As soon as he came opposite the place where little Flora was sitting, he threw down to her a lamb, which he was carrying across his shoulder, saying, "There, my girl, is a poor sorry creature that has just died, and made me some shillings poorer than I was. You may take it if you will, and do what you like with it."

Flora put down her milk and her bread, and taking up the lamb, viewed it with looks of tenderness and compassion. "But why should I pity you?" said she to the lamb. "Either this day or to-morrow they would have run a great knife through your throat, whereas now you have nothing to fear."

While she was thus speaking, the warmth of her arms somewhat revived the lamb, who, opening its eyes a little, made a slight motion, and cried baa, in a very low tone, as if it were calling for its mother. It would be impossible to express little Flora's joy on this occasion. She covered the lamb in her apron, and over that put her stuff petticoat; she then bent her breast down towards her lap, in order to increase the warmth, and blew into its mouth and nostrils with all the force she could. By degrees the poor animal began to stir, and every motion it made conveyed joy to her little heart.

This success encouraged her to proceed; she crumbled some of her bread into her pan, and, taking it up in her fingers, she with no small difficulty forced it between its teeth, which were very firmly closed together. The lamb, whose only disorder was hunger and fatigue, began to feel the effects of this nourishment. It first began to stretch out its limbs, then shake its head, to wag its tail, and at last to prick up its ears. In a little time, it was able to stand upon its legs, and then went of itself to Flora's breakfast pan, who was highly delighted to see it take such pleasing liberties; for she cared not a farthing about losing her own breakfast, since it saved the life of the little lamb. In short, in a little time, it recovered its usual strength, and began to skip and play about its kind deliverer.

It may naturally be supposed, that Flora was greatly pleased at this unexpected success. She took it up in her arms, and ran with it to the cottage to shew it her mother. Her Baba, for so Flora called it, became the first object of her cares, and it constantly shared with her in the little allowance of bread and milk, which she received for her meals. Indeed, so fond was she of it, that she would not have exchanged it for a whole flock. Nor was Baba insensible of the fondness of her little mistress, since she would follow her wherever she went, would come and eat out of her hand, skip, and frisk round her, and would bleat most piteously whenever Flora was obliged to leave her at home.

Baba, however, repaid the services of her little mistress in a more substantial manner than that of merely dancing about her, for she brought forth young lambs: those lambs grew up, and brought forth others; so that, within the space of a few years, Flora had a very capital stock, that furnished the whole family with food and raiment. Such, my little readers, are the rewards which Providence bestows on acts of goodness, tenderness, and humanity.



THE FRUITFUL VINE



It was in the beginning of the spring, when Mr. Jackson went to his country-house, and took with him his little son Junius, in order to treat him with a walk in the garden. The primroses and violets were then displaying all their beauties, and many trees had begun to show what livery they were soon to wear.

After walking some time about the garden, they happened to go into the summer-house, at the foot of which grew the stump of a vine, which twisted wildly, and extended its naked branches in a rude and irregular manner. As soon as little Junius saw this tree, he exclaimed sadly against the ugly appearance it made, and began to exert all his strength to pull it up, but he found his efforts in vain, it being too well rooted to yield to his weak arm. He begged his papa to call the gardener to grub it up, and make firewood of it; but Mr. Jackson desired his son to let the tree alone, telling him that he would in a few months give him his reasons for not complying with his request.

This did not satisfy Junius, who desired his father to look at those lively crocusses and snow-drops, saying, he could not see why that barren stump should be kept, which did not produce a single green leaf. He thought it spoiled and disfigured the garden, and therefore begged his father would permit him to fetch the gardener to pluck it up.

Mr. Jackson, who could not think of granting him his request, told him, that it must stand as it then was, at least for some time to come. Little Junius still persisted in his entreaties, urging how disgraceful it was to the garden; but his father diverted his attention from the vine, by turning the conversation.

It so happened, that Mr. Jackson's affairs called him to a different part of the country, from whence he did not return till the middle of autumn. He no sooner came home, than he paid a visit to his country-house, taking little Junius with him. As the day happened to be exceedingly warm, they retired to enjoy the benefit of the shade, and entered the arbour, in which the vine stump had before so much offended his son Junius.

"Ah! papa," said the young gentleman, "how charming and delightful is this green shade! I am much obliged to you for having that dry and ugly stump plucked up, which I found so much fault with when we were here last, and for putting in its place this beautiful plant; I suppose you did it in order to give me an agreeable surprise. How delightful and tempting the fruit looks! What fine grapes! some purple, and others almost black: I see no tree in the garden that looks in so blooming a state. All have lost their fruit; but this fine one seems in the highest perfection. See how it is loaded! See those wide-spreading leaves that hide the clusters. If the fruit be as good as it appears beautiful, it must be delicious."

Little Junius was in raptures when he tasted one of the grapes, which his father gave him, and still more when he informed him, that from such fruit was made that delicious liquor which he sometimes tasted after dinner. The little fellow was quite astonished on hearing his father talk thus; but he was far more surprised, when Mr. Jackson told him, that all those fine leaves, and delicious fruit grew from that very crooked and misshapen stump, with which he had been so angry in the spring. His father then asked him, if he should now order the gardener to pluck it up, and make firewood of it. Junius was much confused; but, after a short silence, told his papa, that he would rather see every other tree in the garden cut down than that, so beautiful were its leaves, and so delicious its fruit.

As Mr. Jackson was a man of good sense, he thus moralized on this occasion. "You see then, my dear," said he, "how imprudently I should have acted, had I followed your advice, and cut down this tree. Daily experience convinces us, that the same thing happens frequently in the commerce of this world, which has in this instance misled you. When we see a child badly clothed, and of an unpleasing external appearance, we are too apt to despise him, and grow conceited on comparing ourselves with him; and sometimes even go so far as cruelly to address him in haughty and insulting language. But beware, my dear boy, how you run into errors by forming a too hasty judgment. It is possible that in a person so little favoured by nature may dwell an exalted soul, which may one day astonish the world with the greatness of its virtues, or enlighten it with knowledge. The most rugged stem may produce the most delicious fruit, while a straight and stately plant may be worthless and barren."



SIR JOHN DENHAM AND HIS WORTHY

TENANT.



One morning, Sir John Denham having shut himself up in his study, on some particular business, his servant came to inform him, that one of his tenants, Farmer Harris, desired to speak with him. Sir John told him to show the farmer into the drawing-room, and to beg him to stay one moment, until he had finished writing a letter.

Sir John had three children, Robert, Arthur, and Sophia, who were in the drawing-room when the farmer was introduced. As soon as he entered, he saluted them very respectfully, though not with the grace of a dancing-master, nor were his compliments very elegantly turned. The two sons looked at each other with a smile of contempt and disrespect. Indeed, they behaved in such a manner, that the poor farmer blushed, and was quite out of countenance.

Robert was so shamefully impertinent as to walk round him, holding his nose, and asking his brother, if he did not perceive something of the smell of a dung heap. Then he lighted some paper at the fire, and carried it round the room, in order to disperse, as he said, the unpleasant smell. Arthur all the while stood laughing most heartily.

Sophia, however, acted in a very different manner; for, instead of imitating the rudeness of her brothers, she checked them for their behaviour, made apologies for them to the farmer, and approaching him with the most complaisant looks, offered him some wine to refresh him, made him sit down, and took from him his hat and stick to put by.

In a little time, Sir John came out of his study, and approaching the farmer in a friendly manner, took him by the hand, inquired after the health of his family, and asked him what had brought him to town. The farmer replied, that he was come to pay him half a year's rent, and that he hoped he would not be displeased at his not coming sooner, the roads having been so bad that he could not till then carry his corn to market.

Sir John told him he was not displeased at his not coming sooner, because he knew him to be an honest man, who had no occasion to be put in mind of his debts. The farmer then put down the money, and drew out of his great coat pocket a jar of candied fruits. "I have brought something here," said he, "for the young folks. Won't you be so kind, Sir John, as to let them come out one of these days, and take a mouthful of the country air with us? I'd try, as well as I could, to entertain and amuse them. I have two good stout nags, and would come for them myself, and take them down in my four-wheeled chaise, which will carry them very safely, I'll warrant it."

Sir John said, that he would certainly take an opportunity to pay him a visit, and invited him to stay to dinner; but the farmer excused himself, saying, he had a good deal of business to do in town, and wished to get home before night. Sir John filled his pocket with cakes for his children, thanked him for the present he had made to his, and then took leave of him.

No sooner was the farmer gone, than Sophia, in the presence of her brothers, acquainted her papa of the very rude reception they had given the honest farmer. Sir John was exceedingly displeased at their conduct, and much applauded Sophia for her different behaviour.

Sir John, being seated at breakfast with his children, opened the farmer's jar of fruit, and he and his daughter ate some of them, which they thought were very nice; but Robert and Arthur were neither of them invited to a single taste. Their longing eyes were fixed upon them; but their father, instead of taking any notice of them, continued conversing with Sophia, whom he advised never to despise a person merely for the plainness of his dress; "for," said he, "were we to behave politely to those only who are finely clothed, we should appear to direct our attention more to the dress than to the wearer. The most worthy people are frequently found under the plainest dress, and of this we have an example in Farmer Harris. It is this man who helps to clothe you, and also to procure you a proper education, for the money that he and my other tenants bring me, enables me to do these things."

Breakfast being finished, the remainder of the fruit was ordered to be locked up; but Robert and his brother, whose longing eyes followed the jar, clearly saw they were to have none of them. In this they were confirmed by their father, who told them not to expect to taste any of those fruits, either on that or any future day.

