"In that instant the grateful Black rushed on like lightning to assist him, and assailing the bull with a weighty stick that he held in his hand, compelled him to turn his rage upon a new object."[P. 349.]

THE HISTORY
OF
SANDFORD AND MERTON.

By THOMAS DAY.

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.

CONTENTS.

THE HISTORY
OF
SANDFORD AND MERTON.

CHAPTER I.

Description of Harry Sandford and Tommy Merton—Adventure with the Snake—Harry in Mr Merton's house—Mr Barlow undertakes the education of Tommy—The first day at Mr Barlow's—Story of the Flies and the Ants—Harry rescues a Chicken from a Kite—Story of the Gentleman and the Basket-maker—Tommy learns to read—Story of the two dogs.

In the western part of England lived a gentleman of great fortune, whose name was Merton. He had a large estate in the Island of Jamaica, where he had passed the greater part of his life, and was master of many servants, who cultivated sugar and other valuable things for his advantage. He had only one son, of whom he was excessively fond; and to educate this child properly was the reason of his determining to stay some years in England. Tommy Merton, who, at the time he came from Jamaica, was only six years old, was naturally a very good-tempered boy, but unfortunately had been spoiled by too much indulgence. While he lived in Jamaica, he had several black servants to wait upon him, who were forbidden upon any account to contradict him. If he walked, there always went two negroes with him; one of whom carried a large

umbrella to keep the sun from him, and the other was to carry him in his arms whenever he was tired. Besides this, he was always dressed in silk or laced clothes, and had a fine gilded carriage, which was borne upon men's shoulders, in which he made visits to his play-fellows. His mother was so excessively fond of him that she gave him everything he cried for, and would never let him learn to read because he complained that it made his head ache.

The consequence of this was, that, though Master Merton had everything he wanted, he became very fretful and unhappy. Sometimes he ate sweetmeats till he made himself sick, and then he suffered a great deal of pain, because he would not take bitter physic to make him well. Sometimes he cried for things that it was impossible to give him, and then, as he had never been used to be contradicted, it was many hours before he could be pacified. When any company came to dine at the house, he was always to be helped first, and to have the most delicate parts of the meat, otherwise he would make such a noise as disturbed the whole company. When his father and mother were sitting at the tea-table with their friends, instead of waiting till they were at leisure to attend him, he would scramble upon the table, seize the cake and bread and butter, and frequently overset the tea-cups. By these pranks he not only made himself disagreeable to everybody else, but often met with very dangerous accidents. Frequently did he cut himself with knives, at other times throw heavy things upon his head, and once he narrowly escaped being scalded to death by a kettle of boiling water. He was also so delicately brought up, that he was

perpetually ill; the least wind or rain gave him a cold, and the least sun was sure to throw him into a fever. Instead of playing about, and jumping, and running like other children, he was taught to sit still for fear of spoiling his clothes, and to stay in the house for fear of injuring his complexion. By this kind of education, when Master Merton came over to England he could neither write nor read, nor cipher; he could use none of his limbs with ease, nor bear any degree of fatigue; but he was very proud, fretful, and impatient.

Very near to Mr Merton's seat lived a plain, honest farmer, whose name was Sandford. This man had, like Mr Merton, an only son, not much older than Master Merton, whose name was Harry. Harry, as he had been always accustomed to run about in the fields, to follow the labourers while they were ploughing, and to drive the sheep to their pasture, was active, strong, hardy, and fresh-coloured. He was neither so fair, nor so delicately shaped as Master Merton; but he had an honest good-natured countenance, which made everybody love him; was never out of humour, and took the greatest pleasure in obliging everybody. If little Harry saw a poor wretch who wanted victuals, while he was eating his dinner, he was sure to give him half, and sometimes the whole: nay, so very good-natured was he to everything, that he would never go into the fields to take the eggs of poor birds, or their young ones, nor practise any other kind of sport which gave pain to poor animals, who are as capable of feeling as we ourselves, though they have no words to express their sufferings. Once, indeed, Harry was caught

twirling a cock-chafer round, which he had fastened by a crooked pin to a long piece of thread: but then this was through ignorance and want of thought; for, as soon as his father told him that the poor helpless insect felt as much, or more than he would do, were a knife thrust through his hand, he burst into tears, and took the poor animal home, where he fed him during a fortnight upon fresh leaves; and when he was perfectly recovered, turned him out to enjoy liberty and fresh air. Ever since that time, Harry was so careful and considerate, that he would step out of the way for fear of hurting a worm, and employed himself in doing kind offices to all the animals in the neighbourhood. He used to stroke the horses as they were at work, and fill his pockets with acorns for the pigs; if he walked in the fields, he was sure to gather green boughs for the sheep, who were so fond of him that they followed him wherever he went. In the winter time, when the ground was covered with frost and snow, and the poor little birds could get at no food, he would often go supperless to bed, that he might feed the robin-redbreasts; even toads, and frogs, and spiders, and such kinds of disagreeable animals, which most people destroy wherever they find them, were perfectly safe with Harry; he used to say, they had a right to live as well as we, and that it was cruel and unjust to kill creatures, only because we did not like them.

These sentiments made little Harry a great favourite with everybody, particularly with the clergyman of the parish, who became so fond of him that he taught him to read and write, and had him almost

always with him. Indeed, it was not surprising that Mr Barlow showed so particular an affection for him; for besides learning, with the greatest readiness, everything that was taught him, little Harry was the most honest, obliging creature in the world. He was never discontented, nor did he ever grumble, whatever he was desired to do. And then you might believe Harry in everything he said; for though he could have gained a plum-cake by telling an untruth, and was sure that speaking the truth would expose him to a severe whipping, he never hesitated in declaring it. Nor was he like many other children, who place their whole happiness in eating: for give him but a morsel of dry bread for his dinner, and he would be satisfied, though you placed sweetmeats and fruit, and every other nicety, in his way.

With this little boy did Master Merton become acquainted in the following manner:—As he and the maid were once walking in the fields on a fine summer's morning, diverting themselves with gathering different kinds of wild flowers, and running after butterflies, a large snake, on a sudden, started up from among some long grass, and coiled itself round little Tommy's leg. You may imagine the fright they were both in at this accident; the maid ran away shrieking for help, while the child, who was in an agony of terror, did not dare to stir from the place where he was standing. Harry, who happened to be walking near the place, came running up, and asked what was the matter. Tommy, who was sobbing most piteously, could not find words to tell him, but pointed to his leg, and made Harry sensible of what had happened. [Harry, who, though young,[!-- Page 6 --] was a boy of a most courageous spirit, told him not to be frightened; and instantly seizing the snake by the neck, with as much dexterity as resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg, and threw him to a great distance off.]

"Harry, instantly seizing the snake by the neck, with as much dexterity as resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg and threw him to a great distance off."[P. 6.]

Just as this happened, Mrs Merton and all the family, alarmed by the servant's cries, came running breathless to the place, as Tommy was recovering his spirits, and thanking his brave little deliverer. Her first emotions were to catch her darling up in her arms, and, after giving him a thousand kisses, to ask him whether he had received any hurt. "No," said Tommy, "indeed I have not, mamma; but I believe that nasty ugly beast would have bitten me, if that little boy had not come and pulled him off." "And who are you, my dear," said she, "to whom we are all so obliged?" "Harry Sandford, madam." "Well, my child, you are a dear, brave little creature, and you shall go home and dine with us." "No, thank you, madam; my father will want me." "And who is your father, my sweet boy?" "Farmer Sandford, madam, that lives at the bottom of the hill." "Well, my dear, you shall be my child henceforth; will you?" "If you please, madam, if I may have my own father and mother, too."

Mrs Merton instantly despatched a servant to the farmer's; and, taking little Harry by the hand, she led him to the mansion-house, where she found Mr Merton whom she entertained with a long account of Tommy's danger and Harry's bravery.

Harry was now in a new scene of life. He was carried through costly apartments, where everything

that could please the eye, or contribute to convenience, was assembled. He saw large looking-glasses in gilded frames, carved tables and chairs, curtains made of the finest silk, and the very plates and knives and forks were of silver. At dinner he was placed close to Mrs Merton, who took care to supply him with the choicest bits, and engaged him to eat, with the most endearing kindness; but, to the astonishment of everybody, he neither appeared pleased nor surprised at anything he saw. Mrs Merton could not conceal her disappointment; for, as she had always been used to a great degree of finery herself, she had expected it should make the same impression upon everybody else. At last, seeing him eye a small silver cup with great attention, out of which he had been drinking, she asked him whether he should not like to have such a fine thing to drink out

of; and added, that, though it was Tommy's cup, she was sure he would with great pleasure, give it to his little friend. "Yes, that I will," says Tommy; "for you know, mamma, I have a much finer one than that, made of gold, besides two large ones made of silver." "Thank you with all my heart," said little Harry; "but I will not rob you of it, for I have a much better one at home." "How!" said Mrs Merton, "does your father eat and drink out of silver?" "I don't know, madam, what you call this; but we drink at home out of long things made of horn, just such as the cows wear upon their heads." "The child is a simpleton, I think," said Mrs Merton: "and why is that better than silver ones?" "Because," said Harry, "they never make us uneasy." "Make you

uneasy, my child!" said Mrs Merton, "what do you mean?" "Why, madam, when the man threw that great thing down, which looks just like this, I saw that you were very sorry about it, and looked as if you had been just ready to drop. Now, ours at home are thrown about by all the family, and nobody minds it." "I protest," said Mrs Merton to her husband, "I do not know what to say to this boy, he makes such strange observations."

The fact was, that during dinner, one of the servants had thrown down a large piece of plate, which, as it was very valuable, had made Mrs Merton not only look very uneasy, but give the man a very severe scolding for his carelessness.

After dinner, Mrs Merton filled a large glass of wine, and giving it to Harry, bade him drink it up, but he thanked her, and said he was not dry. "But, my dear," said she, "this is very sweet and pleasant, and as you are a good boy, you may drink it up." "Ay, but, madam, Mr Barlow says that we must only eat when we are hungry, and drink when we are dry: and that we must only eat and drink such things are as easily met with; otherwise we shall grow peevish and vexed when we can't get them. And this was the way that the Apostles did, who were all very good men."

Mr Merton laughed at this. "And pray," said he, "little man, do you know who the Apostles were?" "Oh! yes, to be sure I do." "And who were they?" "Why, sir, there was a time when people were grown so very wicked, that they did not care what they did; and the great folks were all proud, and minded nothing but eating and drinking

and sleeping, and amusing themselves; and took no care of the poor, and would not give a morsel of bread to hinder a beggar from starving; and the poor were all lazy, and loved to be idle better than to work; and little boys were disobedient to their parents, and their parents took no care to teach them anything that was good; and all the world was very bad, very bad indeed. And then there came from Heaven the Son of God, whose name was Christ; and He went about doing good to everybody, and curing people of all sorts of diseases, and taught them what they ought to do; and He chose out twelve other very good men, and called them Apostles; and these Apostles went about the world doing as He did, and teaching people as He taught them. And they never minded what they did eat or drink, but lived upon dry bread and water; and when anybody offered them money, they would not take it, but told them to be good, and give it to the poor and sick: and so they made the world a great deal better. And therefore it is not fit to mind what we live upon, but we should take what we can get, and be contented; just as the beasts and birds do, who lodge in the open air, and live upon herbs, and drink nothing but water; and yet they are strong, and active, and healthy."

"Upon my word," said Mr Merton, "this little man is a great philosopher; and we should be much obliged to Mr Barlow if he would take our Tommy under his care; for he grows a great boy, and it is time that he should know something. What say you, Tommy, should you like to be a philosopher?"

"Indeed, papa, I don't know what a philosopher is; but I should like to be a king, because he's finer and richer than anybody else, and has nothing to do, and everybody waits upon him, and is afraid of him." "Well said, my dear," replied Mrs Merton; and rose and kissed him; "and a king you deserve to be with such a spirit; and here's a glass of wine for you for making such a pretty answer. And should you not like to be a king too, little Harry?" "Indeed, madam, I don't know what that is; but I hope I shall soon be big enough to go to plough, and get my own living; and then I shall want nobody to wait upon me."

"What a difference between the children of farmers and gentlemen!" whispered Mrs Merton to her husband, looking rather contemptuously upon Harry. "I am not sure," said Mr Merton, "that for this time the advantage is on the side of our son:—But should you not like to be rich, my dear?" said he, turning to Harry. "No, indeed, sir." "No, simpleton!" said Mrs Merton: "and why not?" "Because the only rich man I ever saw, is Squire Chase, who lives hard by; and he rides among people's corn, and breaks down their hedges, and shoots their poultry, and kills their dogs, and lames their cattle, and abuses the poor; and they say he does all this because he's rich; but everybody hates him, though they dare not tell him so to his face—and I would not be hated for anything in the world." "But should you not like to have a fine laced coat, and a coach to carry you about, and servants to wait upon you?" "As to that, madam, one coat is as good as another, if it will but keep me

warm; and I don't want to ride, because I can walk wherever I choose; and, as to servants, I should have nothing for them to do, if I had a hundred of them." Mrs Merton continued to look at him with astonishment, but did not ask him any more questions.

