

"It happened one day that Sophron had been chasing a wolf which had made some depredations upon the flocks, and, in the ardour of his pursuits, was separated from all his companions. He was too well acquainted with the roughest parts of the neighbouring mountains, and too indifferent to danger, to be disturbed at this circumstance; he therefore followed his flying foe with so much impetuosity that he completely lost every track and mark with which he was acquainted. As it is difficult, in a wild and uncultivated district, to find the path again when once it is lost, Sophron only wandered the farther from his home the more he endeavoured to return. He found himself bewildered and entangled in a dreary wilderness, where he was every instant stopped by torrents that tumbled from the neighbouring cliffs, or in danger of slipping down the precipices of an immense height. He was alone in the midst of a gloomy forest, where human industry had never penetrated, nor the woodman's axe been heard since the moment of its creation; to add to his distress, the setting sun disappeared in the west, and the shades of night gathered gradually round, accompanied with the roar of savage beasts. Sophron found himself beset with terrors, but his soul was incapable of fear; he poised his javelin in his hand, and forced his way through every opposition, till at length, with infinite difficulty, he disengaged himself from the forest just as the last glimmer of light was yet visible in the skies. But it was in vain that he had thus escaped; he cast his eyes around, but could discern nothing but an immense tract of country, rough with rocks, and overhung with forests, but destitute of every mark of cultivation or inhabitants; he, however, pursued his way along the side of the mountain till he descended into a pleasant valley, free from trees, and watered by a winding stream. Here he was going to repose for the remainder of the night, under the crag of an impending rock, when a rising gleam of light darted suddenly into the skies from a considerable distance, and attracted his curiosity. Sophron looked towards the quarter whence it came, and plainly discerned that it was a fire kindled either by some benighted traveller like himself, or by some less innocent wanderers of the dark. He determined to approach the light, but knowing the unsettled state of all the neighbouring districts, he thought it prudent to advance with caution; he therefore made a considerable circuit, and by clambering along the higher grounds discovered a hanging wood, under whose thick covert he approached without being discovered, within a little distance of the fire. He then perceived that a party of soldiers were reposing round a flaming pile of wood, and carousing at their ease; all about was strewn the plunder which they had accumulated in their march, and in the midst was seated a venerable old man, accompanied by a beautiful young woman.

"Sophron easily comprehended, by the dejection of their countenances, and the tears which trickled down the maiden's cheeks, as well as by the insolence with which they were treated, that they were prisoners. The virtuous indignation of his temper was instantly excited, and he determined to attempt their deliverance; but this, in spite of all his intrepidity, he perceived was no easy matter to accomplish; he was alone, and weakly armed; his enemies, though not numerous, too many for him to flatter himself with any rational hope of success by open force; and, should he make a fruitless effort, he might rashly throw his life away, and only aggravate the distresses he sought to cure. With this consideration he restrained his natural impetuosity, and at length determined to attempt by stratagem what he thought could scarcely be performed by force. He therefore silently withdrew, and skirted the side of the wood which had concealed him, carefully remarking every circumstance of the way, till he had ascended a mountain which immediately fronted the camp of the soldiers, at no considerable distance. He happened to have by his side a kind of battle-axe which they use in the chase of bears; with this he applied himself to lopping the branches of trees, collecting at the same time all the fallen ones he could find, till, in a short time, he had reared several piles of wood upon the most conspicuous part of the mountain, and full in view of the soldiers. He then easily kindled a blaze by rubbing two decayed branches together, and in an instant all the piles were blazing with so many streams of light, that the neighbouring hills and forests were illuminated with the gleam. Sophron knew the nature of man, always prone to sudden impressions of fear and terror, more particularly amid the obscurity of the night, and promised himself the amplest success from his stratagem.

"In the meantime he hastened back with all the speed he could use, till he reached the very wood where he had lurked before; he then raised his voice, which was naturally loud and clear, and shouted several times successively with all his exertion. A hundred echoes from the neighbouring cliffs and caverns returned the sound, with a reverberation that made it appear like the noise of a mighty squadron. The soldiers, who had been alarmed by the sudden blaze of so many fires, which they attributed to a numerous band of troops, were now impressed with such a panic that they fled in confusion; they imagined themselves surrounded by their enemies, who were bursting in on every side, and fled with so much precipitation that they were dispersed in an instant, and left the prisoners to themselves.

"Sophron, who saw from a little distance all their motions, did not wait for them to be undeceived, but running to the spot they had abandoned, explained in a few words to the trembling and amazed captives the nature of his stratagem, and exhorted them to fly with all the swiftness they were able to exert. Few entreaties were necessary to prevail upon them to comply; they therefore arose and followed Sophron, who led them a considerable way up into the mountains, and when he thought them out of the immediate danger of pursuit, they sheltered themselves in a rocky cavern, and determined there to wait for the light of the morning.

"When they were thus in a place of safety, the venerable old man seized the hand of Sophron, and bedewing it with tears, gave way to the strong emotions of gratitude which overwhelmed his mind. 'Generous youth,' said he, 'I know not by what extraordinary fortune you have thus been able to effect our deliverance, when we imagined ourselves out of the reach of human succour; but if the uniform gratitude and affection of two human beings, who perhaps are not entirely unworthy your regard, can be any recompense for such a distinguished act of virtue, you may command our lives, and employ them in your service.'