Robert endeavoured to excuse himself by saying, that it was not his fault if the farmer did not smell well; and he thought there was no harm in telling him of it. If people will go among dung, they must expect to smell of it. "And yet," said Sir John, "if this man were not to manure his land with dung, his crops would fail him, he would be unable to pay me his rent; and you yourself would perhaps be obliged to follow a dung cart." The two boys saw displeasure in their papa's countenance, and therefore did not presume to say any thing more.

Early on a morning, shortly after, the good farmer came to Sir John Denham's door, and sent up his compliments, kindly inviting him to make a little excursion to his farm. Sir John could not resist the friendly invitation, as a refusal might perhaps have made the honest farmer uneasy. Robert and Arthur begged very hard to go along with them, promising to behave more civilly in future; and Sophia begging for them likewise, Sir John at last consented. They then mounted the four-wheeled chaise with joyful countenances, and, as the farmer had a pair of good horses, they were there in a short time.

On their arrival, Mrs. Harris, the farmer's wife, came to the door to receive them, helped the young gentlefolks out of the chaise, and kissed them. All their little family, dressed in their best clothes, came out to compliment their visitors. Sir John would have stopped a moment to talk with the little ones, and caress them; but Mrs. Harris pressed him to go in, lest the coffee should grow cold, it being already poured out; it was placed on a table, covered with a napkin as white as snow.

Indeed, the coffee-pot was not silver, nor the cups china, yet every thing was in the neatest order. Robert and Arthur, however, looked slily at each other, and would have burst out into a laugh, had not their father been present. Mrs. Harris, who was a sensible woman, guessed by their looks what they thought, and therefore made an apology for the humble style in which her table was set out, which she owned could not be equal to what they met with at their own homes; but hoped they would not be dissatisfied with her homely fare. The cakes she produced were excellent, for she spared no pains in making them.

As soon as breakfast was over, the farmer asked Sir John to look at his orchard and grounds; and Mrs. Harris took all the pains she could to make the walk pleasing to the children. She showed them all her flocks, which covered the fields, and gave them the prettiest lambs to play with. She then conducted them to her pigeon-house, where every thing was clean and wholesome. There were some so young that they were unable to fly; some of the mothers sitting on their eggs, and others employed in feeding their young. From the pigeon-house, they proceeded to the bee-hive: but Mrs. Harris took care that they should not go too near them, for fear of being stung.

Most of these sights being new to the children, they seemed highly pleased with them, and were even going to take a second survey of them, when the farmer's youngest son came to inform them that dinner was ready. They ate off pewter, and drank out of Delft ware; but Robert and Arthur, finding themselves so well pleased with their morning-walk, dared not to indulge themselves in ill-natured observations. Mrs. Harris, indeed, had spared neither pains nor attention to produce every thing in the best manner she was able.

Sir John, after dinner, perceiving two fiddles hang up against the wall, asked who played on those instruments. The farmer answered, he and his son; and, without saying a word more, he made a sign to his son Luke to take down the fiddles. They by turns played some old tunes, with which Sir John seemed highly pleased. As they were going to hang up the instruments, Sir John desired his two sons to play some of their best tunes, putting the fiddles into their hands: but they knew not even how to hold the bow, and their confusion occasioned a general laugh.

Sir John, now thinking it high time to return home, desired the farmer to order the carriage. Farmer Harris strongly pressed Sir John to stay all night, but the farmer was at last obliged to submit to Sir John's excuses.

On his return home, he asked his son Robert how he had liked his entertainment; and what he should have thought of the farmer, if he had taken no pains to entertain them. He replied, that he liked his entertainment; but had he not taken pains to accommodate them, he should have thought him an unmannerly clown. "Ah, Robert! Robert!" said Sir John, "this honest man came to our house, and, instead of offering him any refreshment, you made game of him. Which, then, is the best bred, you or the farmer?"

Robert blushed, and seemed at a loss what answer to make; but at length replied, that it was his duty to receive them well, as he got his living off their lands. "That is true," answered Sir John, "but it may be easily seen who draws the greatest profit from my lands, the farmer or I. He indeed feeds his horses with hay which he gets off my meadows, but his horses in return plough the fields, which otherwise would be overrun with weeds. He also feeds his cows and his sheep with the hay; but their dung is useful in giving fertility to the ground. His wife and children are fed with the harvest corn; but they in return devote the summer to weeding the crops; and afterwards, some in reaping them, and some in threshing. All these labours end in my advantage. The rest of the hay and corn he takes to market to sell, and with the produce thereof he pays his rent. From this, it is evident, who derives the greatest profit from my lands."

Here a long pause ensued; but, at last, Robert confessed that he saw his error. "Remember, then, all your life," said Sir John "what has now been offered to your eyes and ears. This farmer, so homely dressed, whose manners you have considered as so rustic, this man is better bred than you; and, though he knows nothing of Latin, he knows much more than you, and things of much greater use. You see, therefore, how unjust it is to despise any one for the plainness of his dress, and the rusticity of his manners. You may understand a little Latin, but you know not how to plough, sow grain, or reap the harvest, nor even to prune a tree. Sit down with being convinced that you have despised your superior."



ALFRED AND DORINDA.



Mr. Venables, one fine summer day, having promised his two children, Alfred and Dorinda, to treat them with a walk in a fine garden a little way out of town, went up into his dressing-room to prepare himself, leaving the two children in the parlour.

Alfred was so delighted with the thoughts of the pleasure he should receive from his walk, that he jumped about the room, without thinking of any evil consequence that could happen; but unluckily the skirt of his coat brushed against a very valuable flower, which his father was rearing with great pains, and which he had unfortunately just removed from before the window, in order to screen it from the scorching heat of the sun.

"O brother, brother!" said Dorinda, taking up the flower which was broken off from the stalk, "what have you done!" The sweet girl was holding the flower in her hand, when her father, having dressed himself, came into the parlour. "Bless me! Dorinda," said Mr. Venables, in an angry tone, "how could you be so thoughtless as to pluck a flower, which you have seen me take so much care to rear, in order to have taken seed from it?" Poor Dorinda was in such a fright, that she could only beg her papa not to be angry. Mr. Venables, growing more calm, replied he was not angry, but reminded her, that as they were going to a garden where there was a variety of flowers, she might have waited till they got there to indulge her fancy. He therefore hoped she would not take it amiss if he left her at home.

This was a terrible situation for Dorinda, who held her head down, and said, nothing. Little Alfred, however, was of too generous a temper to keep silence any longer. He went up to his papa, with his eyes swimming in tears, and told him, that it was not his sister but himself, who had accidentally beaten off the head of the flower with the flap of his coat. He therefore desired, that his sister might go abroad, and he stay at home.

Mr. Venables was so delighted with the generosity of his children, that he instantly forgave the accident, and tenderly kissed them both, being happy to see them have such an affection for each other. He told them, that he loved them equally alike, and that they should both go with him. Alfred and Dorinda kissed each other, and leaped about for joy.

They all three then walked to the garden, where they saw plants of the most valuable kinds. Mr. Venables observed with pleasure how Dorinda pressed her clothes on each side, and Alfred kept the skirts of his coat under his arms, for fear of doing any damage in their walk among the flowers.

The flower Mr. Venables had lost would have given him some pain had it happened from any other circumstance; but the pleasure he received from seeing such mutual affection and regard subsist between his two children, amply repaid him for the loss of his flower. I cannot omit the opportunity that here presents itself, of reminding my young friends, not only how necessary, but how amiable and praiseworthy it is, for brothers and sisters to live together in harmony. It is not only their most important interest to do so, but what should be a still stronger argument with them, such are the commands of Him who made them.



ROSINA; OR, THE FROWARD GIRL

REFORMED.



I would recommend to all my little readers who have had the misfortune to contract a vicious habit, very attentively to peruse the following historical fragment, in which, if they will but properly reflect, they will see that amendment is no very difficult thing, when once they form a sincere resolution to accomplish it.

Rosina was the joy of her parents until the seventh year of her age, at which period the glowing light of reason begins to unfold itself, and make us sensible of our infantine faults; but this period of life had a different effect on Rosina, who had then contracted an unhappy disposition, which cannot better be described, than by the practices of those snarling curs that grumble incessantly, and seem always ready to run and bite at those that approach them.

If a person touched any of her playthings, though it were by mistake, she would be out of temper for hours, and murmur about the house as though she had been robbed. If any one attempted to correct her, though in the most gentle manner, she would fly into a rage, equalled only by the fury of contending elements, and the uproar of the angry billows of the ocean.

Her father and mother saw this unaccountable change, with inexpressible sorrow; for neither they, nor any in the house, could now bear with her. Indeed, she would sometimes seem sensible of her errors, and would often shed tears in private, on seeing herself thus become the object of contempt to every one, not excepting her parents; but an ill habit had got the better of her temper, and she consequently every day grew worse and worse.

One evening, which happened to be new year's eve, she saw her mother going towards her room with a basket under her cloak. Rosina followed her mother, who ordered her to go back to the parlour immediately. As Rosina went thither, she threw about all the stools and chairs that stood in her way.

About half an hour after, her mamma sent for her; and great indeed was her surprise on seeing the room lighted up with a number of candles and the table covered with the most elegant toys.

Her mother called her to her, and desired her to read, in a bit of paper which she gave her, for whom those toys were intended, on which she read the following words, written in large letters; "For an amiable little girl, in return for her good behaviour." Rosina looked down, and could not say a word. On her mother's asking her for whom those toys were intended, she replied, with tears in her eyes, that they could not be intended for her.