In the evening, little Harry was sent home to his father, who asked him what he had seen at the great house, and how he liked being there. "Why," replied Harry, "they were all very kind to me, for which I'm much obliged to them: but I had rather have been at home, for I never was so troubled in all my life to get a dinner. There was one man to take away my plate, and another to give me drink, and another to stand behind my chair, just as if I had been lame or blind, and could not have waited upon myself; and then there was so much to do with putting this thing on, and taking another off, I thought it would never have been over; and, after dinner, I was obliged to sit two whole hours without ever stirring, while the lady was talking to me, not as Mr Barlow does, but wanting me to love fine clothes, and to be a king, and to be rich, that I may be hated like Squire Chase."

But at the mansion-house, much of the conversation, in the meantime, was employed in examining the merits of little Harry. Mrs Merton acknowledged his bravery and openness of temper; she was also struck with the very good-nature and benevolence of his character, but she contended that he had a certain grossness and indelicacy in his ideas, which distinguish the children of the lower and middling classes of people from those of persons of fashion. Mr Merton, on the contrary, maintained,

that he had never before seen a child whose sentiments and disposition would do so much honour even to the most elevated situations. Nothing, he affirmed, was more easily acquired than those external manners, and that superficial address, upon which too many of the higher classes pride themselves as their greatest, or even as their only accomplishment; "nay, so easily are they picked up," said he, "that we frequently see them descend with the cast clothes to maids and valets; between whom and their masters and mistresses there is little other difference than what results from the former wearing soiled clothes and healthier countenances. Indeed, the real seat of all superiority, even of manners, must be placed in the mind: dignified sentiments, superior courage, accompanied with genuine and universal courtesy, are always necessary to constitute the real gentleman; and where these are wanting, it is the greatest absurdity to think they can be supplied by affected tones of voice, particular grimaces, or extravagant and unnatural modes of dress; which, far from becoming the real test of gentility, have in general no other origin than the caprice of barbers, tailors, actors, opera-dancers, milliners, fiddlers, and French servants of both sexes. I cannot help, therefore, asserting," said he, very seriously, "that this little peasant has within his mind the seeds of true gentility and dignity of character; and though I shall also wish that our son may possess all the common accomplishments of his rank, nothing would give me more pleasure than a certainty that he would never in any respect fall below the son of farmer Sandford."

Whether Mrs Merton fully acceded to these observations of her husband, I cannot decide; but, without waiting to hear her particular sentiments, he thus went on:—"Should I appear more warm than usual upon this subject, you must pardon me, my dear, and attribute it to the interest I feel in the welfare of our little Tommy. I am too sensible that our mutual fondness has hitherto treated him with rather too much indulgence. While we have been over-solicitous to remove from him every painful and disagreeable impression, we have made him too delicate and fretful; our desire of constantly consulting his inclinations has made us gratify even his caprices and humours; and, while we have been too studious to preserve him from restraint and opposition, we have in reality been ourselves the cause that he has not acquired even the common attainments of his age and situation. All this I have long observed in silence, but have hitherto concealed, both from my fondness for our child, and my fear of offending you; but at length a consideration of his real interests has prevailed over every other motive, and has compelled me to embrace a resolution, which I hope will not be disagreeable to you—that of sending him directly to Mr Barlow, provided he would take the care of him; and I think this accidental acquaintance with young Sandford may prove the luckiest thing in the world, as he is so nearly the age and size of our Tommy. I shall therefore propose to the farmer, that I will for some years pay for the board and education of his little boy, that he may be a constant companion to our son."

As Mr Merton said this with a certain degree of

firmness, and the proposal was in itself so reasonable and necessary, Mrs Merton did not make any objection to it, but consented, although very reluctantly, to part with her son. Mr Barlow was accordingly invited to dinner the next Sunday, and Mr Merton took an opportunity of introducing the subject, and making the proposal to him; assuring him at the same time, that, though there was no return within the bounds of his fortune which he would not willingly make, yet the education and improvement of his son were objects of so much importance to him, that he should always consider himself the obliged party.

To this, Mr Barlow, after thanking Mr Merton for the confidence and liberality with which he treated him, answered him in the following manner:—"I should be little worthy of the distinguished regard with which you treat me, did I not with the greatest sincerity assure you, that I feel myself totally unqualified for the task. I am, sir, a minister of the Gospel, and I would not exchange that character, and the severe duties it enjoins, for any other situation in life. But you must be sensible that the retired manner of life which I have led for these twenty years, in consequence of my profession, at a distance from the gaities of the capital, and the refinements of polite life, is little adapted to form such a tutor as the manners and opinions of the world require for your son. Gentlemen in your situation of life are accustomed to divide the world into two general classes; those who are persons of fashion, and those who are not. The first class contains everything that is valuable in life; and there

fore their manners, their prejudices, their very vices, must be inculcated upon the minds of children, from the earliest period of infancy; the second comprehends the great body of mankind, who, under the general name of the vulgar, are represented as being only objects of contempt and disgust, and scarcely worthy to be put on a footing with the very beasts that contribute to the pleasure and convenience of their superiors."

Mr Merton could not help interrupting Mr Barlow here, to assure him that, though there was too much truth in the observation, yet he must not think that either he or Mrs Merton carried things to that extravagant length; and that, although they wished their son to have the manners of a man of fashion, they thought his morals and religion of infinitely more consequence.

"If you think so, sir," said Mr Barlow, "it is more than a noble lord did, whose written opinions are now considered as the oracles of polite life, and more than, I believe, most of his admirers do at this time. But if you allow what I have just mentioned to be the common distinctions of genteel people, you must at one glance perceive how little I must be qualified to educate a young gentleman intended to move in that sphere; I, whose temper, reason, and religion, equally combine to make me reject the principles upon which those distinctions are founded. The Christian religion, though not exclusively, is, emphatically speaking, the religion of the poor. Its first ministers were taken from the lower orders of mankind, and to the lower orders of mankind was it first proposed; and in this, instead of feeling my

self mortified or ashamed, I am the more inclined to adore the wisdom and benevolence of that Power by whose command it was first promulgated. Those who engross the riches and advantages of this world are too much employed with their pleasures and ambition to be much interested about any system, either of religion or of morals; they too frequently feel a species of habitual intoxication, which excludes every serious thought, and makes them view with indifference everything but the present moment. Those, on the contrary, to whom all the hardships and miseries of this world are allotted as their natural portion—those who eat the bread of bitterness, and drink the waters of affliction, have more interest in futurity, and are therefore more prepared to receive the promises of the Gospel. Yes, sir; mark the disingenuousness of many of our modern philosophers; they quarrel with the Christian religion, because it has not yet penetrated the deserts of Africa, or arrested the wandering hordes of Tartary; yet they ridicule it for the meanness of its origin, and because it is the Gospel of the poor: that is to say, because it is expressly calculated to inform the judgments, and alleviate the miseries of that vast promiscuous body which constitutes the majestic species of man. But for whom would these philosophers have Heaven itself interested, if not for the mighty whole which it has created? Poverty, that is to say, a state of labour and frequent self-denial, is the natural state of man; it is the state of all in the happiest and most equal governments, the state of nearly all in every country; it is a state in which all the faculties, both of body and mind,

are always found to develope themselves with the most advantage, and in which the moral feelings have generally the greatest influence. The accumulation of riches, on the contrary, can never increase, but by the increasing poverty and degradation of those whom Heaven has created equal; a thousand cottages are thrown down to afford space for a single palace. How benevolently, therefore, has Heaven acted, in thus extending its blessings to all who do not disqualify themselves for the reception by voluntary hardness of heart! how wisely in thus opposing a continual boundary to human pride and sensuality; two passions the most fatal in their effects, and the most apt to desolate the world. And shall a minister of that Gospel, conscious of these great truths, and professing to govern himself by their influence, dare to preach a different doctrine, and flatter those excesses, which he must know are equally contrary both to reason and religion? Shall he become the abject sycophant of human greatness, and assist it in trampling all relations of humanity beneath his feet, instead of setting before it

the severe duties of its station, and the account which will one day be expected of all the opportunities of doing good, so idly, so irretrievably lost and squandered? But I beg pardon, sir, for that warmth which has transported me so far, and made me engross so much of the conversation. But it will at least have this good effect, that it will demonstrate the truth of what I have been saying; and show that, though I might undertake the education of a farmer or a mechanic, I shall never succeed in that of a modern gentleman."

"Sir," replied Mr Merton, "there is nothing which I now hear from you, which does not increase my esteem of your character, and my desire to engage your assistance. Permit me only to ask whether, in the present state of things, a difference of conditions and an inequality of fortune are not necessary, and, if necessary, I should infer, not contrary to the spirit of Christianity?"

"So it is declared, sir, that offences must come; but that does not prevent a severe denunciation against the offenders. But, if you wish to know, whether I am one of those enthusiasts, who are continually preaching up an ideal state of perfection, totally inconsistent with human affairs, I will endeavour to give you every satisfaction upon the subject. If you mean by difference of conditions and inequality of fortunes, that the present state of human affairs in every society we are acquainted with, does not admit that perfect equality which the purer interpretations of the Gospel inculcate, I certainly shall not disagree with you in opinion. He that formed the human heart certainly must be acquainted with all the passions to which it would be subject; and if, under the immediate dispensation of Christ himself, it was found impossible for a rich man to give his possessions to the poor, that degree of purity will hardly be expected now, which was not found in the origin. But here, sir, permit me to remark, how widely the principles of genuine Christianity differ from that imaginary scheme of ideal perfection, equally inconsistent with human affairs and human characters, which many of its pretended friends would persuade us to believe in;

and, as comparisons sometimes throw a new and sudden light upon a subject, give me leave to use one here, which I think bears the closest analogy to what we are now considering. Were some physician to arise, who, to a perfect knowledge of all preceding medical facts, had added by a more than human skill a knowledge of the most secret principles of the human frame, could he calculate, with an accuracy that never was deceived, the effect of every cause that could act upon our constitutions; and, were he inclined, as the result of all his science and observation, to leave a rule of life that might remain unimpeached to the latest posterity, I ask, what kind of one would he form?"

"I suppose one," said Mr Merton, "that was the most adapted to the general circumstances of the human species, and, which observed, would confer the greatest degree of health and vigour."

"Right," said Mr Barlow; "I ask again, whether, observing the common luxury and intemperance of the rich, he would take his directions from the usages of a polite table, and recommend that heterogeneous assemblage of contrary mixtures, high seasonings, poignant sauces, fermented and distilled poisons, which is continually breeding diseases in their veins, as the best means of preserving or regaining health?"

"Certainly not. That were to debase his heart, and sanction abuses, instead of reforming them."

"Would he not, then, recommend simplicity of diet, light repasts, early slumbers, and moderate exercise in the open air, if he judged them salutary to human nature, even though fashionable prejudice

had stamped all these particulars with the mark of extreme vulgarity?"

"Were he to act otherwise, he must forfeit all pretensions either to honesty or skill."

"Let us then apply all this to the mind, instead of the body, and suppose for an instant, that some legislator, either human or divine, who comprehended all the secret springs that govern the mind, was preparing a universal code for all mankind; must he not imitate the physician, and deliver general truths, however unpalatable, however repugnant to particular prejudices, since upon the observance of these truths alone the happiness of the species must depend?"

"I think so, indeed."

"Should such a person observe, that an immoderate desire and accumulation of riches, a love of ostentatious trifles, unnecessary splendour in all that relates to human life, and an habitual indulgence of sensuality, tended not only to produce evil in all around, but even in the individual himself, who suffered the tyranny of these vices; how would you have the legislator act? Should he be silent?"

"No, certainly; he should arraign these pernicious habitudes by every means within his power—by precept, by example."

"Should he also observe, that riches employed in another manner, in removing the real miseries of humanity, in cherishing, comforting, and supporting all around, produced a contrary effect, and tended equally to make the obliged and the obliger happy; should he conceal this great eternal truth, or should

he divulge it with all the authority he possessed, conscious, that in whatever degree it became the rule of human life, in the same degree would it tend to the advantage of all the world?"

"There cannot be a doubt upon the subject."

"But, should he know, either by the spirit of prophecy, or by intuitive penetration, that the majority of mankind would never observe these rules to any great degree, but would be blindly precipitated by their passions into every excess against which he so benevolently cautioned them; should this be a reason for his withdrawing his precepts and admonitions, or for seeming to approve what was in its own nature most pernicious?