"'Father,' answered Sophron, 'you infinitely over-rate the merits of the service which chance has enabled me to perform. I am but little acquainted with my fellow-creatures, as having always inhabited these mountains; but I cannot conceive that any other man, who had been witness to your distress, would have refused to attempt your rescue; and as to all the rest, the obscurity of the night, and peculiarity of the situation, rendered it a work of little difficulty or danger.' Sophron then recounted to his new friends the accident which had brought him to that unfrequented spot, and made him an unperceived witness of their captivity; he also explained the nature of the stratagem by which, alone and unsupported, he had been enabled to disperse their enemies. He added that, 'if he appeared to have any little merit in their eyes, he should be amply recompensed by being admitted to their friendship and confidence.'

"With these mutual professions of esteem they thought it prudent to terminate a conversation, which, however agreeable, was not entirely free from danger, as some of their late oppressors might happen to distinguish their voices, and thus directed to their lurking place, exact a severe revenge for the terrors they had undergone.

"With the first ray of morning the three companions arose, and Sophron, leading them along the skirts of the mountains where bushes and brushwood concealed them from observation, and still following the windings of a river as a guide, they at length came to a cultivated spot, though deserted by its inhabitants from the fear of the party they had lately escaped. Here they made a slight and hasty repast upon some coarse provisions which they found, and instantly struck again into the woods, which they judged safer than the plain. But Sophron fortunately recollected that he had formerly visited this village with his father, while yet a child, and before the country had suffered the rage of barbarous invasions. It was a long day's march from home, but, by exerting all their strength, they at length arrived, through rough and secret paths, at the hospitable cottage where Sophron and his parents dwelt. Here they were joyfully received, as the long absence of the young man had much alarmed his parents, and made all the hamlet anxious concerning his safety. That night they comfortably reposed in a place of safety, and the next morning, after a plentiful but coarse repast, the father of Sophron again congratulated his guests upon their fortunate escape, and entreated them to let him hear the history of their misfortunes.

"'I can refuse nothing,' said the venerable stranger, 'to persons to whom I am under such extraordinary obligations, although the history of my life is short and simple, and contains little worthy to be recited. My name is Chares; and I was born in one of the maritime cities of Asia, of opulent parents, who died while I was yet a youth. The loss of my parents, to whom I was most affectionately attached, made so strong an impression upon my mind that I determined to seek relief in travel, and for that purpose sold my paternal estate, the price of which I converted into money and jewels, as being most portable. My father had been a man distinguished for his knowledge and abilities, and from him I imbibed an early desire of improvement, which has always been my greatest comfort and support.

"'The first place, therefore, which I visited was Egypt, a country renowned in every age for its invention of all the arts which contribute to support or adorn human life. There I resided several years, giving up my time to the study of philosophy, and to the conversation of the many eminent men who resorted thither from all the regions of the world. This country is one immense plain, divided by the Nile, which is one of the noblest rivers in the world, and pours its tide along the middle of its territory. Every year, at a particular season, the stream begins gradually to swell with such an increase of waters, that at length it rises over its banks, and the whole extent of Egypt becomes an immense lake, where buildings, temples, and cities appear as floating upon the inundation. Nor is this event a subject of dread to the inhabitants; on the contrary, the overflowing of their river is a day of public rejoicing to all the natives, which they celebrate with songs and dances, and every symptom of extravagant joy. Nor is this to be wondered at, when you are informed that this inundation renders the soil which it covers the most abundant in the world. Whatever land is covered by the waters, receives such an increase of fertility, as never to disappoint the hopes of the industrious husbandman. The instant the waters have retired the farmer returns to his fields and begins the operation of agriculture. These labours are not very difficult in a soft and yielding slime, such as the river leaves behind it. The seeds are sown, and vegetate with inconceivable rapidity, and, in a few weeks, an abundant harvest of every kind of grain covers the land. For this reason all the necessaries of life are easily procured by the innumerable multitudes which inhabit the country. Nor is the climate less favourable than the soil; for here an eternal spring and summer seem to have fixed their abode. No frost nor snow is ever known to chill the atmosphere, which is always perfumed with the smell of aromatic plants that grow on every side, and bring on a pleasing forgetfulness of human care. But, alas! these blessings, great as they may appear, produce the effect of curses upon the inhabitants. The ease and plenty which they enjoy, enervate their manners, and destroy all vigour both of body and mind. No one here is inflamed with the sacred love of his country, or of public liberty; no one is inured to arms, or taught to prefer his honour to his life;—the great business of existence is an inglorious indolence, a lethargy of mind, and a continual suspense from all exertion. The very children catch the contagion from their parents; they are instructed in every effeminate art—to dance in soft unmanly attitudes; to modulate their voices by musical instruments, and to adjust the floating drapery of their dress. These are the arts in which both sexes are instructed from their infancy; but no one is taught to wield the arms of men, to tame the noble steeds in which the country abounds, to observe his rank in war, or to bear the indispensable hardships of a military life. Hence this celebrated country, which has been in every age the admiration of mankind, is destined to the most degrading servitude. A few thousand disciplined troops are sufficient to hold the many millions it contains in bondage, under which they groan, without ever conceiving the design of vindicating their natural rights by arms.'——

"'Unhappy people,' exclaimed Sophron, 'how useless to them are all the blessings of their climate! How much rather would I inhabit the stormy top of Lebanon, amid eternal snows and barrenness, than wallow in the vile sensuality of such a country, or breathe an air infected by its vices!'