Her parent then showed her another paper, desiring her to see if that did not concern her. Rosina took it, and read as follows: "For a froward little girl, who is sensible of her faults, and in beginning a new year will take pains to amend them." Rosina, instantly throwing herself into her mother's arms, and crying bitterly, said, "O! that is I, that is I." The tears also fell from her parent's eyes, partly for sorrow, on account of her daughter's faults, and partly through joy in the promising hope of her amendment.

"Come, Rosina," said she to her, after a short pause, "and take what was intended for you; and may God, who has heard your resolution, give you ability to fulfil it." Rosina, however, insisted on it, that it belonged to the person described in the first paper, and therefore desired her mamma to keep those things for her till she answered that description. This answer gave her mother a deal of pleasure, and she immediately put all the toys into a drawer, giving the key of it to Rosina, and telling her to open the drawer whenever she should think it proper so to do.

Several weeks passed without the least complaint against Rosina, who had performed wonders on herself. She then went to her mamma, threw her arms round her neck, and asked her if she thought she had then any right to open the drawer. "Yes, my dear," said her mother, clasping her tenderly in her arms, "you may now open the drawer with great propriety. But pray tell me how you have so well managed to get the better of your temper?" Rosina said it had cost her a deal of trouble; but every morning and evening, and indeed almost every hour in the day, she prayed to God to assist her.

Her mother shed tears of delight on this occasion; and Rosina became not only mistress of the toys, but of the affections of all her friends and acquaintances. Her mother related this happy change in the temper of her daughter in the presence of a little miss, who gave way to the same unhappy disposition; when the little girl was so struck with the relation of it, that she immediately determined to set about the work of reformation, in order to become as amiable as Rosina. Her attempt was not made in vain; and Rosina had the satisfaction to find, that, in being useful to herself, she had contributed to make others happy. My youthful readers, if any of you labour under bad habits, set about a reformation immediately, lest you become hardened by time, and thus totally destroy your present and future happiness.



LITTLE ANTHONY.



On one of those fine mornings, which the month of June frequently affords us, little Anthony was busily employed in preparing to set out with his father on a party of pleasure, which, for several days before, had engrossed all his attention. Though, in general, he found it very difficult to rise early, yet this morning he got up soon, without being called, so much was his mind fixed on the intended jaunt.

It often happens, with young people in particular, that, all on a sudden, they lose the object they flattered themselves they were almost in possession of. So it fared with little Anthony; for, just as they were ready to set out, the sky darkened all at once, the clouds grew thick, and a tempestuous wind bent down the trees, and raised a cloud of dust.

Little Anthony was running down the garden every minute to see how the sky looked, and then jumped up-stairs to examine the barometer; but neither the sky nor the barometer seemed to forbode any thing in his favour. Notwithstanding all this, he gave his father the most flattering hopes that it would still be a fair day, and that these unfavourable appearances would soon disperse. He doubted not but that it would be one of the finest days in the world; and he therefore thought, that the sooner they set out the better, as it would be a pity to lose a moment of their time.

His father, however, did not choose to be too hasty in giving credit to his son's predictions, and thought it more advisable to wait a little. While Anthony and his father were reasoning on this matter, the clouds burst, and down came a very heavy shower of rain. Poor Anthony was now doubly disappointed, and vented his grief in tears, refusing to listen to the voice of consolation.

The rain continued, without intermission, till three o'clock in the afternoon, when the clouds began to disperse, the sun resumed its splendour, the element its clearness, and all nature breathed the odours of the spring. As the weather brightened, so did the countenance of little Anthony, and by degrees he recovered his good humour.

His father now thought it necessary to indulge him with a little walk, and off they set. The calmness of the air, the music of the feathered songsters, the lively and enchanting verdure of the fields, and the sweet perfumes that breathed all around them, completely quieted and composed the troubled heart of the disappointed Anthony.

"Do not you observe," said his father to him, "how agreeable the change is of every thing before you? You cannot have yet forgotten how dull every thing appeared to you yesterday; the ground was parched up for want of rain; the flowers had lost their colour, and hung their heads in languor; and, in short, all nature seemed to be in a state of inaction. What can be the reason, that nature has so suddenly put on such a different aspect?"—"That is easily accounted for, Sir," said Anthony, "it undoubtedly is occasioned by the rain that has fallen to-day."

Anthony had no sooner pronounced these words, than he saw his father's motive for asking him the question. He now plainly perceived the impropriety of his late conduct, in being so unhappy about what was evidently so universally serviceable. He blushed, but his father took no notice of it, judging that his own sense would sufficiently teach him another time, without reluctance, to sacrifice selfish pleasure to the general good of the community at large.



THE HISTORY OF JONATHAN, THE

GARDENER.



In the city of Lincoln lived an honest and industrious gardener, whose name was Jonathan, and who was in general considered as the most skilful in his profession of any in that county. His fruits were much larger than any of his neighbours, and were generally supposed to have a more exquisite flavour.

It was the pride of all the neighbouring gentlemen to have Jonathan's fruits to form their desserts, so that he was under no necessity of sending the produce of his garden to market, as he was always sure of meeting with a sale for them at home. His prudence and assiduity increased as his good fortune enlarged, and, instead of riches making him idle, he attended more closely to cultivation.

Such a character and situation could not fail of procuring him a suitable matrimonial mate, and he accordingly married a young woman in the neighbourhood, whose name was Bella, and who was both prudent and handsome. The first year of their marriage was as comfortable as they could wish for; for Bella assisted her husband in his business, and every thing prospered with them.

This happiness, however, was not to last long; for near his house lived another gardener, whose name was Guzzle, and who spent his time, from morning to night, in an alehouse. The merry and thoughtless humour of Guzzle, by degrees, began to be pleasing to Jonathan, who soon fell into the same ruinous error. At first, he only went now and then to drink with him, and talk to him about gardening; but he very soon began to drop the subject of plants, and delight only in the praises of malt.

Bella saw this change in her husband with the utmost grief and consternation. As yet, not having sufficient experience to attend the wall-fruit herself, she was frequently obliged to fetch him home to his work, when she generally found him in a state of intoxication. It would often have been better had he kept out of the garden than gone into it; for his head was generally so muddled with beer, when he went to work on his trees, that his pruning-knife committed the greatest depredations, cutting away those branches which ought to have been left, and leaving those that were useless.

Hence it was not to be wondered at, that the garden fell off in the quality and quantity of its fruit, and the more Jonathan perceived the decay, the more he gave himself up to drinking. As his garden gradually failed in procuring him the means of getting strong liquor, he first parted with his furniture, and then with his linen and clothes.

Bella, in the mean time, did what little she could to keep things together; but all to no purpose. One day, when she was gone to market with some roots she had reared herself, he went and sold his working utensils, and immediately went and spent all with Guzzle. Judge what must be the situation of poor Bella on her return! It was indeed a heart-breaking consideration, to be thus reduced to poverty by the folly of her husband; but yet she loved him, and equally felt for him as for herself, but still more for an infant, as yet but six months old, and which received its nourishment from her breast.

In the evening Jonathan came home drunk, and, swearing at his wife, asked her for something to eat. Bella handed him a knife, and put before him a large basket covered with her apron; Jonathan, in a pet, pulled away the apron; but his astonishment was inexpressible, when he beheld nothing in the basket but his own child fast asleep. "Eat that," said Bella, "for I have nothing else to give you. It is your own child, and if you do not devour it, famine and misery will in a short time."

Jonathan seemed almost petrified into a stone at these words, and for some time remained speechless, with his eyes fixed on his little sleeping son. At last recovering himself, quite sobered, his heart eased itself in tears and lamentations. He rose and embraced his wife, asked her pardon, and promised to amend; and what was still better, he was faithful to his promise.

Though his wife's father had for some time refused to see him, yet, on being made acquainted with his promises of reformation, he advanced money sufficient to enable him to restore his garden to its former state, Jonathan did not deceive him; for his garden put on another appearance, and cut a more splendid figure than ever. After this, neither his prudence nor activity forsook him, but he became at once, and continued so even to old age, the honest man, the indulgent husband, and the tender father. He would sometimes tell this tale of his follies to his son, as a lesson to him, how dangerous it is to get connected with bad company, and how easily human nature is led astray by the poison of example. The son, who thus acquired knowledge at the father's former expense, became a wise and prudent man, and conceived such an aversion to idleness and drinking, that he continued all his life as sober as he was laborious. Thus was an innocent infant the cause of reformation in a deluded father.



THE SPARROW'S NEST.



Billy Jessamy, having one day espied a sparrow's nest under the eves of the house, ran directly to inform his sisters of the important discovery, and they immediately fell into a consultation concerning the manner in which they should take it. It was at last agreed, that they should wait till the young ones were fledged, that Billy should then get a ladder up against the wall, and that his sisters should hold it fast below, while he mounted after the prize.

As soon as they thought these poor little creatures were properly fledged, preparations were made for the execution of their intended plan. The old birds flew backwards and forwards about the nest, and expressed, as well as they were able, the sorrow and affliction they felt on being robbed of their young. Billy and his two sisters, however, paid no regard to their piteous moans; for they took the nest, with three young ones in it.

As they had now got the innocent prisoners in their possession, the next thing to be considered was, what they should do with them. The younger sister, being of a mild and tender-hearted disposition, proposed putting them into a cage, promising to look after them herself, and to see that they wanted for nothing. She reminded her brother and sister how pretty it would be to see and hear those birds when grown up.

Billy, however, was of a very different opinion; for he insisted on it, that it would be better to pluck off their feathers, and then set them down in the middle of the room, as it would be very funny to see how they would hop about without feathers. The elder sister was of the same way of thinking as the younger; but Billy was determined to have the matter entirely his own way.