"As prudent would it be to pull off the bridle when we mounted an impetuous horse, because we doubted of our power to hold him in; or to increase his madness by the spur, when it was clearly too great before. Thus, sir, you will perceive, that the precepts of the Christian religion are founded upon the most perfect knowledge of the human heart, as they furnish a continual barrier against the most destructive passions, and the most subversive of human happiness. Your own concessions sufficiently prove, that it would have been equally derogatory to truth, and the common interests of the species, to have made the slightest concessions in favour either of human pride or sensuality. Your extensive acquaintance with mankind will sufficiently convince you, how prone the generality are to give an unbounded loose to these two passions; neither the continual experience of their own weakness, nor of the fatal effects which are produced by vicious in

dulgences, has yet been capable of teaching them either humility or moderation. What then could the wisest legislator do, more useful, more benevolent, more necessary, than to establish general rules of conduct, which have a continual tendency to restore moral and natural order, and to diminish the wide inequality produced by pride and avarice? Nor is there any greater danger that these precepts should be too rigidly observed, than that the bulk of mankind should injure themselves by too abstemious a temperance. All that can be expected from human weakness, even after working from the most perfect model, is barely to arrive at mediocrity; and, were the model less perfect, or the duties less severe, there is the greatest reason to think, that even that mediocrity would never be attained. Examine the conduct of those who are placed at a distance from all labour and fatigue, and you will find the most trifling exertions act upon their imaginations with the same force as the most insuperable difficulties.

"If I have now succeeded in laying down the genuine principles of Christian morality, I apprehend it will not be difficult to deduce the duty of one who takes upon him the office of its minister and interpreter. He can no more have a right to alter the slightest of its principles than the magistrate can be justified in giving false interpretations to the laws. The more the corruptions of the world increase, the greater the obligation that he should oppose himself to their course; and he can no more relax in his opposition than the pilot can abandon the helm, because the winds and the waves begin to augment their

fury. Should he be despised, or neglected by

all the rest of the human species, let him still persist in bearing testimony to the truth, both in his precepts and example; the cause of virtue is not desperate while it retains a single friend; should it even sink for ever, it is enough for him to have discharged his duty. But, although he is thus restricted as to what he shall teach, I do not assert that it is improper for him to use his understanding and experience as to the manner of his instruction. He is strictly bound never to teach anything contrary to the purest morality; but he is not bound always to teach that morality in its greatest extent. In that respect, he may use the wisdom of the serpent, though guided by the innocence of the dove. If, therefore, he sees the reign of prejudice and corruption, so firmly established, that men would be offended with the genuine simplicity of the Gospel, and the purity of its primeval doctrines, he may so far moderate their rigour as to prevent them from entirely disgusting weak and luxurious minds. If we cannot effect the greatest possible perfection, it is still a material point to preserve from the grossest vices. A physician that practises amongst the great may certainly be excused, though he should not be continually advising the exercise, the regimen of the poor; not that the doctrine is not true, but that there would not be the smallest probability of its ever being adopted. But, although he never assents to that luxurious method of life, which he is continually obliged to see, he may content himself with only inculcating those restrictions which even the luxurious may submit to, if they possess the smallest portion of understanding. Should he succeed thus far,

there is no reason for his stopping in his career, or not enforcing a superior degree of temperance; but should it be difficult to persuade even so slight a restriction, he could hope for no success, were he to preach up a Spartan or a Roman diet. Thus the Christian minister may certainly use his own discretion in the mode of conveying his instructions; and it is permitted him to employ all his knowledge of the human heart in reclaiming men from their vices, and winning them over to the cause of virtue. By the severity of his own manners, he may sufficiently evince the motives of his conduct; nor can he, by any means, hope for more success than if he shows that he practises more than he preaches, and uses a greater degree of indulgence to the failings of others than he requires for his own."

"Nothing," said Mr Merton, "can be more rational or moderate than these sentiments; why then do you persist in pleading your incapacity for an employment which you can so well discharge?"

"Because," said Mr Barlow, "he that undertakes the education of a child, undertakes the most important duty in society, and is severally answerable for every voluntary omission. The same mode of reasoning, which I have just been using, is not applicable here. It is out of the power of any individual, however strenuous may be his endeavours, to prevent the mass of mankind from acquiring prejudices and corruptions; and, when he finds them in that state, he certainly may use all the wisdom he possesses for their reformation. But this rule will never justify him for an instant in giving false impressions where he is at liberty to

instil truth, and in losing the only opportunity which he perhaps may ever possess, of teaching pure morality and religion. How will such a man, if he has the least feeling, bear to see his pupil become a slave, perhaps to the grossest vices; and to reflect with a great degree of probability that this catastrophe has been owing to his own inactivity and improper indulgence? May not all human characters frequently be traced back to impressions made at so early a period, that none but discerning eyes would ever suspect their existence? Yet nothing is more certain; what we are at twenty depends upon what we were at fifteen; what we are at fifteen upon what we were at ten; where shall we then place the beginning of the series? Besides, sir, the very prejudices and manners of society, which seem to be an excuse for the present negligence in the early education of children, act upon my mind with a contrary effect. Need we fear that, after every possible precaution has been taken, our pupil should not give a sufficient loose to his passions, or should be in danger of being too severely virtuous? How glorious would be such a distinction, how much to be wished for, and yet how little to be expected by any one who is moderately acquainted with the world! The instant he makes his entrance there, he will find a universal relaxation and indifference to everything that is serious; everything will conspire to represent pleasure and sensuality as the only business of human beings, and to throw a ridicule upon every pretence to principle or restraint. This will be the doctrine that he will learn at theatres, from his com

panions, from the polite circles into which he is introduced. The ladies, too, will have their share in the improvement of his character; they will criticise the colour of his clothes, his method of making a bow, and of entering a room. They will teach him that the great object of human life is to please the fair; and that the only method of doing it is to acquire the graces. Need we fear that, thus beset an every side, he should not attach a sufficient importance to trifles, or grow fashionably languid in the discharge of all his duties? Alas! sir, it seems to me that this will unavoidably happen in spite of all our endeavours. Let us, then, not lose the important moment of human life, when it is possible to flatter ourselves with some hopes of success in giving good impressions; they may succeed; they may either preserve a young man from gross immorality, or have a tendency to reform him when the first ardour of youth is past. If we neglect this awful moment, which can never return, with the view which, I must confess, I have of modern manners, it appears to me like launching a vessel in the midst of a storm, without a compass and without a pilot."

"Sir," said Mr Merton, "I will make no other answer to what you have now been saying, than to tell you, it adds, if possible, to my esteem of your character; and that I will deliver my son into your hands, upon your own conditions. And as to the terms—"

"Pardon me," replied Mr Barlow, "if I interrupt you here, and give you another specimen of the singularity of my opinions. I am contented to

take your son for some months under my care, and to endeavour by every means within my power to improve him. But there is one circumstance which is indispensable, that you permit me to have the pleasure of serving you as a friend. If you approve of my ideas and conduct, I will keep him as long as you desire. In the mean time, as there are, I fear, some little circumstances which have grown up, by too much tenderness and indulgence, to be altered in his character, I think that I shall possess more of the necessary influence and authority, if I, for the present, appear to him and your whole family rather in the light of a friend than that of a schoolmaster."

However disagreeable this proposal was to the generosity of Mr Merton, he was obliged to consent to it; and little Tommy was accordingly sent the next day to the vicarage, which was at the distance of about two miles from his father's house.

The day after Tommy came to Mr Barlow's, as soon as breakfast was over, he took him and Harry into the garden; when he was there, he took a spade into his own hand, and giving Harry a hoe, they both began to work with great eagerness. "Everybody that eats," says Mr Barlow, "ought to assist in procuring food; and therefore little Harry and I begin our daily work. This is my bed, and that other is his; we work upon it every day, and he that raises the most out of it will deserve to fare the best. Now, Tommy, if you choose to join us, I will mark you out a piece of ground, which you shall have to yourself, and all the produce shall be your own." "No, indeed," said

Tommy, very sulkily, "I am a gentleman and don't choose to slave like a ploughboy." "Just as you please, Mr Gentleman," said Mr Barlow; "but Harry and I, who are not above being useful, will mind our work."

In about two hours, Mr Barlow said it was time to leave off; and, taking Harry by the hand, he led him into a very pleasant summer-house, where they sat down; and Mr Barlow, taking out a plate of very fine ripe cherries, divided them between Harry and himself.

Tommy, who had followed, and expected his share, when he saw them both eating without taking any notice of him, could no longer restrain his passion, but burst into a violent fit of sobbing and crying. "What is the matter?" said Mr Barlow very coolly to him. Tommy looked upon him very sulkily, but returned no answer. "Oh! sir, if you don't choose to give me an answer, you may be silent; nobody is obliged to speak here." Tommy became still more disconcerted at this, and, being unable to conceal his anger, ran out of the summer-house, and wandered very disconsolately about the garden, equally surprised and vexed to find that he was now in a place where nobody felt any concern whether he was pleased or the contrary.

When all the cherries were eaten, little Harry said, "You promised to be so good as to hear me read when we had done working in the garden; and, if it is agreeable to you, I will now read the story of the 'Flies and the Ants.'" "With all my heart," said Mr Barlow; "remember to read it slowly and distinctly, without hesitating or pronouncing the words

wrong; and be sure to read it in such a manner as to show that you understand it."

Harry then took up the book, and read as follows:—

"THE FLIES AND THE ANTS."

"In the corner of a farmer's garden, there once happened to be a nest of ants, who, during the fine weather of the summer, were employed all day long in drawing little seeds and grains of corn into their hole. Near them there happened to be a bed of flowers, upon which a great quantity of flies used to be always sporting, and humming, and diverting themselves by flying from one flower to another. A little boy, who was the farmer's son, used frequently to observe the different employments of these animals; and, as he was very young and ignorant, he one day thus expressed himself:—'Can any creature be so simple as these ants? All day long they are working and toiling, instead of enjoying the fine weather, and diverting themselves like these flies, who are the happiest creatures in the world.' Some time after he had made this observation, the weather grew extremely cold, the sun was scarcely seen to shine, and the nights were chill and frosty. The same little boy, walking then in the garden, did not see a single ant, but all the flies lay scattered up and down, either dead or dying. As he was very good-natured, he could not help pitying the unfortunate animals, and asking at the same time, what had happened to the ants that he used to see in the same place? The father said, 'The flies are all dead, because they were careless animals, who

gave themselves no trouble about laying up provisions, and were too idle to work; but the ants, who had been busy all the summer, in providing for their maintenance during the winter, are all alive and well; and you will see them as soon as the warm weather

returns.'"

"Very well, Harry," said Mr Barlow, "we will now take a walk." They accordingly rambled out into the fields, where Mr Barlow made Harry take notice of several kinds of plants, and told him the names and nature of them. At last Harry, who had observed some very pretty purple berries upon a plant that bore a purple flower, and grew in the hedges, brought them to Mr Barlow, and asked whether they were good to eat. "It is very lucky," said Mr Barlow, "young man, that you asked the question before you put them into your mouth; for, had you tasted them, they would have given you violent pains in your head and stomach, and perhaps have killed you, as they grow upon a plant called night-shade, which is a rank poison." "Sir," said Harry, "I take care never to eat anything without knowing what it is, and I hope, if you will be so good as to continue to teach me, I shall very soon know the names and qualities of all the herbs which grow."

As they were returning home, Harry saw a very large bird called a kite, upon the ground, who seemed to have something in its claws, which he was tearing to pieces. Harry, who knew him to be one of those ravenous creatures which prey upon others, ran up to him, shouting as loud as he could; and the bird, being frightened, flew away, and left a

chicken behind him, very much hurt indeed, but still alive. "Look, sir," said Harry, "if that cruel creature has not almost killed this poor chicken; see how he bleeds, and hangs his wings! I will put him into my bosom to recover him, and carry him home; and he shall have part of my dinner every day till he is well, and able to shift for himself."

As soon as they came home, the first care of little Harry was to put his wounded chicken into a basket with some fresh straw, some water and some bread. After that Mr Barlow and he went to dinner.

In the meantime, Tommy, who had been skulking about all day, very much mortified and uneasy, came in, and, being very hungry, was going to sit down to the table with the rest; but Mr Barlow stopped him, and said, "No, sir, as you are too much of a gentleman to work, we, who are not so, do not choose to work for the idle." Upon this Tommy retired into a corner, crying as if his heart would break, but more from grief than passion, as he began to perceive that nobody minded his ill-temper.

But little Harry, who could not bear to see his friend so unhappy, looked up half crying into Mr Barlow's face, and said, "Pray, sir, may I do as I please with my share of the dinner?" "Yes, to be sure, child." "Why, then," said he, getting up, "I will give it all to poor Tommy who wants it more than I do." Saying this, he gave it to him as he sat in the corner; and Tommy took it, and thanked him without ever turning his eyes from off the ground. "I see," said Mr Barlow, "that though gentlemen are above being of any use themselves,

they are not above taking the bread that other people have been working hard for." At this Tommy cried still more bitterly than before.