"Chares was charmed with the generous indignation of Sophron, and thus continued: 'I was of the same opinion with yourself, and therefore determined to leave a country which all its natural advantages could not render agreeable, when I became acquainted with the manners of its inhabitants. But before I quitted that part of the globe, my curiosity led me to visit the neighbouring tribes of Arabia—a nation bordering upon the Egyptians, but as different in spirits and manners as the hardy shepherds of these mountains from the effeminate natives of the plains. Egypt is bounded on one side by the sea; on every other it is surrounded by immense plains or gentle eminences, which, being beyond the fertilizing inundations of the Nile, have been, beyond all memory, converted into waste and barren sands by the excessive heat of the sun. I therefore made preparations for my journey, and hired a guide, who was to furnish me with beasts of burden, and accompany me across those dreary deserts. We accordingly began our march, mounted upon camels, which are found much more useful than horses in such a burning climate.'"——

"Indeed," said Tommy here to Mr Barlow, "I am sorry to interrupt the story; but I shall be much obliged to you, sir, if you will inform me what kind of an animal a camel is?"

"The camel," answered Mr Barlow, "is chiefly found in those burning climates which you have heard described. His height is very great, rising to fourteen or fifteen feet, reckoning to the top of his head; his legs are long and slender, his body not large, and his neck of an amazing length. This animal is found in no part of the world that we are acquainted with, wild or free; but the whole race is enslaved by man, and brought up to drudgery from the first moment of their existence. As soon as he is born, they seize him, and force him to recline upon the ground, with his legs doubled up under his belly. To keep him in this attitude, they extend a piece of canvass over his body, and fix it to the ground by laying heavy weights upon the edge. In this manner he is tutored to obedience, and taught to kneel down at the orders of his master, and receive the burthens which he is destined to transport. In his temper he is gentle and tractable, and his patience in bearing thirst and hunger is superior to that of any animal we are acquainted with. He is driven across the burning desert, loaded with the merchandise of those countries, and frequently does not even find water to quench his thirst for several days. As to his food, it is nothing but a few herbs, which are found in the least barren parts of the deserts, and prickly bushes, upon which he browses as a delicacy; sometimes he does not find even these for many days, yet pursues his journey with a degree of patience which is hardly credible."

"'—We mounted our camels,' continued Chares, 'and soon had reached the confines of the fertile plains of Egypt. The way, as we proceeded, grew sensibly more dreary and disagreeable, yet was sometimes varied with little tufts of trees and scanty patches of herbage; but these at length entirely disappeared, and nothing was seen on every side but an immense extent of barren sands, destitute of vegetation, and parched by the continual heat of the sun. No sound was heard to interrupt the dreary silence that reigned around; no traces of inhabitants perceivable, and the gloomy uniformity of the prospect inspired the soul with melancholy. In the meantime the sun seemed to shoot down perpendicular rays upon our heads, without a cloud to mitigate his violence. I felt a burning fever take possession of my body. My tongue was scorched with intolerable heat, and it was in vain I endeavoured to moisten my mouth with repeated draughts of water. At night we came to a little rising ground, at the foot of which we perceived some aquatic herbs and a small quantity of muddy water, of which our camels took prodigious draughts; here we spread our tents and encamped for the night. With the morning we pursued our journey; but had not proceeded far before we saw a cloud of dust that seemed to rise along the desert; and as we approached nearer, we easily distinguished the glitter of arms that reflected the rising sun. This was a band of the Arabians that had discovered us, and came to know our intentions. As they advanced they spurred their horses, which are the most fleet and excellent in the world, and bounded along the desert with the lightness of an antelope; at the same time they brandished their lances, and seemed prepared alike for war or peace; but when they saw that we had neither the intention nor the power to commit hostilities, they stopped their coursers at the distance of a few paces from us, and he that appeared the chief advanced, and, with a firm but mild tone of voice, inquired into the reason of our coming. It was then that I took the liberty of addressing him in his own language, to which I had for some time applied myself before my journey. I explained to him my curiosity, which led me to observe in person the manners of a people who are celebrated over the whole world for having preserved their native simplicity unaltered, and their liberty unviolated, amidst the revolutions which agitate all the neighbouring nations. I then offered him the loading of my camel, which I had brought, not as being worthy his acceptance, but as a slight testimony of my regard, and concluded with remarking, that the fidelity of the Arabians in observing their engagements was unimpeached in a single instance; and therefore, relying upon the integrity of my own intentions, I had come a painful journey, unarmed, and almost alone, to put myself into their power, and demand the sacred rights of hospitality.