The two little ladies, finding they were not likely to have things as they wished, gave up the point without much hesitation; for Billy had already begun to strip the poor helpless birds. As fast as he plucked them, he put them down on the floor, and it was not long before the little birds were stripped of all their tender feathers. The poor things cried Weet! Weet! and complained in the most piteous accents; they shook their little wings, and shuddered with cold.

Billy, however, who had not the least kind of feeling for their sufferings, carried his persecutions still further, pushing them with his toe, to make them go on when they stopped, and laughing most heartily whenever they staggered or tumbled down through weakness. Though his two sisters at first setting off had pleaded against this cruel kind of sport, yet, seeing their brother so merry on the occasion, they forgot their former dictates of humanity, and joined in the cruel sport with him. Such, as we saw in the preceding tale, is the influence of bad example!

In the midst of this cruel kind of enjoyment, at a distance they saw their tutor approaching. This put them into some flurry, and each pocketed a bird. They would have avoided their tutor, but he called to them, and asked their reason for wishing to shun him. They approached him very slowly, with their eyes cast downwards, which convinced him that something amiss was going forwards.

On their answering, that they were only playing, their tutor observed to them, that they very well knew he never denied them innocent amusement, but, on the contrary, was always glad to see them cheerful and happy. He took notice that each held one of their hands in their pocket, upon which he insisted on their pulling them out, and letting him see what it was they endeavoured to conceal.

They were obliged to comply, much against their will, when each produced a poor bird, that had been stripped of its feathers. The tutor was filled with pity and indignation, and gave each of them a look, that was more dreadful than any words he could have spoken. After some silence, Billy attempted to justify himself by saying, that it was a droll sight to see sparrows hopping about without feathers, and he could see no harm in it.

"Can you then," said the tutor to Billy, "take pleasure in seeing innocent creatures suffer, and hear their cries without pity?" Billy said he did not see how they could suffer from having a few feathers pulled off. The tutor, to convince him of his error, pulled a few hairs from his head, when he roared out loudly, that he hurt him. "What would your pain be then," said the tutor, "were I thus to pluck all the hair off your head? You are sensible of the pain you now feel, but you were insensible of the torment to which you put those innocent creatures, that never offended you. But that you, ladies, should join in such an act of cruelty, very much surprises me!"

The ladies stood motionless, and then, without being able to say a word, sat down, with their eyes swimming in tears; which their tutor observing, he said no more to them. But Billy still persisted in his opinion, that he did the birds no harm; on the contrary, he said, they showed their pleasure by clapping their wings and chirping.

"They clapped their wings," said the tutor, "from the pain you put them to; and what you call chirping, were cries and lamentations. Could those birds have expressed themselves in your speech, you would have heard them cry, 'Ah, father and mother! save us, for we have fallen into the hands of cruel children, who have robbed us of all our feathers! We are cold and in pain. Come, warm us and cure us, or we shall soon die!'"

The little ladies could no longer refrain from tears, and accused Billy of leading them into this act of cruelty. Billy was himself become sensible of his faults, and had already felt the smart of having a few hairs plucked from his head; but the reproaches of his own heart were now visible on his countenance. It appeared to the tutor, that there was no need of carrying the punishment any further; for the error Billy had committed did not arise from a natural love of cruelty, but merely from want of thought and reflection. From this moment Billy, instead of punishing and tormenting dumb creatures, always felt for their distresses, and did what he could to relieve them.



WILLIAM AND THOMAS;

Or, the Contrast between Industry and Indolence.



In a village, at no small distance from the metropolis, lived a wealthy husbandman, who had two sons, William and Thomas, of whom the former was exactly a year older than the latter.

On the day that the second son was born, the husbandman set in his orchard two young apple-trees of an equal size, on which he bestowed the same care in cultivating, and they throve so much alike, that it was a difficult matter to say which claimed the preference.

As soon as the children were capable of using garden implements, their father took them, on a fine day, early in the spring, to see the two plants he had reared for them, and called after their names. William and Thomas having admired the beauty of these trees, now filled with blossoms, their father told them that he made them a present of them in good condition, and that they would continue to thrive or decay, in proportion to the labour or neglect they received.

Thomas, though the younger son, turned all his attention to the improvement of his tree, by clearing it of insects as soon as he discovered them, and propping up the stem, that it might grow perfectly upright. He dug all round it, to loosen the earth, that the root might receive nourishment from the warmth of the sun and the moisture of the dews. No mother could nurse a child more tenderly in its infancy, than Thomas did his tree.

His brother William, however, pursued a very different conduct; for he loitered away all his time in the most idle and mischievous manner, one of his principal amusements being to throw stones at people as they passed. He kept company with all the idle boys in the neighbourhood, with whom he was continually fighting, and was seldom without either a black eye or a broken shin. His poor tree was neglected, and never thought of, till one day in the autumn, when, by chance, seeing his brother's tree loaded with the finest apples, and almost ready to break down with the weight, he ran to his own tree, not doubting but he should find it in the same pleasing condition.

Great indeed was his disappointment and surprise, when, instead of finding the tree loaded with excellent fruit, he beheld nothing but a few withered leaves, and branches covered with moss. He instantly went to his father, and complained of his partiality in giving him a tree that was worthless and barren, while his brother's produced the most luxuriant fruit. He therefore thought that his brother should at least give him one half of his apples.

His father told him, that it was by no means reasonable, that the industrious should give up part of their labour to feed the idle. "If your tree," said he, "has produced you nothing, it is but a just reward of your indolence, since you see what the industry of your brother has gained him. Your tree was equally full of blossoms, and grew in the same soil; but you paid no attention to the culture of it. Your brother suffered no visible insect to remain on his tree; but you neglected that caution, and left them even to eat up the very buds. As I cannot bear to see even plants perish through neglect, I must now take this tree from you, and give it to your brother, whose care and attention may possibly restore it to its former vigour. The fruit it shall produce must be his property, and you must no longer consider yourself as having any right therein. However, you may go to my nursery, and there choose any other which you may like better, and try what you can do with it; but, if you neglect to take proper care of it, I shall also take that from you, and give it to your brother, as a reward for his superior industry and attention."

This had the desired effect on William, who clearly perceived the justice and propriety of his father's reasoning, and instantly got into the nursery, to choose the most thriving apple-tree he could there meet with. His brother Thomas assisted him in the culture of his tree, advising him in what manner to proceed; and William made the best use of his time, and the instructions he received from his brother. He left off all his mischievous tricks, forsook the company of idle boys, and applied himself cheerfully to work; and in autumn received the reward of his labour, his tree being then loaded with fruit.

From this happy change in his conduct, he derived the advantage, not only of enriching himself with a plentiful crop of fruit, but also of getting rid of bad and pernicious habits. His father was so perfectly satisfied with his reformation, that the following season he gave him and his brother the produce of a small orchard, which they shared equally between them.



MISCHIEF ITS OWN PUNISHMENT,

EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF

WILLIAM AND HARRY.



Mr. Stevenson and his little son Richard, as they were one fine day walking in the fields together, passed by the side of a garden, in which they saw a beautiful pear-tree loaded with fruit. Richard cast a longing eye at it, and complained to his papa that he was very dry. On Mr. Stevenson's saying that he was dry also, but they must bear it with patience till they got home, Richard pointed to the pear-tree, and begged his papa would let him go and get one; for, as the hedge was not very thick, he said he could easily get through, without being seen by any one.

Richard's father reminded him, that the garden and fruit were private property, and to take any thing from thence, without permission, was nothing less than being guilty of a robbery. He allowed that there might be a possibility of getting into the garden without being seen by the owner of it; but such a wicked action could not be concealed from Him who sees every action of our lives, and who penetrates even to the very secrets of our hearts; and that is God.

His son shook his head, and said, he was sensible of his error, and would no more think of committing what might be called a robbery. He recollected that parson Jackson had told him the same thing before, but he had then forgotten it.

At this instant a man started up from behind the hedge, which had before concealed him from their sight. This was an old man, the owner of the garden, who had heard every thing that had passed between Mr. Stevenson and his son. "Be thankful to God, my child," said the old man, "that your father prevented you from getting into my garden with a view to deprive me of that which does not belong to you. You little thought, that at the foot of each tree is placed a trap to catch thieves, which you could not have escaped, and which might have lamed you for the rest of your life. I am, however, happy to find that you so readily listen to the first admonition of your father, and show such a fear of offending God. As you have behaved in so just and sensible a manner, you shall now, without any danger or trouble, partake of the fruit of my garden." He then went to the finest pear-tree, gave it a shake, and brought down near a hatful of fruit, which he immediately gave to Richard.

This civil old man could not be prevailed on to accept of any thing in return, though Mr. Stevenson pulled out his purse for that purpose. "I am sufficiently satisfied, Sir," said he, "in thus obliging your son, and were I to accept of any thing, that satisfaction would be lost." Mr. Stevenson thanked him very kindly, and having shaken hands over the hedge, they parted; Richard at the same time taking leave of the old man in a polite manner.

Little Richard, having finished several of the pears, began to find himself at leisure to talk to his papa. "This is a very good old man," said he; "but would God have punished me, had I taken these pears without his leave?" "He certainly would," replied Mr. Stevenson; "for he never fails to reward good actions, and chastise those who commit evil. The good old man fully explained to you this matter, in telling you of the traps laid for thieves, into which you must have inevitably fallen, had you entered his garden in a clandestine manner. God orders every thing that passes upon earth, and directs events so as to reward good people for virtuous actions, and to punish the wicked for their crimes. In order to make this more clear to you, I will relate to you an affair which happened when I was a boy, and which I shall never forget." Richard seemed very attentive to his father; and having said he should be very glad to hear his story, Mr. Stevenson thus proceeded:—

"When I lived with my father, and was much about your age, we had two neighbours, between whose houses ours was situated, and their names were Davis and Johnson. Mr. Davis had a son named William, and Mr. Johnson one also of the name of Harry. Our gardens were at that time separated only by quickset hedges, so that it was easy to see into each others grounds.