The next day Mr Barlow and Harry went to work as before; but they had scarcely begun before Tommy came to them, and desired that he might have a hoe too, which Mr Barlow gave him; but, as he had never before learned to handle one, he was very awkward in the use of it, and hit himself several strokes upon his legs. Mr Barlow then laid down his own spade, and showed him how to hold and use it, by which means, in a short time, he became very expert, and worked with the greatest pleasure. When their work was over they retired all three to the summer-house; and Tommy felt the greatest joy imaginable when the fruit was produced, and he was invited to take his share, which seemed to him the most delicious he had ever tasted, because working in the air had given him an appetite.

As soon as they had done eating, Mr Barlow took up a book, and asked Tommy whether he would read them a story out of it? but he, looking a little ashamed, said he had never learned to read. "I am very sorry for it," said Mr Barlow, "because you lose a very great pleasure; then Harry shall read to you." Harry accordingly took up the book and read the following story:—

"THE GENTLEMAN AND THE BASKET-MAKER."

"There was, in a distant part of the world, a rich man, who lived in a fine house, and spent his whole time in eating, drinking, sleeping, and amusing him

self. As he had a great many servants to wait upon him, who treated him with the greatest respect, and did whatever they were ordered, and, as he had never been taught the truth, nor accustomed to hear it, he grew very proud, insolent, and capricious, imagining that he had a right to command all the world, and that the poor were only born to serve and obey him.

"Near this rich man's house there lived an honest and industrious poor man, who gained his livelihood by making little baskets out of dried reeds, which grew upon a piece of marshy ground close to his cottage. But though he was obliged to labour from morning to night, to earn food enough to support him, and though he seldom fared better than upon dry bread, or rice, or pulse, and had no other bed than the remains of the rushes of which he made baskets, yet was he always happy, cheerful, and contented; for his labour gave him so good an appetite, that the coarsest fare appeared to him delicious; and he went to bed so tired that he would have slept soundly even upon the ground. Besides this, he was a good and virtuous man, humane to everybody, honest in his dealings, always accustomed to speak the truth, and therefore beloved and respected by all his neighbours.

"The rich man, on the contrary, though he lay upon the softest bed, yet could not sleep, because he had passed the day in idleness; and though the nicest dishes were presented to him, yet could he not eat with any pleasure, because he did not wait till nature gave him an appetite, nor use exercise, nor go into the open air. Besides this, as he was a

great sluggard and glutton, he was almost always ill; and, as he did good to nobody, he had no friends; and even his servants spoke ill of him behind his back, and all his neighbours, whom he oppressed, hated him. For these reasons he was sullen, melancholy, and unhappy, and became displeased with all who appeared more cheerful than himself. When he was carried out in his palanquin (a kind of bed, borne upon the shoulders of men) he frequently passed by the cottage of the poor basket-maker, who was always sitting at the door, and singing as he wove the baskets. The rich man could not behold this without anger. 'What!' said he, 'shall a wretch, a peasant, a low-born fellow, that weaves bulrushes for a scanty subsistence, be always happy and pleased, while I, that am a gentleman, possessed of riches and power, and of more consequence than a million of reptiles like him, am always melancholy and discontented!' This reflection arose so often in his mind, that at last he began to feel the greatest degree of hatred towards the poor man; and, as he had never been accustomed to conquer his own passions, however improper or unjust they might be, he at last determined to punish the basket-maker for being happier than himself.

"With this wicked design, he one night gave orders to his servants (who did not dare to disobey him) to set fire to the rushes which surrounded the poor man's house. As it was summer, and the weather in that country extremely hot, the fire soon spread over the whole marsh, and not only consumed all the rushes, but soon extended to the cottage itself,

and the poor basket-maker was obliged to run out almost naked to save his life.

"You may judge of the surprise and grief of the poor man, when he found himself entirely deprived of his subsistence by the wickedness of his rich neighbour, whom he had never offended; but, as he was unable to punish him for this injustice, he set out and walked on foot to the chief magistrate of that country, to whom, with many tears, he told his pitiful case. The magistrate, who was a good and just man, immediately ordered the rich man to be brought before him; and when he found that he could not deny the wickedness, of which he was accused, he thus spoke to the poor man:—'As this proud and wicked man has been puffed up with the opinion of his own importance, and attempted to commit the most scandalous injustice from his contempt of the poor, I am willing to teach him of how little value he is to anybody, and how vile and contemptible a creature he really is; but, for this purpose, it is necessary that you should consent to the plan I have formed, and go along with him to the place whither I intend to send you both.'

"The poor man replied, 'I never had much; but the little I once had is now lost by the mischievous disposition of this proud and oppressive man. I am entirely ruined; I have no means left in the world of procuring myself a morsel of bread the next time I am hungry;

therefore I am ready to go wherever you please to send me; and, though I would not treat this man as he has treated me, yet should I rejoice to teach him more justice and humanity, and to prevent his injuring the poor a second time.'

"The magistrate then ordered them both to be put on board a ship, and carried to a distant country, which was inhabited by a rude and savage kind of men, who lived in huts, were strangers to riches, and got their living by fishing.

"As soon as they were set on shore, the sailors left them as they had been ordered, and the inhabitants of the country came round them in great numbers. The rich man, seeing himself thus exposed, without assistance or defence, in the midst of a barbarous people, whose language he did not understand, and in whose power he was, began to cry and wring his hands in the most abject manner; but the poor basket-maker, who had always been accustomed to hardships and dangers from his infancy, made signs to the people that he was their friend, and was willing to work for them, and be their servant. Upon this the natives made signs to them that they would do them no hurt, but would make use of their assistance in fishing and carrying wood.

"Accordingly, they led them both to a wood at some distance, and showing them several logs, ordered them to transport them to their cabins. They both immediately set about their tasks, and the poor man, who was strong and active, very soon had finished his share; while the rich man, whose limbs were tender and delicate, and never accustomed to any kind of labour, had scarcely done a quarter as much. The savages, who were witnesses to this, began to think that the basket-maker would prove very useful to them, and therefore presented him with a large portion of fish, and

several of their choicest roots; while to the rich man they gave

scarcely enough to support him, because they thought him capable of being of very little service to them; however, as he had now fasted several hours, he ate what they gave him with a better appetite than he had ever felt before at his own table.

"The next day they were set to work again; and as the basket-maker had the same advantage over his companion, he was highly caressed and well treated by the natives, while they showed every mark of contempt towards the other, whose delicate and luxurious habits had rendered him very unfit for labour.

"The rich man now began to perceive with how little reason he had before valued himself, and despised his fellow-creatures; and an accident that fell out shortly after, tended to complete his mortification. It happened that one of the savages had found something like a fillet, with which he adorned his forehead, and seemed to think himself extremely fine; the basket-maker, who had perceived this appearance of vanity, pulled up some reeds, and, sitting down to work, in a short time finished a very elegant wreath, which he placed upon the head of the first inhabitant he chanced to meet. This man was so pleased with his new acquisition, that he danced and capered with joy, and ran away to seek the rest, who were all struck with astonishment at this new and elegant piece of finery. It was not long before another came to the basket-maker, making signs that he wanted to be ornamented like his companion; and with such pleasure were these chaplets considered by the whole nation, that the

basket-maker was released from his former drudgery, and continually employed in weaving them. In return for the pleasure which he conferred upon them, the grateful savages brought him every kind of food their country afforded, built him a hut, and showed him every demonstration of gratitude and kindness. But the rich man, who possessed neither talents to please nor strength to labour, was condemned to be the basket-maker's servant, and to cut him reeds to supply the continual demand for chaplets.

"After having passed some months in this manner, they were again transported to their own country, by the orders of the magistrate, and brought before him. He then looked sternly upon the rich man, and said:—'Having now taught you how helpless, contemptible, and feeble a creature you are, as well as how inferior to the man you insulted, I shall proceed to make reparation to him for the injury you have inflicted upon him. Did I treat you as you deserve, I should take from you all the riches that you possess, as you wantonly deprived this poor man of his whole subsistence, but, hoping that you will become more humane for the future, I sentence you to give half your fortune to this man, whom you endeavoured to ruin.'

"Upon this the basket-maker said, after thanking the magistrate for his goodness:—'I, having been bred up in poverty, and accustomed to labour, have no desire to acquire riches, which I should not know how to use; all, therefore, that I require of this man is, to put me into the same situation I was in before, and to learn more humanity.'

"The rich man could not help being astonished at this generosity, and, having acquired wisdom by his misfortunes, not only treated the basket-maker as a friend during the rest of his life, but employed his riches in relieving the poor, and benefiting his fellow-creatures."

The story being ended, Tommy said it was very pretty; but that, had he been the good basket-maker, he would have taken the naughty rich man's fortune and kept it. "So would not I," said Harry, "for fear of growing as proud, and wicked, and idle as the other."

From this time forward, Mr Barlow and his two pupils used constantly to work in their garden every morning; and, when they were fatigued, they retired to the summer-house, where little Harry, who improved every day in reading, used to entertain them with some pleasant story or other, which Tommy always listened to with the greatest pleasure. But little Harry going home for a week, Tommy and Mr Barlow were left alone.

The next day, after they had done work, and retired to the summer-house as usual, Tommy expected Mr Barlow would read to him; but, to his great disappointment, found that he was busy, and could not. The next day the same accident was renewed, and the day after that. At this Tommy lost all patience, and said to himself, "Now, if I could but read like little Harry Sandford, I should not need to ask anybody to do it for me, and then I could divert myself; and why (thinks he) may not I do what another has done? To be sure, little Harry is clever; but he could not have read if he had not

been taught; and if I am taught, I dare say I shall learn to read as well as he. Well, as soon as ever he comes home, I am determined to ask him about it."

The next day little Harry returned, and as soon as Tommy had an opportunity of being alone with him, "Pray, Harry," said Tommy, "how came you to be able to read?"

Harry.—Why, Mr Barlow taught me my letters, and then spelling; and then, by putting syllables together, I learnt to read. Tommy.—And could not you show me my letters? Harry.—Yes, very willingly.

Harry then took up a book, and Tommy was so eager and attentive, that at the very first lesson, he learned the whole alphabet. He was infinitely pleased with this first experiment, and could scarcely forbear running to Mr Barlow, to let him know the improvement he had made; but he thought he should surprise him more, if he said nothing about the matter till he was able to read a whole story. He therefore applied himself with such diligence, and little Harry, who spared no pains to assist his friend, was so good a master, that in about two months he determined to surprise Mr Barlow with a display of his talents. Accordingly, one day, when they were all assembled in the summer-house, and the book was given to Harry, Tommy stood up and said, that, if Mr Barlow pleased, he would try to read. "Oh, very willingly," said Mr Barlow; "but I should as soon expect you to fly as to read." Tommy smiled with a consciousness of his own proficiency, and, taking up the book, read with great fluency,

—

"THE HISTORY OF THE TWO DOGS."

"In a part of the world, where there are many strong and fierce wild beasts, a poor man happened to bring up two puppies of that kind which is most valued for size and courage. As they appeared to possess more than common strength and agility, he thought that he should make an acceptable present to his landlord, who was a rich man, living in a great city, by giving him one of them, which was called Jowler; while he brought up the other, named Keeper, to guard his own flocks.

"From this time the manner of living was entirely altered between the brother whelps. Jowler was sent into a plentiful kitchen, where he quickly became the favourite of the servants, who diverted themselves with his little tricks and wanton gambols, and rewarded him with great quantities of pot-liquor and broken victuals; by which means, as he was stuffing from morning to night, he increased considerably in size, and grew sleek and comely; he was, indeed, rather unwieldy, and so cowardly that he would run away from a dog only half as big as himself; he was much addicted to gluttony, and was often beaten for the thefts he committed in the pantry; but, as he had learned to fawn upon the footmen, and would stand upon his hind legs to beg, when he was ordered, and, besides this, would fetch and carry, he was mightily caressed by all the neighbourhood.

"Keeper, in the meantime, who lived at a cottage in the country, neither fared so well, looked so plump, nor had learned all these little tricks to

recommend him; but, as his master was too poor to maintain anything but what was useful, and was obliged to be continually in the air, subject to all kinds of weather, and labouring hard for a livelihood, Keeper grew hardy, active, and diligent; he was also exposed to continual danger from the wolves, from whom he had received many a severe bite while guarding the flocks. These continual combats gave him that degree of intrepidity, that no enemy could make him turn his back. His care and assiduity so well defended the sheep of his master, that not one had ever been missing since they were placed under his protection. His honesty too was so great, that no temptation could overpower it; and, though he was left alone in the kitchen while the meat was roasting, he never attempted to taste it, but received with thankfulness whatever his master chose to give him. From a continual life in the air he was become so hardy that no tempest could drive him to shelter when he ought to be watching the flocks; and he would plunge into the most rapid river, in the coldest weather of the winter, at the slightest sign from his master.

"About this time it happened that the landlord of the poor man went to examine his estate in the country, and brought Jowler with him to the place of his birth. At his arrival there he could not help viewing with great contempt the rough ragged appearance of Keeper, and his awkward look, which discovered nothing of the address for which he so much admired Jowler. This opinion, however, was altered by means of an accident which happened to

him. As he was one day walking in a thick wood, with no other company than the two dogs, a hungry wolf, with eyes that sparkled like fire, bristling hair, and a horrid snarl that made the gentleman tremble, rushed out of a neighbouring thicket, and seemed ready to devour him. The unfortunate man gave himself over for lost, more especially when he saw that his faithful Jowler, instead of coming to his assistance, ran sneaking away, with his tail between his legs, howling with fear. But in this moment of despair, the undaunted Keeper, who had followed him, humbly and unobserved, at a distance, flew to his assistance, and attacked the wolf with so much courage and skill, that he was compelled to exert all his strength in his own defence. The battle was long and bloody, but in the end Keeper laid the wolf dead at his feet, though not without receiving several severe wounds himself, and presenting a bloody and mangled spectacle to the eyes of his master, who came up at that instant. The gentleman was filled with joy for his escape and gratitude to his brave deliverer; and learned by his own experience that appearances are not always to be trusted, and that great virtues and good dispositions may sometimes be found in cottagers, while they are totally wanting among the great."

"Very well indeed," said Mr Barlow. "I find that when young gentlemen choose to take pains, they can do things almost as well as other people. But what do you say to the story you have been reading, Tommy? Would you rather have owned the genteel dog that left his master to be devoured, or the poor, rough, ragged, meagre, neglected cur

that exposed his own life in his defence?" "Indeed, sir," said Tommy, "I would have rather had Keeper; but then I would have fed him, and washed him, and combed him, till he had looked as well as Jowler." "But then, perhaps, he would have grown idle, and fat, and cowardly, like him," said Mr Barlow; "but here is some more of it, let us read to the end of the story." Tommy then went on thus:—

"The gentleman was so pleased with the noble behaviour of Keeper, that he desired the poor man to make him a present of the dog; which, though with some reluctance, he complied with. Keeper was therefore taken to the city, where he was caressed and fed by everybody; and the disgraced Jowler was left at the cottage, with strict injunctions to the man to hang him up, as a worthless unprofitable cur.

"As soon as the gentleman had departed, the poor man was going to execute his commission; but, considering the noble size and comely look of the dog, and above all, being moved with pity for the poor animal, who wagged his tail, and licked his new master's feet, just as he was putting the cord about his neck, he determined to spare his life, and see whether a different treatment might not produce different manners. From this day Jowler was in every respect treated as his brother Keeper had been before. He was fed but scantily; and, from this spare diet, soon grew more active and fond of exercise. The first shower he was in he ran away as he had been accustomed to do, and sneaked to the fire-side; but the farmer's wife soon drove him out

of doors, and compelled him to bear the rigour of the weather. In consequence of this he daily became more vigorous and hardy, and, in a few months, regarded cold and rain no more than if he had been brought up in the country.

"Changed as he already was in many respects for the better, he still retained an insurmountable dread of wild beasts; till one day, as he was wandering through a wood alone, he was attacked by a large and fierce wolf, who, jumping out of a thicket, seized him by the neck with fury. Jowler would fain have run, but his enemy was too swift and violent to suffer him to escape. Necessity makes even cowards brave. Jowler being thus stopped in his retreat, turned upon his enemy, and, very luckily seizing him by the throat, strangled him in an instant. His master then coming up, and being witness of his exploit, praised him, and stroked him with a degree of fondness he had never done before. Animated by this victory, and by the approbation of his master, Jowler, from that time, became as brave as he had before been pusillanimous; and there was very soon no dog in the country who was so great a terror to beasts of prey.

"In the mean time Keeper, instead of hunting wild beasts, or looking after sheep, did nothing but eat and sleep, which he was permitted to do, from a remembrance of his past services. As all qualities both of mind and body are lost if not continually exercised, he soon ceased to be that hardy, courageous animal he was before, and acquired all the faults which are the consequences of idleness and gluttony.

"About this time the gentleman went again into the country, and, taking his dog with him, was willing that he should exercise his prowess once more against his ancient enemies the wolves. Accordingly, the country people having quickly found one in a neighbouring wood, the gentleman went thither with Keeper, expecting to see him behave as he had done the year before. But how great was his surprise when, at the first onset, he saw his beloved dog run away with every mark of timidity! At this moment another dog sprang forward, and seizing the wolf with the greatest intrepidity, after a bloody contest, left him dead upon the ground. The gentleman could not help lamenting the cowardice of his favourite, and admiring the noble spirit of the other dog, whom, to his infinite surprise, he found to be the same Jowler that he had discarded the year before. 'I now see,' said he to the farmer, 'that it is in vain to expect courage in those who live a life of indolence and repose, and that constant exercise and proper discipline are frequently able to change contemptible characters into good ones.'"

"Indeed," said Mr Barlow, when the story was ended, "I am sincerely glad to find that Tommy has made this acquisition. He will now depend upon nobody, but be able to divert himself whenever he pleases. All that has ever been written in our own language will be from this time in his power, whether he chooses to read little entertaining stories like what we have heard to-day, or to read the actions of great and good men in history, or to make himself acquainted with the nature of wild beasts and birds, which are found in other countries,

and have been described in books; in short, I scarcely know of anything which from this moment will not be in his power; and I do not despair of one day seeing him a very sensible man, capable of teaching and instructing others."

"Yes," said Tommy, something elated by all this praise, "I am determined to make myself as clever as anybody; and I don't doubt, though I am such a little fellow, that I know more already than many grown-up people; and I am sure, though there are no less than six blacks in our house, that there is not one of them who can read a story like me." Mr Barlow looked a little grave at this sudden display of vanity, and said rather coolly, "Pray, who has attempted to teach them anything?" "Nobody, I believe," said Tommy. "Where is the great wonder, then, if they are ignorant?" replied Mr Barlow; "you would probably have never known anything had you not been assisted; and even now you know very little."

CHAPTER II.

Tommy and the Ragged Boy—Story of Androcles and the Lion—Conversation on Slavery—Conversation about an Ass—Tommy's Present and its consequences—The story of Cyrus—Squire Chase beats Harry—Harry saves the Squire's life—Making Bread—Story of the Two Brothers—Story of the Sailors on the Island of Spitzbergen.

In this manner did Mr Barlow begin the education of Tommy Merton, who had naturally very good dispositions, although he had been suffered to

acquire many bad habits, that sometimes prevented them from appearing. He was, in particular, very passionate, and thought he had a right to command everybody that was not dressed as fine as himself. This opinion often led him into inconveniences, and once was the occasion of his being severely mortified.

This accident happened in the following manner:—One day as Tommy was striking a ball with his bat, he struck it over a hedge into an adjoining field, and seeing a little ragged boy walking along on that side, he ordered him, in a very peremptory tone, to bring it to him. The little boy, without taking any notice of what was said, walked on, and left the ball; upon which Tommy called out more loudly than before, and asked if he did not hear what was said. "Yes," said the boy, "for the matter of that I am not deaf." "Oh! you are not?" replied Tommy, "then bring me my ball directly." "I don't choose it," said the boy. "Sirrah," said Tommy, "if I come to you I shall make you choose it." "Perhaps not, my pretty little master," said the boy. "You little rascal," said Tommy, who now began to be very angry, "if I come over the hedge I will thrash you within an inch of your life." To this the other made no answer but by a loud laugh, which provoked Tommy so much that he clambered over the hedge and jumped precipitately down intending to have leaped into the field; but unfortunately his foot slipped, and down he rolled into a wet ditch, which was full of mud and water; there poor Tommy tumbled about for some time, endeavouring to get out; but it was to no

purpose, for his feet stuck in the mud, or slipped off from the bank; his fine waistcoat was dirtied all over, his white stockings covered with mire, his breeches filled with puddle water; and, to add to his distress, he first lost one shoe and then the other—his laced hat tumbled off from his head and was completely spoiled. In this distress he must probably have remained a considerable time, had not the little ragged boy taken pity on him and helped him out. Tommy was so vexed and ashamed that he could not say a word, but ran home in such a plight that Mr Barlow, who happened to meet him, was afraid he had been considerably hurt; but, when he heard the accident which had happened, he could not help smiling, and he advised Tommy to be more careful for the future how he attempted to thrash little ragged boys.

The next day Mr Barlow desired Harry, when they were all together in the arbour, to read the following story of

"ANDROCLES AND THE LION."

"There was a certain slave named Androcles, who was so ill treated by his master that his life became insupportable. Finding no remedy for what he suffered, he at length said to himself: 'It is better to die than to continue to live in such hardships and misery as I am obliged to suffer. I am determined, therefore, to run away from my master. If I am taken again, I know that I shall be punished with a cruel death; but it is better to die at once, than to live in misery. If I escape, I

must betake myself to deserts and woods, inhabited only by beasts; but they cannot use me more cruelly than I have been used by my fellow-creatures; therefore, I will rather trust myself with them, than continue to be a miserable slave.'

"Having formed this resolution, he took an opportunity of leaving his master's house, and hid himself in a thick forest, which was at some miles' distance from the city. But here the unhappy man found that he had only escaped from one kind of misery to experience another. He wandered about all day through a vast and trackless wood, where his flesh was continually torn by thorns and brambles; he grew hungry, but could find no food in this dreary solitude! At length he was ready to die with fatigue, and lay down in despair in a large cavern which he found by accident."

"Poor man!" said Harry, whose little heart could scarcely contain itself at this mournful recital, "I wish I could have met with him; I would have given him all my dinner, and he should have had my bed. But pray, sir, tell me why does one man behave so cruelly to another, and why should one person be the servant of another, and bear so much ill treatment?"

"As to that," said Tommy, "some folks are born gentlemen, and then they must command others; and some are born servants, and then they must do as they are bid. I remember, before I came hither, that there were a great many black men and women, that my mother said were only born to wait upon me; and I used to beat them, and kick them, and throw things at them whenever

I was angry; and they never dared strike me again, because they were slaves."

"And pray, young man," said Mr Barlow, "how came these people to be slaves?"

Tommy.—Because my father bought them with his money. Mr Barlow.—So then people that are bought with money are slaves, are they? T.—Yes. Mr B.—And those that buy them have a right to kick them, and beat them, and do as they please with them? T.—Yes. Mr B.—Then, if I was to take and sell you to Farmer Sandford, he would have a right to do what he pleased with you? No, sir, said Tommy, somewhat warmly; but you would have no right to sell me, nor he to buy me. Mr B.—Then it is not a person's being bought or sold that gives another a right to use him ill, but one person's having a right to sell another, and the man who buys having a right to purchase? T.—Yes, sir. Mr B.—And what right have the people who sold the poor negroes to your father to sell them, or what right has your father to buy them? Here Tommy seemed to be a good deal puzzled, but at length he said, "They are brought from a country that is a great way off, in ships, and so they become slaves." Then, said Mr Barlow, "if I take you to another country, in a ship, I shall have a right to sell you?" T.—No, but you won't, sir, because I was born a gentleman. Mr B.—What do you mean by that, Tommy? Why (said Tommy, a little confounded), to have a fine house, and fine clothes, and a coach, and a great deal of money, as my papa has. Mr B.—Then if you were no longer to have a fine house, nor fine

clothes, nor a great deal of money, somebody that had all these things might make you a slave, and use you ill, and beat you, and insult you, and do whatever he liked with you? T.—No, sir, that would not be right neither, that anybody should use me ill. Mr B.—Then one person should not use another ill? T.—No, sir. Mr B.—To make a slave of anybody is to use him ill, is it not? T.—I think so. Mr B.—Then no one ought to make a slave of you? T.—No, indeed, sir. Mr B.—But if no one should use another ill, and making a slave is using him ill, neither ought you to make a slave of any one else. T.—Indeed, sir, I think not; and for the future I never will use our black William ill; nor pinch him, nor kick him, as I used to do. Mr B.—Then you will be a very good boy. But let us now continue our story.

"This unfortunate man had not lain long quiet in the cavern before he heard a dreadful noise, which seemed to be the roar of some wild beast, and terrified him very much. He started up with a design to escape, and had already reached the mouth of the cave, when he saw coming towards him a lion of prodigious size, who prevented any possibility of retreat. The unfortunate man now believed his destruction to be inevitable; but, to his great astonishment, the beast advanced towards him with a gentle pace, without any mark of enmity or rage, and uttered a kind of mournful voice, as if he demanded the assistance of the man.