"It was too often the practice with William, when he found himself alone in his father's garden, to take pleasure in throwing stones over the hedges, without paying the least regard to the mischief they might do. Mr. Davis had frequently caught him at this dangerous sport, and never failed severely to reprimand him for it, threatening him with severe punishment, if he did not desist.

"This child, unhappily, either knew not, or would not take the trouble to reflect, that we are not to do amiss, even when we are alone, for reasons I have already mentioned to you. His father being one day gone out, and therefore thinking that nobody could see him, or bring him to punishment, he filled his pockets with stones, and then began to fling them about at random.

"Mr. Johnson happened to be in his garden at the same time, and his son Harry with him. This boy was of much the same disposition as William, thinking there was no crime in committing any mischief, provided he were not discovered. His father had a gun charged, which he brought into the garden, in order to shoot the sparrows that made sad havoc among his cherries, and was sitting in a summer-house to watch them.

"At this instant a servant came to acquaint him that a strange gentleman desired to speak with him, and was waiting in the parlour. He therefore put down the gun in the summer-house, and strictly ordered Harry by no means to touch it; but he was no sooner gone, than this naughty son said to himself, that he could see no harm in playing a little with the gun; and therefore took it on his shoulder, and endeavoured to act the part of a soldier.

"The muzzle of the gun happened to be pointed towards Mr. Davis's garden; and, just as he was in the midst of his military exercises, a stone thrown by William hit him directly in one of his eyes. The fright and pain together made Harry drop the gun, which went off, and in a moment both gardens resounded with the most dismal shrieks and lamentations. Harry had received a blow in the eye with a stone, and the whole charge had entered William's leg; the sad consequences of which were, the one lost his eye, and the other a leg."

Richard could not help pitying poor William and Harry for their terrible misfortune; and Mr. Stevenson was not angry with his son for his tenderness. "It is true," said he "they were much to be pitied, and their parents still more, for having such vicious and disobedient children. Yet it is probable, if God had not early punished these boys, they would have continued their mischievous practices as often as they should find themselves alone; but by this misfortune they learned to know that God publicly punishes all wickedness done in secret. This had the desired effect, as both ever after left off all kinds of mischief, and became prudent and sedate. Certain it is, that an all-wise Creator never chastises us but with a view to add to our happiness."

Richard was very much struck with this story, and said, he hoped he should never lose either a leg or an eye by such imprudent conduct. This interesting conversation was interrupted by their arrival at their own house; when Richard hastened to find his brothers and sisters, to tell them the adventures of his walk, and the history of William and Harry.



ANTONY AND AUGUSTUS; OR A RATIONAL

EDUCATION PREFERABLE

TO RICHES.



A very early friendship commenced between Antony and Augustus, who were nearly of an age; and, as they were neighbours, they were almost inseparable companions. The father of Antony, whose name was Lenox, possessed a very lucrative employment under government, and was besides possessed of a considerable fortune; but Mr. Littleton, the father of Augustus, was not in such affluent circumstances; though he lived contentedly, and turned all his thoughts to the welfare and happiness of his son, in giving him a well-grounded education, which he thought might prove of more advantage to him than riches, or, at least, might amply supply the place of them.

As soon as Augustus was nine years of age, he was accustomed to bodily exercise, and his mind inured to study, which at once contributed to improve his health, strength, and understanding. Being thus used to exercise and motion, he was healthy and robust; and being contented and happy in the affection of his parents, he enjoyed a tranquil cheerfulness, which much influenced those who enjoyed his company.

Antony was one of his happy companions, who was always at a loss for amusement when Augustus was absent; and in that case, in order to fill up his time, he was continually eating without being hungry, drinking without being dry, and slumbering without being sleepy. This naturally brought on a weak habit of body, and frequent headaches.

Both parents ardently wished to see their children healthy and happy; but Mr. Lenox unfortunately pursued that object in a wrong channel, by bringing up his son, even from his cradle, in the most excessive delicacy. He was not suffered to lift himself a chair, whenever he had a mind to change his seat, but a servant was called for that purpose. He was dressed and undressed by other people, and even the cutting of his own victuals seemed a pain to him.

While Augustus, in a thin linen jacket, assisted his father to cultivate a small garden for their amusement, Antony, in a rich velvet coat, was lolling in a coach, and paying morning visits with his mamma. If he went abroad to enjoy the air, and got out of the carriage but for a minute, his great coat was put on, and a handkerchief tied round his neck, to prevent his catching cold. Thus accustomed to be humoured to excess, he wished for every thing he saw, or could think of; but his wish was no sooner obtained, than he became tired of it, and was constantly unhappy in the pursuit of new objects.

As the servants had strict orders to obey him with implicit submission, he became so whimsical and imperious, that he was hated and despised by every one in the house, excepting his parents. Augustus was his only companion who loved him, and it was upon that account he patiently put up with his humours. He was so perfectly master of his temper, that he would, at times, make him as good-humoured as himself.

Mr. Lenox would sometimes ask Augustus how he contrived to be always so merry; to which he one day answered, that his father had told him, that no person could be perfectly happy, unless they mixed some kind of employment with their pleasures. "I have frequently observed," continued Augustus, "that the most tedious and dull days I experience are those in which I do no kind of work. It is properly blending exercise with amusement that keeps me in such good health and spirits. I fear neither the winds nor the rain, neither the heat of summer nor the cold of winter, and I have frequently dug up a whole plat in my garden before Antony has quitted his pillow in the morning."

Mr. Lenox felt the propriety of such conduct, and a sigh unavoidably escaped him. He then went to consult Mr. Littleton in what manner he should act, in order to make Antony as hearty and robust as Augustus. Mr. Littleton informed him in what manner he treated his son. "The powers of the body and mind," said he, "should be equally kept in exercise, unless we mean them to be unserviceable, as money buried in the ground would be to its owner. Nothing can be more injurious to the health and happiness of children, than using them to excess of delicacy, and, under the idea of pleasing them, to indulge them in their whimsical and obstinate humours. The person who has been accustomed from his childhood to have his humours flattered, will be exposed to many vexatious disappointments. He will sigh after those things, the want or possession of which will equally make him miserable. I have, however, every reason to believe, that Augustus will never be that man."

Mr. Lenox saw the truth of these arguments, and determined to adopt the same plan for the treatment of his son. But it was now too late, for Antony was fourteen years of age, and his mind and body so much enervated, that he could not bear the least fatiguing exertions. His mother, who was as weak as himself, begged of her husband not to tease their darling, and he was at last obliged to give way to her importunities, when Antony again sunk into his former destructive effeminacy. The strength of his body declined, in proportion as his mind was degraded by ignorance.

As soon as Antony had entered his seventeenth year, his parents sent him to the university, intending to bring him up to the study of the law; and Augustus being intended for the same profession, he accompanied him thither. Augustus, in his different studies and pursuits, had never had any other instructor than his father; while Antony had as many masters as there are different sciences, from whom he learned only a superficial education, by retaining little more than the terms used in the different branches he had studied. Augustus, on the contrary, was like a garden, whose airy situation admits the rays of the sun to every part of it, and in which every seed, by a proper cultivation, advances rapidly to perfection. Already well instructed, he still thirsted after further knowledge, and his diligence and good behaviour afforded a pattern for imitation to all his companions. The mildness of his temper, and his vivacity and sprightly humour, made his company at all times desirable; he was universally beloved, and every one was his friend.

Antony was at first happy of being in the same room with Augustus; but his pride was soon hurt on seeing the preference that was given by every one to his friend, and he could not think of any longer submitting to so mortifying a distinction. He therefore found some frivolous excuse, and forsook the company of Augustus.

Antony, having now nobody to advise or check him, gave loose to his vitiated taste, and wandered from pleasure to pleasure in search of happiness. It will be to little purpose to say, how often he blushed at his own conduct; but, being hardened by a repetition of his follies, he gradually fell into the grossest irregularities. To be short, he at last returned home with the seeds of a mortal distemper in his bosom, and, after languishing a few months, expired in the greatest agonies.

Some time after, Augustus returned home to his parents, possessed of an equal stock of learning and prudence; his departure from the university being regretted both by his teachers and companions. It may easily be supposed, that his family received him with transports of joy. You know not, my little readers, how pleasing are those tender parental feelings, which arise from the prospect of seeing their children beloved and respected! His parents thought themselves the happiest people, and tears of joy filled their eyes when they beheld him.

Augustus had not been long at home, before a considerable employment in his profession was conferred on him, with the unanimous approbation of all who were acquainted with his character. This enabled him to gratify his generous desire of promoting the felicity of his friends, and a sense of their happiness added to his own. He was the comfort of his parents in the evening of their lives, and with interest repaid their attention and care of him in his childhood. An amiable wife, equally endued with sense, virtue, and beauty, who bore him children like himself, completed his happiness.

In the characters of Antony and Augustus, we see the fatal consequences of giving way to folly and vice, and what a happy effect the contrary conduct has. Antony fell a victim to the misguided indulgence of his parents, while Augustus lived to be happy by the prudent management he received in his infancy.



THE DESTRUCTIVE CONSEQUENCES

OF DISSIPATION AND LUXURY.



On a fine evening, in the midst of summer, Mr. Drake and his son Albert took a walk in some of the most agreeable environs of the city. The sky was clear, the air cool; and the purling streams, and gentle zyphyrs rustling in the trees, lulled the mind into an agreeable gloom. Albert, enchanted with the natural beauties that surrounded him, could not help exclaiming, "What a lovely evening!" He pressed his father's hand, and, looking up to him, said, "You know not, papa, what thoughts rise in my heart!" He was silent for a moment, and then looked towards heaven, his eyes moistened with tears. "I thank God," said he, "for the happy moments he now permits me to enjoy! Had I my wish, every one should taste the beauties of this evening as I do. Were I the king of a large country, I would make my subjects perfectly happy."

Mr. Drake embraced his son, and told him, that the benevolent wish he had just uttered came from a heart as generous as it was humane. "But would not your thoughts change with your fortune? Are you certain, that in an exalted station you should preserve the sentiments which now animate you in that middling state, in which it has pleased Heaven to place you?"

Albert was a little surprised that his father should ask such a question, for he had no idea that riches could bring with them cruelty and wickedness.

Mr. Drake told him, that indeed was not always the case. "The world has produced fortunate persons," said he, "who have remembered their past distresses, and have always retained the most charitable ideas for the unfortunate; but we too often see, what is a disgrace to the human heart, that a change of fortune alters the most tender and sympathetic affections. While we ourselves labour under misfortunes, we look upon it as a duty incumbent on every man to assist us. Should the hand of God relieve us, we then think that all his intentions in the preservation of the world are answered, and too often cease to remember those unfortunate wretches, who remain in the gulf from which we have been rescued. You may see an instance of this in the man who frequently comes to beg charity of me, whom I relieve with reluctance, and cannot but censure myself for so doing."

Albert told his father that he had frequently observed how coolly he put money into his hands, without speaking to him in that tender language, which he generally used to other poor people. He therefore begged his father would tell him what could be his reason for it.

"I will tell you, my dear," said Mr. Drake, "what has been his conduct, and then leave you to judge how far I do right. Mr. Mason was a linen-draper in Cheapside; and though the profits of his business were but moderate, yet a poor person never asked his charity in vain. This he viewed as his most pleasing extravagance, and he considered himself happy in the enjoyment of it, though he could not pursue this indulgence to the extent of his wishes. Business one day called him on 'Change, he heard a number of capital merchants talking together of vast cargoes, and the immense profits to be expected from them. 'Ah!' said he to himself, 'how happy these people are! Were I as rich, Heaven knows, I should not make money my idol, for the poor should plentifully partake of my abundance.'

"This man went home with a bosom full of ambitious thoughts; but his circumstances were too narrow to embrace his vast projects, as it required no small share of prudence, in the management of his affairs, to make every thing meet the end of the year. 'Ah!' cried he, 'I shall never get forward, nor rise above the middling condition, in which I at present linger.'

"In the midst of these gloomy thoughts, a paper inviting adventurers to purchase shares in the lottery was put into his hand. He seemed as if inspired by Fortune, and caught the idea immediately. Without considering the inconvenience to which his covetousness might reduce him, he hastened to the lottery-office, and there laid out four guineas. From this moment he waited with impatience for the drawing, nor could he find repose even at night on his pillow. He sometimes repented of having so foolishly hazarded what he could not well bear the loss of, and at other times he fancied he saw riches pouring in upon him from all quarters. At last the drawing began, and, in the midst of his hopes and fears, Fortune favoured him with a prize of five thousand pounds.

"Having received the money, he thought of nothing else for several days; but when his imagination had cooled a little, he began to think what use he should make of it. He therefore increased his stock, extended his business, and, by care and assiduity in trade, soon doubled his capital. In less than ten years he became one of the most considerable men in the city, and hitherto he had punctually kept his promise, in being the friend and patron of the poor; for the sight of an unfortunate person always put him in mind of his former condition, and pleaded powerfully in behalf of the distressed.

"As he now frequented gay company, he by degrees began to contract a habit of luxury and dissipation: he purchased a splendid country-house, with elegant gardens, and his life became a scene of uninterrupted pleasures and amusements. All this extravagance, however, soon convinced him, that he was considerably reducing his fortune; and his trade, which he had given up, to be the more at leisure for the enjoyment of his pleasures, no longer enabled him to repair it. Besides, having been so long accustomed to put no restraint on his vanity and pride, he could not submit to the meanness of lessening his expenses. 'I shall always have enough for myself,' thought he, 'and let others take care of themselves.'

"As his fortune decreased, so did his feelings for the distressed; and his heart grew callous to the cries of misery, as with indifference we hear the roaring tempest when sheltered from its fury. Friends, whom he had till then supported, came as usual to implore his bounty, but he received them roughly, and forbid them his house. 'Am I,' said he, 'to squander my fortune upon you? Do as I have done, and get one for yourselves.'

"His poor unhappy mother from whom he had taken half the pension he used to allow her, came to beg a corner in any part of his house, where she might finish her few remaining days; but he was so cruel as to refuse her request, and with the utmost indifference saw her perish for want. The measure of his crimes, however, was now nearly filled. His wealth was soon exhausted in debaucheries and other excesses, and he had neither the inclination nor ability to return to trade. Misery soon overtook him, and brought him to that state in which you now see him. He begs his bread from door to door, an object of contempt and detestation to all honest people, and a just example of the indignation of the Almighty."

Albert told his father, that if fortune made men so wicked and miserable, he wished to remain as he was, above pity, and secure from contempt.

"Think often, my dear child," said his father to him, "of this story, and learn from this example, that no true happiness can be enjoyed, unless we feel for the misfortunes of others. It is the rich man's duty to relieve the distresses of the poor; and in this more solid pleasure is found, than can be expected from the enervating excesses of luxury and pomp."

The sun was now sinking beneath the horizon, and his parting beams reflected a lovely glow upon the clouds, which seemed to form a purple curtain round his bed. The air, freshened by the approach of evening, breathed an agreeable calm; and the feathered inhabitants of the grove sung their farewell song. The wind rustling among the trees, added a gentle murmur to the concert, and every thing seemed to inspire joy and happiness, while Albert and his father returned to their house with thoughtful and pensive steps.



WILLIAM AND AMELIA.



In a pleasant village, at some distance from the metropolis, lived Lord and Lady Russel, who had brought up an orphan, named William, from his infancy; and had a stranger to the family seen in what a tender manner he was treated, he would have supposed him to be their son. This amiable couple had only one child living, a daughter, named Amelia, who was nearly of the same age with William, and the lady was pleased to see that the two children had something beyond a common attachment for each other.

William and Amelia were one fine summer morning sauntering in the orchard with their little friend Charlotte, whose parents lived in the neighbourhood. Of the little misses, Amelia was the youngest, and not quite eight years of age. They were walking arm and arm, and humming over a pretty song, then fashionable in the village collection of Ballads. At the same time William was walking before them, at some little distance, amusing himself with a shepherd's pipe.

While Amelia and Charlotte were thus rambling about, they cast their eyes on some beautiful apples that hung on a fine tree, from which all the fruit had been supposed to be gathered; but the branches had hidden some from view, and in course had escaped the notice of the gatherers. The beautiful vermilion with which these apples were tinged, and which the leaves could not entirely hide, seemingly invited the hand to come and take them. William instantly climbed the tree they were admiring, and threw down as many apples as he could reach, while the ladies below held their aprons to catch them as they fell.

Chance directed it, that two or three, which were considered as the finest, fell into the apron of Charlotte, who was much pleased with this accidental distribution, as she might with reason have been, had a premeditated preference been the cause of it; for William was in reality the politest and prettiest little fellow in the village.

Charlotte, with joy and triumph in her eyes, thus addressed herself to Amelia: "Only see how fine and large my apples are, while yours are nothing to compare to them!" Amelia was very much displeased with these words; she hung down her head, and putting on a serious countenance, remained silent during the remainder of the walk. William, by a hundred assiduities, endeavoured to recover Amelia's cheerfulness, again to spread a smile on her clouded countenance, and make her renew her usual pleasing prattle.

As soon as they arrived near home, Charlotte took her leave. Little William then addressed his sister, for by that tender name he always called her, and asked her why she seemed so angry with him. "Certainly," said he, "you cannot be angry at Charlotte having her share of the apples. You very well know that I always loved you best, and therefore endeavoured to throw into your apron those apples, which, by chance, fell into Charlotte's. You must be sensible, that I could not afterwards take them from her. Besides, I thought you of too generous a disposition to take notice of such trifles. Be assured, the first opportunity that shall offer, I will give you a convincing proof that I had no design to vex you, whatever you may at present think of my intentions."

"Very pretty, indeed, Mr. William!" replied Amelia, with a look of uneasiness and disdain. "Pray who told you that I was vexed? Suppose Miss Charlotte's apples had been ten times finer than mine, would that be any consideration to me? You very well know, Sir, that I am no glutton; neither should I have taken any notice of the preference you showed her, had it not been for that saucy little creature's looks. I never wish to see her more: and, as for you, fall down on your knees this instant, or I never will forgive you while I live."

Little William could not think of submitting to such an indignity, as that would be confessing a fault, of which he was not guilty, and therefore now stood more upright than before. "I am no story-teller, Miss Amelia," said he, "and therefore it is very wrong in you not to believe what I so positively affirm; for I certainly had no design to vex you."

"Very wrong in me, Sir!" replied Amelia. "This is pretty indeed! But you need not thus affront me, because Miss Charlotte is your favourite!" So saying, and bestowing a contemptuous curtsy on him, she left him with an affected air of scorn and contempt.