"Androcles, who was naturally of a resolute disposition, acquired courage, from this circumstance, to examine his monstrous guest, who gave him suf

ficient leisure for that purpose. He saw, as the lion approached him, that he seemed to limp upon one of his legs, and that the foot was extremely swelled, as if it had been wounded. Acquiring still more fortitude from the gentle demeanour of the beast, he advanced up to him, and took hold of the wounded paw, as a surgeon would examine a patient. He then perceived that a thorn of uncommon size had penetrated the ball of the foot, and was the occasion of the swelling and lameness which he had observed. Androcles found that the beast, far from resenting this familiarity, received it with the greatest gentleness, and seemed to invite him by his blandishments to proceed. He therefore extracted the thorn, and, pressing the swelling, discharged a considerable quantity of matter, which had been the cause of so much pain and uneasiness.

"As soon as the beast felt himself thus relieved, he began to testify his joy and gratitude by every expression within his power. He jumped about like a wanton spaniel, wagged his enormous tail, and licked the feet and hands of his physician. Nor was he contented with these demonstrations of kindness: from this moment Androcles became his guest; nor did the lion ever sally forth in quest of prey without bringing home the produce of his chase, and sharing it with his friend. In this savage state of hospitality did the man continue to live during the space of several months; at length, wandering unguardedly through the woods, he met with a company of soldiers sent out to apprehend him, and was by them taken prisoner and conducted back to his master. The laws of that country being very severe

against slaves, he was tried and found guilty of having fled from his master, and, as a punishment for his pretended crime, he was sentenced to be torn in pieces by a furious lion, kept many days without food, to inspire him with additional rage.

"When the destined moment arrived, the unhappy man was exposed, unarmed, in the midst of a spacious area, enclosed on every side, round which many thousand people were assembled to view the mournful spectacle.

"Presently a dreadful yell was heard, which struck the spectators with horror; and a monstrous lion rushed out of a den, which was purposely set open, and darted forward with erected mane and flaming eyes, and jaws that gaped like an open sepulchre. A mournful silence instantly prevailed! All eyes were directly turned upon the destined victim, whose destruction now appeared inevitable. But the pity of the multitude was soon converted into astonishment, when they beheld the lion, instead of destroying his defenceless prey, crouch submissively at his feet, fawn upon him as a faithful dog would do upon his master, and rejoice over him as a mother that unexpectedly recovers her offspring. The governor of the town, who was present, then called out with a loud voice, and ordered Androcles to explain to them this unintelligible mystery, and how a savage of the fiercest and most unpitying nature should thus in a moment have forgotten his innate disposition, and be converted into a harmless and inoffensive animal.

"Androcles then related to the assembly every circumstance of his adventures in the woods, and

concluded by saying, that the very lion which now stood before them had been his friend and entertainer in the woods. All the persons present were astonished and delighted with the story, to find that even the fiercest beasts are capable of being softened by gratitude, and moved by humanity; and they unanimously joined to entreat for the pardon of the unhappy man from the governor of the place. This was immediately granted to him; and he was also presented with the lion, who had in this manner twice saved the life of Androcles."

"Upon my word," said Tommy, "this is a very pretty story; but I never should have thought that a lion could have grown so tame: I thought that they, and tigers, and wolves, had been so fierce and cruel that they would have torn everything they met to pieces."

"When they are hungry," said Mr Barlow, "they kill every animal they meet; but this is to devour it, for they can only live upon flesh, like, dogs and cats, and many other kinds of animals. When they are not hungry they seldom meddle with anything, or do unnecessary mischief; therefore they are much less cruel than many persons that I have seen, and even than many children, who plague and torment animals, without any reason whatsoever."

"Indeed, sir," said Harry, "I think so. And I remember, as I was walking along the road some days past, I saw a little naughty boy that used a poor jackass very ill indeed. The poor animal was so lame that he could hardly stir; and yet the boy beat him with a great stick as violently as he was able, to make him go on faster." "And what did

you say to him?" said Mr Barlow. Harry.—Why, sir, I told him how naughty and cruel it was; and I asked him how he would like to be beaten in that manner by somebody that was stronger than himself? Mr B.—And what answer did he make you? H.—He said, that it was his daddy's ass, and so that he had a right to beat it; and that if I said a word more he would beat me. Mr B.—And what answer did you make; any? H.—I told him, if it was his father's ass, he should not use it ill; for that we were all God's creatures, and that we should love each other, as He loved us all; and that as to beating me, if he struck me I had a right to strike him again, and would do it, though he was almost as big again as I was. Mr B.—And did he strike you? H.—Yes, sir. He endeavoured to strike me upon the head with his stick, but I dodged, and so it fell upon my shoulder; and he was going to strike me again, but I darted at him, and knocked him down, and then he began blubbering, and begged me not to hurt him. Mr B.—It is not uncommon for those who are most cruel to be at the same time most cowardly; but what did you? H.—Sir, I told him I did not want to hurt him; but that as he had meddled with me, I would not let him rise till he had promised not to hurt the poor beast any more, which he did, and then I let him go about his business.

"You did very right," said Mr Barlow; "and I suppose the boy looked as foolish, when he was rising, as Tommy did the other day when the little ragged boy that he was going to beat helped him out of the ditch." "Sir," answered Tommy, a

little confused, "I should not have attempted to beat him, only he would not bring me my ball." Mr B.—And what right had you to oblige him to bring your ball? T.—Sir, he was a little ragged boy, and I am a gentleman. Mr B.—So then, every gentleman has a right to command little ragged boys? T.—To be sure, sir. Mr B.—Then if your clothes should wear out and become ragged, every gentleman will have a right to command you? Tommy looked a little foolish, and said, "But he might have done it, as he was on that side of the hedge." Mr B.—And so he probably would have done if you had asked him civilly to do it; but when persons speak in a haughty tone, they will find few inclined to serve them. But, as the boy was poor and ragged, I suppose you hired him with money to fetch your ball? T.—Indeed, sir, I did not; I neither gave him anything nor offered him anything. Mr B.—Probably you had nothing to give him? T.—Yes I had, though; I had all this money (pulling out several shillings). Mr B.—Perhaps the boy was as rich as you. T.—No, he was not, sir, I am sure; for he had no coat, and his waistcoat and breeches were all tattered and ragged; besides, he had no stockings, and his shoes were full of holes. Mr B.—So, now I see what constitutes a gentleman. A gentleman is one that, when he has abundance of everything, keeps it all to himself; beats poor people, if they don't serve him for nothing; and when they have done him the greatest favour, in spite of his insolence, never feels any gratitude, or does them any good in return. I find that Androcles' lion was no gentleman.

Tommy was so affected with this rebuke that he could hardly contain his tears; and, as he was really a boy of a generous temper, he determined to give the little ragged boy something the very first time he should see him again. He did not long wait for an opportunity; for, as he was walking out that very afternoon, he saw him at some distance gathering blackberries, and, going up to him, he accosted him thus: "Little boy, I want to know why you are so ragged; have you no other clothes?" "No, indeed," said the boy. "I have seven brothers and sisters, and they are all as ragged as myself; but I should not much mind that if I could have my belly full of victuals." Tommy.—And why cannot you have your belly full of victuals? Little boy.—Because daddy's ill of a fever, and can't work this harvest! so that mammy says we must all starve if God Almighty does not take care of us.

Tommy made no answer, but ran full speed to the house whence he presently returned, loaded with a loaf of bread, and a complete suit of his own clothes. "Here, little boy," said he, "you were very good-natured to me; and so I will give you all this, because I am a gentleman, and have many more."

Tommy did not wait for the little boy's acknowledgment, but hastened away and told Mr Barlow, with an air of exultation, what he had done.

Mr Barlow coolly answered, "You have done well in giving the little boy clothes, because they are your own; but what right have you to give away my loaf of bread without asking my consent?" Tommy.—Why, sir, I did it because the little boy

said he was very hungry, and had seven brothers and sisters, and that his father was ill, and could not work. Mr B.—This is a very good reason why you should give them what belongs to yourself, but not why you should give them what is another's. What would you say if Harry were to give away all your clothes, without asking your leave?" T.—I should not like it at all; and I will not give away your things any more without asking your leave. "You will do well," said Mr Barlow;

"and here is a little story you may read upon this very subject:—

"THE STORY OF CYRUS."

"Cyrus was a little boy of good dispositions and humane temper. He was very fond of drawing, and often went into the fields for the purpose of taking sketches of trees, houses, &c., which he would show to his parents. On one occasion he had retired into a shed at the back of his father's house, and was so much absorbed in planning something with his compasses, as not to be for a long time aware of his father's presence. He had several masters, who endeavoured to teach him everything that was good; and he was educated with several little boys about his own age. One evening his father asked him what he had done or learned that day. 'Sir,' said Cyrus, 'I was punished to-day for deciding unjustly.' 'How so?' said his father. Cyrus.—There were two boys, one of whom was a great and the other a little boy. Now, it happened that the little boy had a coat that was much too big for him, but the great boy had one that scarcely reached

below his middle, and was too tight for him in every part; upon which the great boy proposed to the little boy to change coats with him, 'because then,' said he, 'we shall be both exactly fitted; for your coat is as much too big for you as mine is too little for me.' The little boy would not consent to the proposal, on which the great boy took his coat away by force, and gave his own to the little boy in exchange. While they were disputing upon this subject I chanced to pass by, and they agreed to make me judge of the affair. But I decided that the little boy should keep the little coat, and the great boy the great one—for which judgment my master punished

me.

"'Why so?' said Cyrus' father; 'was not the little coat most proper for the little boy, and the large coat for the great boy?' 'Yes, sir,' answered Cyrus; 'but my master told me I was not made judge to examine which coat best fitted either of the boys, but to decide whether it was just that the great boy should take away the coat of the little one against his consent; and therefore I decided unjustly, and deserved to be punished.'"

Just as the story was finished, they were surprised to see a little ragged boy come running up to them, with a bundle of clothes under his arm. His eyes were black, as if he had been severely beaten, his nose was swelled, his shirt was bloody, and his waistcoat did but just hang upon his back, so much was it torn. He came running up to Tommy, and threw down the bundle before him, saying, "Here master, take your clothes again; and I wish they had been at the bottom of the ditch I pulled you out

of, instead of upon my back; but I never will put such frippery on again as long as I have breath in my body."

"What is the matter?" said Mr Barlow, who perceived that some unfortunate accident had happened in consequence of Tommy's present.

"Sir," answered the little boy, "my little master here was going to beat me, because I would not fetch his ball. Now, as to the matter of that, I would have brought his ball with all my heart, if he had but asked me civilly. But though I am poor, I am not bound to be his slave, as they say black William is; and so I would not; upon which little master here was jumping over the hedge to lick me; but, instead of that, he soused into the ditch, and there he lay rolling about till I helped him out; and so he gave me these clothes here, all out of good-will; and I put them on, like a fool as I was, for they are all made of silk, and look so fine, that all the little boys followed me, and hallooed as I went; and Jack Dowset threw a handful of dirt at me, and dirtied me all over. 'Oh!' says I, 'Jacky, are you at that work?'—and with that I hit him a good thump, and sent him roaring away. But Billy Gibson and Ned Kelly came up, and said I looked like a Frenchman; and so we began fighting, and I beat them till they both gave out; but I don't choose to be hallooed after wherever I go, and to look like a Frenchman; and so I have brought master his clothes again."

Mr Barlow asked the little boy where his father lived; and he told him that his father lived about two miles off, across the common, and at the end

of Runny Lane; on which Mr Barlow told Harry that he would send the poor man some broth and victuals if he would carry it when it was ready. "That I will," said Harry, "if it were five times as far." So Mr Barlow went into the house to give orders about it.

In the mean time Tommy, who had eyed the little boy for some time in silence, said, "So, my poor boy, you have been beaten and hurt till you are all over blood, only because I gave you my clothes. I am really very sorry for it." "Thank you, little master," said the boy, "but it can't be helped; you did not intend me any hurt, I know; and I am not such a chicken as to mind a beating; so I wish you a good afternoon with all my heart."

As soon as the little boy was gone, Tommy said, "I wish I had but some clothes that the poor boy could wear, for he seems very good-natured; I would give them to him." "That you may very easily have," said Harry, "for there is a shop in the village hard by where they sell all manner of clothes for the poor people; and, as you have money, you may easily buy some."

Harry and Tommy then agreed to go early the next morning to buy some clothes for the poor children. They accordingly set out before breakfast, and had proceeded nearly half-way, when they heard the noise of a pack of hounds that seemed to be running full cry at some distance. Tommy then asked Harry if he knew what they were about. "Yes," said Harry "I know well enough what they are about; it is Squire Chase and his dogs worrying a poor hare. But I wonder they are not ashamed

to meddle with such a poor inoffensive creature, that cannot defend itself. If they have a mind to hunt, why don't they hunt lions and tigers, and such fierce mischievous creatures, as I have read they do in other countries?" "Oh! dear," said Tommy, "how is that? it must surely be very dangerous." "Why, you know," said Harry, "the men are accustomed in some places to go almost naked; and that makes them so prodigiously nimble, that they can run like a deer; and, when a lion or tiger comes into their neighbourhood, and devours their sheep or oxen, they go out, six and seven together, armed with javelins; and they run over all the woods, and examine every place, till they have found him; and they make a noise to provoke him to attack them; then he begins roaring and foaming, beating his sides with his tail, till, in a violent fury, he springs at the man that is nearest to him." "Oh! dear," said Tommy, "he must certainly be torn to pieces." "No such thing," answered Harry; "he jumps like a greyhound out of the way, while the next man throws his javelin at the lion, and perhaps wounds him in the side; this enrages him still more; he springs again like lightning upon the man that wounded him, but this man avoids him like the other, and at last the poor beast drops down dead with the number of wounds he has received." "Oh," said Tommy, "it must be a very strange sight; I should like to see it out of a window, where I was safe." "So should not I," answered Harry; "for it must be a great pity to see such a noble animal tortured and killed; but they are obliged to do it in their own defence. But

these poor hares do nobody any harm, excepting the farmers, by eating a little of their corn sometimes."

As they were talking in this manner, Harry, casting his eyes on one side, said, "As I am alive, there is the poor hare skulking along! I hope they will not be able to find her; and, if they ask me, I will never tell them which way she is gone."

Presently up came the dogs, who had now lost all scent of their game, and a gentleman, mounted upon a fine horse, who asked Harry if he had seen the hare. Harry made no answer; but, upon the gentleman's repeating the question in a louder tone of voice, he answered that he had. "And which way is she gone?" said the gentleman. "Sir, I don't choose to tell you," answered Harry, after some hesitation. "Not choose!" said the gentleman, leaping off his horse, "but I'll make you choose in an instant;" and, coming up to Harry who never moved from the place where he had been standing, began to lash him in a most unmerciful manner with his whip, continually repeating, "Now, you little rascal, do you choose to tell me now?" To which Harry made no other answer than this: "If I would not tell you before, I won't now, though you should kill me."

But this fortitude of Harry, and the tears of Tommy, who cried in the bitterest manner to see the distress of his friend, made no impression on this barbarian, who continued his brutality till another gentleman rode up full speed, and said, "For any sake, Squire, what are you about? You will kill the child, if you do not take care." "And the

little dog deserves it," said the other; "he has seen the hare, and will not tell me which way she is gone." "Take care," replied the gentleman, in a low voice, "you don't involve yourself in a disagreeable affair; I know the other to be the son of a gentleman of great fortune in the neighbourhood;" and then turning to Harry, he said, "Why, my dear, would you not tell the gentleman which way the hare had gone, if you saw her?" "Because," answered Harry, as soon as he had recovered breath enough to speak, "I don't choose to betray the unfortunate." "This boy," said the gentleman, "is a prodigy; and it is a happy thing for you, Squire, that his age is not equal to his spirit. But you are always passionate——" At this moment the hounds recovered the scent, and bursting into a full cry, the Squire mounted his horse and galloped away, attended by all his companions.

When they were gone, Tommy came up to Harry in the most affectionate manner, and asked him how he did. "A little sore," said Harry; "but that does not signify." Tommy.—I wish I had had a pistol or a sword! Harry.—Why, what would you have done with it? T.—I would have killed that good-for-nothing man who treated you so cruelly. H.—That would have been wrong, Tommy; for I am sure he did not want to kill me. Indeed, if I had been a man, he should not have used me so; but it is all over now, and we ought to forgive our enemies, as Mr Barlow tells us Christ did; and then perhaps they may come to love us, and be sorry for what they have done. T.—But how could you

bear to be so severely whipped, without crying out? H.—Why, crying out would have done me no good at all, would it? and this is nothing to what many little boys have suffered without ever flinching, or bemoaning themselves. T.—Well, I should have thought a great deal. H.—Oh! it's nothing to what the young Spartans used to suffer. T.—Who were they? H.—Why, you must know they were a very brave set of people, that lived a great while ago; and, as they were but few in number, and were surrounded by a great many enemies, they used to endeavour to make their little boys very brave and hardy; and these little boys used to be always running about, half-naked, in the open air, and wrestling and jumping and exercising themselves; and then had very coarse food, and hard beds to lie upon, and were never pampered and indulged; and all this made them so strong and hardy, and brave, that the like was never seen. T.—What, and had they no coaches to ride in, nor sweetmeats, nor wine, nor anybody to wait upon them? H.—Oh! dear, no; their fathers thought that would spoil them, and so they all fared alike, and ate together in great rooms; and there they were taught to behave orderly and decently; and when dinner was over, they all went to play together; and, if they committed any faults, they were severely whipped; but they never minded it, and scorned to cry out, or make a wry face.

As they were conversing in this manner, they approached the village, where Tommy laid out all his money, amounting to fifteen shillings and sixpence, in buying some clothes for the little ragged

boy and his brothers, which were made up in a bundle and given to him; but he desired Harry to carry them for him. "That I will," said Harry; "but why don't you choose to carry them yourself?" Tommy.—Why, it is not fit for a gentleman to carry things himself. Harry.—Why, what hurt does it do him, if he is but strong enough? T.—I do not know; but I believe it is that he may not look like the common people. H.—Then he should not have hands, or feet, or ears, or mouth, because the common people have the same. T.—No, no; he must have all these, because they are useful. H.—And is it not useful to be able to do things for ourselves? T.—Yes; but gentlemen have others to do what they want for them. H.—Then I should think it must be a bad thing to be a gentleman. T.—Why so? H.—Because, if all were gentlemen, nobody would do anything, and then we should be all starved. T.—Starved! H.—Yes; why, you could not live, could you, without bread? T.—No; I know that very well. H.—And bread is made of a plant that grows in the earth, and it is called wheat. T.—Why, then, I would gather it and eat it. H.—Then you must do something for yourself; but that would not do, for wheat is a small hard grain, like the oats which you have sometimes given to Mr Barlow's horse; and you would not like to eat them. T.—No, certainly; but how comes bread then? H.—Why, they send the corn to the mill. T.—What is a mill? H.—What! did you never see a mill? T.—No, never; but I should like to see one, that I may know how they make bread. H.—There is one at a little distance; and if you ask Mr Barlow, he

will go with you, for he knows the miller very well. T.—That I will, for I should like to see them make bread.

As they were conversing in this manner, they heard a great outcry, and turning their heads, saw a horse that was galloping violently along, and dragging his rider along with him, who had fallen off, and, in falling, hitched his foot in the stirrup. Luckily for the person, it happened to be wet ground, and the side of a hill, which prevented the horse from going very fast, and the rider from being much hurt. But Harry, who was always prepared to do an act of humanity, even with the danger of his life, and, besides that, was a boy of extraordinary courage and agility, ran up towards a gap which he saw the horse approaching, and just as he made a little pause before vaulting over, caught him by the bridle, and effectually stopped him from proceeding. In an instant another gentleman came up, with two or three servants, who alighted from their horses, disengaged the fallen person, and set him upon his legs. He stared wildly around him for some time; as he was not materially hurt, he soon recovered his senses, and the first use he made of them was to swear at his horse, and to ask who had stopped the confounded jade. "Who?" said his friend, "why, the very little boy you used so scandalously this morning; had it not been for his dexterity and courage, that numskull of yours would have had more flaws in it than it ever had before."

The Squire considered Harry with a countenance in which shame and humiliation seemed yet to struggle with his natural insolence; but at length,

putting his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a guinea, which he offered to Harry, telling him at the same time he was very sorry for what had happened; but Harry, with a look of more contempt than he had ever been seen to assume before, rejected the present, and taking up the bundle which he had dropped at the time he had seized the Squire's horse, walked away, accompanied by his companion.

As it was not far out of their way, they agreed to call at the poor man's cottage, whom they found much better, as Mr Barlow had been there the preceding night, and given him such medicines as he judged proper for his disease. Tommy then asked for the little boy, and, on his coming in, told him that he had now brought him some clothes which he might wear without fear of being called a Frenchman, as well as some more for his little brothers. The pleasure with which they were received was so great, and the acknowledgments and blessings of the good woman and the poor man, who had just began to sit up, were so many, that little Tommy could not help shedding tears of compassion, in which he was joined by Harry. As they were returning, Tommy said that he had never spent any money with so much pleasure as that with which he had purchased clothes for this poor family; and that for the future he would take care of all the money that was given him for that purpose, instead of laying it out in eatables and playthings.

Some days after this, as Mr Barlow and the two boys were walking out together, they happened to pass near a windmill; and, on Harry's telling

Tommy what it was, Tommy desired leave to go into it and look at it. Mr Barlow consented to this, and, being acquainted with the miller, they all went in and examined every part of it with great curiosity; and there little Tommy saw with astonishment that the sails of the mill, being constantly turned round by the wind, moved a great flat stone, which, by rubbing upon another stone, bruised all the corn that was put between them till it became a fine powder. "Oh dear!" said Tommy, "is this the way they make bread?" Mr Barlow told him

this was the method by which the corn was prepared for making bread; but that many other things were necessary before it arrived at that state. "You see that what runs from these millstones is only a fine powder, very different from bread, which is a solid and tolerably hard substance."

As they were going home Harry said to Tommy, "So you see now, if nobody chose to work, or do anything for himself, we should have no bread to eat; but you could not even have the corn to make it of without a great deal of pains and labour." Tommy.—Why not? does not corn grow in the ground of itself? Harry.—Corn grows in the ground, but then first it is necessary to plough the ground, to break it to pieces. T.—What is ploughing? H.—Did you never see three or four horses drawing something along the fields in a straight line, while one man drove, and another walked behind holding the thing by two handles? T.—Yes, I have; and is that ploughing? H.—It is; and there is a sharp iron underneath, which runs into the ground and turns it up all the way it goes.

T.—Well, and what then? H.—When the ground is thus prepared, they sow the seed all over it, and then they rake it over to cover the seed, and then the seed begins to grow, and shoots up very high; and at last the corn ripens, and they reap it, and carry it home. T.—I protest it must be very curious, and I should like to sow some seed myself, and see it grow; do you think I could? H.—Yes, certainly, and if you will dig the ground to-morrow I will go home to my father, in order to procure some seed for you.

The next morning Tommy was up almost as soon as it was light, and went to work in a corner of the garden, where he dug with great perseverance till breakfast; when he came in, he could not help telling Mr Barlow what he had done, and asking him, whether he was not a very good boy for working so hard to raise corn? "That," said Mr Barlow, "depends upon the use you intend to make of it when you have raised it; what is it you intend doing with it?" "Why, sir," said Tommy, "I intend to send it to the mill that we saw, and have it ground into flour; and then I will get you to show me how to make bread of it, and then I will eat it, that I may tell my father that I have eaten bread out of corn of my own sowing." "That will be very well done," said Mr Barlow; "but where will be the great goodness that you sow corn for your own eating? That is no more than all the people round continually do; and if they did not do it they would be obliged to fast." "But then," said Tommy, "they are not gentlemen, as I am."

"What then," answered Mr Barlow; "must not

gentlemen eat as well as others, and therefore is it not for their interest to know how to procure food as well as other people?" "Yes, sir," answered Tommy, "but they can have other people to raise it for them, so that they are not obliged to work for themselves." "How does that happen?" said Mr Barlow. Tommy.—Why, sir, they pay other people to work for them, or buy bread when it is made, as much as they want. Mr B.—Then they pay for it with money? T.—Yes, sir. Mr B.—Then they must have money before they can buy corn? T.—Certainly, sir. Mr B.—But have all gentlemen money? Tommy hesitated some time at this question; at last he said, "I believe not always, sir." Mr B.—Why, then, if they have not money they will find it difficult to procure corn, unless they raise it for themselves. "Indeed," said Tommy, "I believe they will; for perhaps they may not find anybody good-natured enough to give it them."

"But," said Mr Barlow, "as we are talking upon this subject, I will tell you a story that I read a little time past, if you choose to hear it." Tommy said he should be very glad if Mr Barlow would take the trouble of telling it to him, and Mr Barlow told him the following history of

"THE TWO BROTHERS."

"About the time that many people went over to South America, with the hopes of finding gold and silver, there was a Spaniard, whose name was Pizarro, who had a great inclination to try his fortune like the rest; but as he had an elder brother, for

whom he had a very great affection, he went to him, told him his design, and solicited him very much to go along with him, promising him that he should have an equal share of all the riches they found. The brother, whose name was Alonzo, was a man of a contented temper, and a good understanding; he did not therefore much approve of the project, and endeavoured to dissuade Pizarro from it, by setting before him the danger to which he exposed himself, and the uncertainty of his succeeding; but finding all that he said was vain, he agreed to go with him, but told him at the same time that he wanted no part of the riches which he might find, and would ask no other favour than to have his baggage and a few servants taken on board the vessel with him. Pizarro then sold all that he had, bought a vessel, and embarked with several other adventurers, who had all great expectations, like himself, of soon becoming rich. As to Alonzo, he took nothing with him but a few ploughs, harrows, and other tools, and some corn, together with a large quantity of potatoes, and some seeds of different vegetables. Pizarro thought these very odd preparations for a voyage; but as he did not think proper to expostulate with his brother he said nothing.