Dinner being now ready, they sat down at table, but pouted at each other all the time it lasted. Amelia would not once drink, in order to avoid saying, "Your good health, William;" and William, on his part, was so vexed at her treatment of him, that he was determined not to give up the point. Amelia, however, could not help sometimes stealing a glance at William, and, from a corner of her eye, watch all his motions. As it happened, one of these sly glances met the eye of William, who was equally attentive to watch all the emotions of Amelia, without wishing to be observed. Their eyes thus meeting, she instantly turned hers away to another object; and as William attributed this to contempt, which in reality it was not, he affected much indifference, and continued eating with the most apparent composure.

As soon as the cloth was removed, and the wine and fruit put on the table, poor Amelia, being sadly out of temper at the indifference she experienced from William, made a disrespectful answer to a question put to her by her mamma, and, for a second offence of the same nature, was ordered to retire from table. She obeyed, and bursting into a flood of tears, instantly withdrew, without caring whither she went. However, it so happened that the garden door was open; she therefore flew down the walk, and went into the arbour, in order there, in secret, to vent her grief. Here she cried most lamentably; and soon repented of her quarrelling with William, who constantly, whenever she happened to get into disgrace with her mamma, would not only weep with her, but endeavour to bring about a reconciliation, which he never failed to accomplish.

Though William continued at table, he could not help feeling for the disgrace of Amelia. He had fixed his eye on two peaches, and endeavoured to contrive means of getting them into his pocket, in order to convey them to Amelia, whom he knew he should find somewhere in the garden, and he could easily make an excuse to go thither; yet he was fearful of having his intentions discovered. He pushed back his chair, then brought it forwards several times, and was continually looking down, as if for something on the carpet. "Pretty little Caesar! sweet Pompey!" cried he, speaking to two dogs then in the room. At this time he held a peach in his hand, which he meant to slip into his pocket as soon as he could discover the eyes of my lord and lady attracted by any other object. "Only see, papa and mamma," continued he, "how prettily they are playing!"

His lordship replied, that they would not eat one another, he would answer for it; and having just looked at them, put himself into his former position. Thus poor William, who thought he was sure of then pocketing the peach, was sadly disappointed, and obliged to replace it on the table.

These motions, however, were observed by Lady Russel, who conjectured what were his intentions. She therefore for some time enjoyed the poor fellow's embarrassments, and made his lordship acquainted with it by looks and dumb motions.

William, who had no idea that his scheme was suspected, being fearful of trying the same stratagem twice, instantly thought of another expedient. He took a peach, and placed it in the hollow of his hands both put together, after which he conducted it to his mouth, and made believe as though he was really eating it. Then, while with his left hand he found means to clap his peach into a cavity he had previously hollowed in the napkin on his knees, he put his right hand out to reach the other, which he disposed of in the same manner.

In a few minutes my lord and lady forgot to watch the motions of William, and entered into conversation on various subjects. He therefore thought this a proper opportunity to get away, rose up from table with both peaches in the napkin, and began to imitate the mewing of a cat, which a young shepherd's boy had lately taught him. His view in this was to engage the attention of Caesar and Pompey, in which he succeeded, as they both got up, and jumped about the room.

Lady Russel was a little angry with him for making such a noise, and told him, if he wanted to make such a mewing as that, the garden was the most proper place. William pretended to be very much confused at this reproof, though the consequence of it was the very thing he wanted. He then instantly ran up to Caesar, "See, mamma," said William, "he wants to bite Pompey!" and as he turned, he dexterously slipped the napkin into his pocket, and pretended to run after Caesar, to punish him. The dog ran towards the door Amelia had left open when she went into the garden, and away went William in pursuit of her.

Lady Russel called William back, and asked him where he was going. "My dear mamma," said he, "if you please, I will take a turn in the garden, and I hope you will not refuse me that favour." As lady Russel did not immediately answer him, he lowered his voice and spoke in a more suppliant manner. At last, having obtained her permission, away he ran with so much haste, that his foot slipped, and down he fell; but, luckily, neither he nor the peaches were hurt.

After searching round the garden for his sister, he at last found her in the arbour, sitting in an attitude of sorrow. She was exceedingly unhappy to think she had grieved the three best friends she had, her worthy parents and her dear William. "My sweetest Amelia," said the little fellow, falling on his knees at the same time, "let us be friends. I would freely ask forgiveness for my fault, had I really intended to displease you. If you will ask my pardon, I will ask yours also. My pretty Amelia, let us be friends. Here are two nice peaches, which I could not think of eating while you were not present to partake of them."

"Ah, my dearest Billy," said Amelia, squeezing his hand while she spoke, and weeping on his shoulder, "what a sweet good-tempered little fellow you are! Certainly," continued she, sobbing while she spoke, "those that are friends to us in our misfortunes are truly valuable. It was very wrong in me to be so vexed, as I was this morning, about the loss of a few apples. It was the insulting look that Miss Charlotte gave me that was the cause of it; but I will think of her no more. Will you forgive me?" added she, wiping off the tears she had let fall on William's hand. "I confess that I sometimes love to plague you; but keep your peaches, for I cannot think of eating them."

"As to plaguing me, sister," answered William, "you may do that as often as you like; but, I assure you, nobody shall do so but yourself: as to the peaches, I most certainly will not eat them. I have already told you so, and my word is like the law of the Medes and Persians, which altereth not."

"For the very same reason," said Amelia, "I shall not eat them," and immediately threw them both over the garden wall; for, besides her having said she would not eat them, she could not bear the thought of receiving a bribe to reconcile a quarrel. Amelia's next consideration was, how to make it up with her mamma; and she said she should be happy indeed, if she would but permit her to appear before her, and ask her pardon.

The generous little William no sooner heard these words, than he promised to settle that business, and away he instantly ran; but before he had taken many steps, he stopped short, and, turning round, said, "I will tell mamma, that it was I who made you anger her, by having vexed you in the morning."

Little William succeeded beyond his expectations, and all parties were soon reconciled to each other. A friendship so affectionate and generous is highly worthy of the imitation of all my juvenile readers.



THE RIVAL DOGS.



A gentleman, whose name was Howard, had brought up two pretty dogs from puppies. The one he called Castor and the other Pollux, hoping they would live in such friendship together as did the two illustrious heroes, after whom they were named. Though they both came from the same mother, and, at the same time, had been fed together, and equally treated, yet it was soon seen that there was a great difference in their tempers and dispositions.

Castor was of a meek and tractable nature; but Pollux was fierce and quarrelsome. When any person took notice of the generous Castor, he would wag his tail, and jump about for joy, nor was he ever jealous on seeing more notice taken of his brother than of himself. The surly Pollux, on the contrary, whenever Mr. Howard had him on his lap, would growl and grumble at Castor if he attempted to come near him, or if any one took notice of him.

When any of Mr. Howard's friends happened to come on a visit to his house, and bring their dogs along with them, the good-natured Castor would immediately mix among them, and, in his way, endeavoured to amuse them. As he was by nature extremely pliant and engaging, they were all peace and harmony whenever it fell to his lot to entertain them. They would jump and play about the house, as boys do in school when they are left to themselves.

The surly Pollux acted a very different part. He would sneak into a corner, and bark all day at the strangers. If any one of them happened to pass too near him, he would then be sure to snarl and grin, and would often start up, and bite their ears or tails. If his master happened to take any notice of either of the strange dogs on account of their good-nature or handsomeness, Pollux would howl as loud as if thieves were actually breaking into the house.

This odious disposition of Pollux did not escape the notice of Mr. Howard, who gradually began to neglect him; while Castor, on the contrary, was every day increasing in his master's favour.

As Mr. Howard was one day sitting at table, it suddenly entered his mind to make a more particular trial of the temper of these two dogs than he had hitherto done. Both happened to be attending at table, but Pollux was nearest his master; for the good-natured Castor, in order to avoid strife and contention, always let him choose his place.

Mr. Howard threw a nice piece of meat to Pollux, which he devoured with much greediness. Castor showed no signs of uneasiness at this, but patiently waited till his master should think it was his turn. Soon afterwards, Mr. Howard threw Castor a bone, with hardly any meat on it: but he took it without showing the least mark of discontent. The surly Pollux, however, no sooner saw his brother engaged on a meatless bone, though he had feasted on his own delicious morsel, than he fell upon him, and took it from him. The good-natured Castor made no opposition, but gave up the bone without a murmur.

My readers must not from hence imagine that Castor was a coward, or was in the least afraid of the strength of his brother; for he had lately given sufficient proof of his courage and resolution, in a battle he had been drawn into by Pollux, whose intolerable moroseness had brought on him the vengeance of a neighbouring dog. Pollux, after engaging his antagonist only a few minutes, though he had provoked the dog to try his strength, ran away like a coward; but Castor, in order to cover the retreat of his brother, and without any one to take his part, fought him like a hero, and at last forced him to run away likewise.

Mr. Howard was well acquainted with this circumstance; and, as he had before established his credit in point of courage, so was his master now fully convinced of his good temper, and the surly and cowardly disposition of his brother. "My good fellow," said Mr. Howard to Castor, "it is but just that you should, at least, fare as well as your brother, who does not deserve as much as you." So saying, he cut off a large piece of nice meat and gave it to Castor.

Pollux, seeing so nice a morsel given to his brother, accompanied with such cutting words from his master, began to growl and snarl. "Since you have shown so much complaisance and generosity to your brother," continued Mr. Howard, still speaking to Castor, "who in return treats you with ill manners, jealousy, and envy, you shall in future be my own dog, and be at liberty to range about the house at your pleasure: but your brother shall be confined in the yard. Here," cried he, "bring a chain for Pollux, and order the carpenter to make him a little house!" The order was instantly obeyed, and Pollux was led to his kennel, while his brother rambled about at liberty.

Had Pollux received so singular a mark of favour, he would undoubtedly have supported it with insolence; but Castor was of a different disposition, and appeared very unhappy at his brother's disgrace. Whenever any nice bit was given to Castor, he would run away with it to Pollux, wag his tail for joy, and invite him to partake of it. In short, the visited him every night in his house, and did every thing he could to amuse him under his sufferings.

Notwithstanding all these marks of tenderness, Pollux always received his brother in the most surly manner, howling as though he were come to devour him, and treating him with every mark of disrespect. At length, rage and disappointment inflamed his blood, he pined away by degrees, and at last died a miserable spectacle.

The moral of this history is so obvious, that there hardly appears a necessity to tell my young readers, that such a disposition as Pollux's must render its possessor an object of contempt and abhorrence, while that of Castor will ever be beloved and respected.



CLEOPATRA; OR THE REFORMED

LITTLE TYRANT.



A pert little hussey, whose name was Cleopatra, was continually teasing and commanding her poor brother. "So, you will not do what I bid you, Mr. Obstinacy?" she would often say to him: "Come, come, Sir, obey, or it shall be worse for you."

If Cleopatra's word might be taken for it, her brother did every thing wrong; but, on the contrary, whatever she thought of doing was the masterpiece of reason and sound sense. If he proposed any kind of diversion, she was sure to consider it as dull and insipid; but it often happened, that she would herself the next day recommend the same thing, and, having forgotten what she had said of it before, consider it as the most lively and entertaining.

Her brother was obliged to submit to her unaccountable whims and fancies, or else endure the most disagreeable lectures a little female tongue could utter. If ever he presumed to be so hardy as to reason with her on her strange conduct, instant destruction to his playthings were the inevitable consequence of it.

Her parents saw with regret this strange and tyrannical disposition of their daughter, and in vain did every thing they could think of to break her of it. Her mother, in particular, continually enforced on her mind, that such children never procured the esteem of others; and that a girl, who set up her own opinion against that of every one else, would soon become intolerable and insupportable to all her acquaintance. This prudent advice, however, made no impression on her stubborn heart; and her brother, wearied out by her caprice and tyranny, began to have very little affection for her. It one day happened that a gentleman of a free and open temper, dined at their house. He could not help observing with what a haughty air she treated her poor brother, and, indeed, every other person in the room. At first, the rules of politeness kept him from saying any thing; but at last, tired out with her impertinence, he began addressing his discourse to her mamma in the following manner:

"I was lately in France, and, as I was fond of being present at the soldiers' exercises, I used to go as often as I could, to see their manoeuvres on the parade, nearly in the same manner as they do here at St. James's. Among the soldiers there were many I observed with whiskers, which gave them a very fierce and soldier-like look. Now, had I a child like your Cleopatra, I would instantly give her a soldier's uniform, and put her on a pair of whiskers, when she might, with rather more propriety than at present, act the part of a commander."

Cleopatra heard this, and stood covered with confusion; she could not help blushing, and was unable to conceal her tears. However, this reproach perfectly reformed her, and she became sensible how unbecoming was a tyrannizing temper. It has been observed, that to be sensible of our errors is half the work of reformation. So it happened with Cleopatra, who with the assistance of her mother's prudent counsels, became an amiable girl.

Her reformation was a credit to her; and it is much to be wished that all young ladies, who take no pains to conquer their passions, would at last imitate Cleopatra, and wish to avoid being told, that a soldier's dress and a pair of whiskers would better become them than nice cambric frocks and silk slips. Had Cleopatra attended to the advice of her parents, and not have imagined that greatness consists in impertinence, she would have been happy much sooner than she was.



THE PASSIONATE BOY.



Young Frederick had naturally a noble soul, elevated thoughts, and generous notions. His turn of mind was lively, his imagination strong and quick, and his temper cheerful and pleasing. Indeed, the elegance of his person, and his behaviour and accomplishments, gained him the respect of every one; but, notwithstanding all these amiable qualities, he had one unhappy defect, which was that of giving way too readily to the most violent emotions of passion.

It would frequently happen that, while he was amusing himself in the circle of his playmates, the most trifling contradiction would ruffle his temper, and fill him with the highest degree of rage and fury, little short of a state of madness.

As he happened to be one day walking about his chamber, and meditating on the necessary preparations for a treat his father had permitted him to give his sister, his dear friend and favourite, Marcus, came to him, to advise with him on that business. Frederick, being lost in thought, saw not his friend, who therefore having spoken to him in vain, drew nearer to him, and began to pull him by the sleeve. Frederick, angry, and out of patience with these interruptions, suddenly turned round, and gave Marcus such a push, that he sent him reeling across the room, and he at last fell against the wainscot.

Marcus lay motionless on the floor, without the least appearance of life; for, in his fall, he had struck his head against something which had given him a deep and terrible wound, from which issued a great quantity of blood. How shall we describe the situation of poor Frederick, who loved his friend tenderly, and for whom he would, on occasion, have sacrificed his life?

Frederick fell down beside him, crying out most lamentably, "He is dead! he is dead! I have killed my dear friend Marcus!" So great were his fright and consternation, that he had no idea of calling for assistance, but lay by his side, uttering the most dismal groans. Happily, however, his father heard him, and, instantly running in, took up Marcus in his arms. He called for some sugar to stop the bleeding of the wound, and having applied some salts to his nose, and some water to his temples, they brought him a little to himself.

Frederick was transported with joy when he perceived symptoms of life in his friend; but the fear of relapse kept him in the greatest anxiety. They immediately sent for a surgeon, who, as soon as he arrived, searched the wound. He found it was not in the temple, but so very close to it, that the tenth part of an inch nearer would probably have made the wound dangerous indeed, if not mortal.

Marcus, being carried home, soon became delirious, and Frederick could not be persuaded to leave him. He sat down by the side of his poor friend, wholly absorbed in silence. Marcus, while he remained in that delirious state, frequently pronounced the name of Frederick. "My dear Frederick," he would sometimes say, "what could I have done to deserve being treated in this manner? Yet, I am sure, you cannot be less unhappy than myself, when you reflect you wounded me without a cause. However, I would not wish your generous nature should be grieved. Let us forgive each other; I for vexing you, and you for wounding me."

In this manner did Marcus talk, without being sensible that Frederick was near him, though he held him by the hand at the same time. Every word, thus pronounced, in which there could be neither flattery nor deceit, went to the heart of the afflicted Frederick, and rendered his grief almost insupportable.

In ten days time, however, it pleased God to abate the fever, and he was enabled to get up, to the great joy of his parents; but how can we express the feelings of Frederick on this happy occasion! That task must be left for those who may have unfortunately been in a similar situation; his joy now was undoubtedly as great as his sorrow had been.

Marcus at last got perfectly well, and Frederick, in consequence, recovered his former cheerfulness and good humour. He now stood in need of no other lesson, than the sorrowful event that had lately taken place, to break himself of that violence of temper, to which he had been so long a slave. In a little time, no appearance of the wound remained, excepting a small scar near his temple, which Frederick could never look at without some emotion, even after they were both grown up to manhood. Indeed, it ever afterwards was considered as a seal of that friendship, which they never lost sight of.



CAROLINE; OR, A LESSON TO CURE

VANITY.



A plain white frock had hitherto been the only dress of Caroline; silver buckles in her red morocco shoes; and her ebon hair, which had never felt the torturing iron, flowed upon her shoulders in graceful ringlets, now and then disturbed by the gentle winds.

Being one day in company with some little girls, who, though no older than herself, were dressed in all the empty parade of fashion, the glare and glitter of those fine clothes raised in her heart a desire she had never before felt.

As soon as she got home, "My dear mamma," said she, "I have this afternoon seen Miss Flippant and her two sisters, whom you very well know. The eldest is not older than myself, and yet they were all dressed in the most elegant manner. Their parents must certainly have great pleasure in seeing them so finely dressed; and, as they are not richer than you, do, my dear mamma, let me have a fine silk slip, embroidered shoes like theirs, and let my hair be dressed by Mr. Frizzle, who is said to be a very capital man in his profession!"

Her mother replied, that she would have no objection to gratify her wishes, provided it would add to her happiness; but she was rather fearful it might have a contrary effect. As Miss Caroline could not give in to this mode of thinking, she requested her mamma to explain her reasons for what she had said.

"Because," said her mother, "you will be in continual fear of spotting your silk slip, and even rumpling it whenever you wear it. A dress like that of Miss Flippant will require the utmost care and attention to preserve it from accidents; for a single spot will spoil its beauty, and you very well know there is no washing of silks. However extensive my fortune may be, I assure you, it is not sufficient to purchase you silk gowns as often as you would wish to have them."

Miss Charlotte considered these arguments as very trifling, and promised to give her mamma no uneasiness as to her carelessness in wearing her fine clothes. Though her mamma consented to let her be dressed in the manner she requested, yet she desired her to remember the hints she had given her of the vexations to which her vanity would expose her.

Miss Caroline, on whom this good advice had no effect, lost not a moment in destroying all the pleasure and enjoyment of her infancy. Her hair, which before hung down in careless ringlets, was now twisted up in paper, and squeezed between a burning pair of tongs; that fine jet, which had hitherto so happily set off the whiteness of her forehead, was lost under a clod of powder and pomatum.

In a few days the mantua-maker arrived with a fine slip of pea-green taffety, with fine pink trimmings, and a pair of shoes, elegantly worked to answer the slip. The sight of them gave infinite pleasure to Caroline; but it was easily to be perceived, when she had them on, that her limbs were under great restraint, and her motions had lost their accustomed ease and freedom. That innocence and candour, which used to adorn her lovely countenance, began to be lost amidst the profusion of flowers, silks, gauzes, and ribands.