"After sailing some time with prosperous winds, they put into the last port where they were to stop, before they came to the country where they were to search for gold. Here Pizarro bought a great number more of pickaxes, shovels, and various other tools for digging, melting, and refining the gold he expected to find, besides hiring an additional number of labourers to assist him in the work. Alonzo,

on the contrary, bought only a few sheep, and four stout oxen, with their harness, and food enough to subsist them till they should arrive at land.

"As it happened, they met with a favourable voyage, and all landed in perfect health in America. Alonzo then told his brother that, as he had only come to accompany and serve him, he would stay near the shore with his servants and cattle, while he went to search for gold, and when he had acquired as much as he desired, should be always ready to embark for Spain with him.

"Pizarro accordingly set out not without feeling so great a contempt for his brother, that he could not help expressing it to his companions. 'I always thought,' said he, 'that my brother had been a man of sense; he bore that character in Spain, but I find people were strangely mistaken in him. Here he is going to divert himself with his sheep and his oxen, as if he was living quietly upon his farm at home, and had nothing else to do than to raise cucumbers and melons. But we know better what to do with our time; so come along, my lads, and if we have but good luck, we shall soon be enriched for the rest of our lives.' All that were present applauded Pizarro's speech, and declared themselves ready to follow wherever he went; only one old Spaniard shook his head as he went, and told him he doubted whether he would find his brother so great a fool as he thought.

"They then travelled on several days' march into the country, sometimes obliged to cross rivers, at others to pass mountains and forests, where they could find no paths; sometimes scorched by the

violent heat of the sun, and then wetted to the skin by violent showers of rain. These difficulties, however, did not discourage them so much as to hinder them from trying in several places for gold, which they were at length lucky enough to find in a considerable quantity. This success animated them very much, and they continued working upon that spot till all their provisions were consumed; they gathered daily large quantities of ore, but then they suffered very much from hunger. Still, however, they persevered in their labours, and sustained themselves with such roots and berries as they could find. At last even this resource failed them; and, after several of their company had died from want and hardship, the rest were just able to crawl back to the place where they had left Alonzo, carrying with them the gold, to acquire which they had suffered so many miseries.

"But while they had been employed in this manner, Alonzo, who foresaw what would happen, had been industriously toiling to a very different purpose. His skill in husbandry had easily enabled him to find a spot of considerable extent and very fertile soil, which he ploughed up with the oxen he had brought with him, and the assistance of his servants. He then sowed the different seeds he had brought, and planted the potatoes, which prospered beyond what he could have expected, and yielded him a most abundant harvest. His sheep he had turned out in a very fine meadow near the sea, and every one of them had brought him a couple of lambs. Besides that, he and his servants, at leisure times, employed themselves in fishing; and the fish they

had caught were all dried and salted with salt they had found upon the sea-shore; so that, by the time of Pizarro's return, they had laid up a very considerable quantity of provisions.

"When Pizarro returned, his brother received him with the greatest cordiality, and asked him what success he had had? Pizarro told him that they had found an immense quantity of gold, but that several of his companions had perished, and that the rest were almost starved from the want of provisions. He then requested that his brother would immediately give him something to eat, as he assured him he had tasted no food for the last two days, excepting the roots and bark of trees. Alonzo then very coolly answered, that he should remember that, when they set out, they had made an agreement, that neither should interfere with the other; that he had never desired to have any share of the gold which Pizarro might acquire, and therefore he wondered that Pizarro should expect to be supplied with the provisions that he had procured with so much care and

labour; 'but,' added he, 'if you choose to exchange some of the gold you have found for provisions, I shall perhaps be able to accommodate you.'

"Pizarro thought this behaviour very unkind in his brother; but, as he and his companions were almost starved, they were obliged to comply with his demands, which were so exorbitant, that, in a very short time, they parted with all the gold they had brought with them, merely to purchase food. Alonzo then proposed to his brother to embark for Spain in the vessel which had brought them thither, as the

winds and weather seemed most to be favourable; but Pizarro, with an angry look, told him that, since he had deprived him of everything he had gained, and treated him in so unfriendly a manner, he should go without him; for, as to himself, he would rather perish upon that desert shore than embark with so inhuman a brother.

"But Alonzo, instead of resenting these reproaches, embraced his brother with the greatest tenderness, and spoke to him in the following manner:—'Could you then believe, my dearest Pizarro, that I really meant to deprive you of the fruits of all your labours, which you have acquired with so much toil and danger? Rather may all the gold in the universe perish than I should be capable of such behaviour to my dearest brother! But I saw the rash, impetuous desire you had of riches, and wished to correct this fault in you, and serve you at the same time. You despised my prudence and industry, and imagined that nothing could be wanting to him that had once acquired wealth; but you have now learned that, without that foresight and industry, all the gold you have brought with you would not have prevented you from perishing miserably. You are now, I hope, wiser; and therefore take back your riches, which I hope you have now learned to make a proper use of.' Pizarro was equally filled with gratitude and astonishment at this generosity of his brother, and he acknowledged, from experience, that industry was better than gold. They then embarked for Spain, where they all safely arrived. During the voyage Pizarro often solicited his brother to accept of half his riches, which Alonzo constantly

refused, telling him that he could raise food enough to maintain himself, and was in no want of gold."

"Indeed," said Tommy, when Mr Barlow had finished the story, "I think Alonzo was a very sensible man; and, if it had not been for him, his brother and all his companions must have been starved; but then this was only because they were in a desert uninhabited country. This could never have happened in England; there they could always have had as much corn or bread as they chose for their money." "But," said Mr Barlow, "is a man sure to be always in England, or some place where he can purchase bread?" Tommy.—I believe so, sir. Mr B.—Why, are there not countries in the world where there are no inhabitants, and where no corn is raised? T.—Certainly, sir; this country, which the two brothers went to, was such a place. Mr B.—And there are many other such countries in the world. T.—But then a man need not go to them; he may stay at home. Mr B.—Then he must not pass the seas in a ship. T.—Why so, sir? Mr B.—Because the ship may happen to be wrecked on some such country, where there are no inhabitants; and then, although he should escape the danger of the sea, what will he do for food? T.—And have such accidents sometimes happened? Mr B.—Yes, several; there was, in particular, one Selkirk, who was shipwrecked, and obliged to live several years upon a desert island. T.—That was very extraordinary indeed; and how did he get victuals? Mr B.—He sometimes procured roots, sometimes fruits; he also at last became so active, that he was able to pursue and catch wild goats, with which the island abounded.

T.—And did not such a hard disagreeable way of life kill him at last? Mr B.—By no means; he never enjoyed better health in his life; and you have heard that he became so active as to be able to overtake the very wild beasts. But a still more extraordinary story is that of some Russians, who were left on the coast of Spitzbergen, where they were obliged to stay several years. T.—Where is Spitzbergen, sir? Mr B.—It is a country very far to the north, which is constantly covered with snow and ice, because the weather is unremittingly severe. Scarcely any vegetables will grow upon the soil, and scarcely any animals are found in the country. To add to this, a great part of the year it is covered with perpetual darkness and is inaccessible to ships; so that it is impossible to conceive a more dreary country, or where it must be more difficult to support human life. Yet four men were capable of struggling with all these difficulties during several years, and three of them returned at last safe to their own country. T.—This must be a very curious story indeed; I would give anything to be able to see it. Mr B.—That you may very easily. When I read it, I copied off several parts of it, I thought it so curious and interesting, which I can easily find, and will show you. Here it is; but it is necessary first to inform you, that those northern seas, from the intense cold of the climate, are so full of ice as frequently to render it extremely dangerous to ships, lest they should be crushed between two pieces of immense size, or so completely surrounded as not to be able to extricate themselves. Having

given you this previous information, you will easily understand the distressful situation of a Russian ship, which, as it was sailing on those seas, was on a sudden so surrounded by ice as not to be able to move. My extracts begin here, and you may read them.

Extracts from a Narrative of the Extraordinary Adventures of Four Russian Sailors, who were cast away on the Desert Island of East Spitzbergen.

"In this alarming state (that is, when the ship was surrounded with ice) a council was held, when the mate, Alexis Hinkof, informed them, that he recollected to have heard that some of the people of Mesen, some time before, having formed a resolution of wintering upon this island, had carried from that city timber proper for building a hut, and had actually erected one at some distance from the shore. This information induced the whole company to resolve on wintering there, if the hut, as they hoped, still existed; for they clearly perceived the imminent danger they were in, and that they must inevitably perish if they continued in the ship. They despatched, therefore, four of their crew in search of the hut, or any other succour they could meet with. These were Alexis Hinkof, the mate, Iwan Hinkof, his godson, Stephen Scharassof, and Feodor Weregin.

"As the shore on which they were to land was uninhabited, it was necessary that they should make some provision for their expedition. They had almost two miles to travel over those ridges

of ice, which being raised by the waves, and driven against each other by the wind, rendered the way equally difficult and dangerous; prudence, therefore, forbade their loading themselves too much, lest, by being overburdened, they might sink in between the pieces of ice, and perish. Having thus maturely considered the nature of their undertaking, they provided themselves with a musket and powder-horn, containing twelve charges of powder, with as many balls, an axe, a small kettle, a bag with about twenty pounds of flower, a knife, a tinder-box and tinder, a bladder filled with tobacco, and every man his wooden pipe.

"Thus accoutred, these four sailors quickly arrived on the island, little expecting the misfortunes that would befall them. They began with exploring the country, and soon discovered the hut they were in search of, about an English mile and a half from the shore. It was thirty-six feet in length, eighteen feet in height, and as many in breadth; it contained a small antechamber, about twelve feet broad, which had two doors, the one to shut it up from the outer air, the other to form a communication with the inner room; this contributed greatly to keep the large room warm when once heated. In the large room was an earthen stove, constructed in the Russian manner; that is, a kind of oven without a chimney, which served occasionally either for baking, for heating the room, or, as is customary among the Russian peasants in very cold weather, for a place to sleep upon. Our adventurers rejoiced greatly at having

discovered the hut, which had, however, suffered much from the weather, it having now been built a considerable time; they, however, contrived to pass the night in it.

"Early next morning they hastened to the shore, impatient to inform their comrades of their success, and also to procure from their vessel such provision, ammunition, and other necessaries, as might better enable them to winter on the island. I leave my readers to figure to themselves the astonishment and agony of mind these poor people must have felt, when on reaching the place of their landing, they saw nothing but an open sea, free from the ice, which but the day before had covered the ocean. A violent storm, which had risen during the night, had certainly been the cause of this disastrous event; but they could not tell whether the ice, which had before hemmed in the vessel, agitated by the violence of the waves, had been driven against her, and shattered her to pieces; or, whether she had been carried by the current into the main—a circumstance which frequently happens in those seas. Whatever accident had befallen the ship, they saw her no more; and as no tidings were ever afterwards received of her, it is most probable that she sunk, and that all on board of her perished.

"This melancholy event depriving the unhappy wretches of all hope of ever being able to quit the island, they returned to the hut, whence they had come, full of horror and despair."

"Oh dear!" cried Tommy, at this passage, "what a dreadful situation these poor people must have been in. To be in such a cold country, covered

with snow and frozen with ice, without anybody to help them, or give them victuals; I should think they must all have died." "That you will soon see," said Mr Barlow, "when you have read the rest of the story; but tell me one thing, Tommy, before you proceed. These four men were poor sailors, who had always been accustomed to danger and hardships, and to work for their living; do you think it would have been better for them to have been bred up gentlemen, that is, to do nothing, but to have other people wait upon them in everything?" "Why, to be sure," answered Tommy, "it was much better for them that they had been used to work, for that might enable them to contrive and do something to assist themselves, for, without doing a great deal, they must certainly all have perished."

"Their first attention was employed, as may easily be imagined, in devising means of providing subsistence, and for repairing their hut. The twelve charges of powder which they had brought with them soon procured them as many reindeer—the island, fortunately for them, abounding in these animals. I have before observed, that the hut, which the sailors were so fortunate as to find, had sustained some damage, and it was this—there were cracks in many places between the boards of the building, which freely admitted the air. This inconveniency was, however, easily remedied, as they had an axe, and the beams were still sound (for wood in those cold climates continues through a length of years unimpaired by worms or decay), so it was easy for them to make the boards join again very tolerably; besides, moss growing in great

abundance all over the island, there was more than sufficient to stop up the crevices, which wooden houses must always be liable to. Repairs of this kind cost the unhappy men less trouble, as they were Russians; for all Russian peasants are known to be good carpenters—they build their own houses, and are very expert in handling the axe. The intense cold, which makes these climates habitable to so few species of animals, renders them equally unfit for the production of vegetables. No species of tree or even shrub is found in any of the islands of Spitzbergen—a circumstance of the most alarming nature to our sailors.

"Without fire it was impossible to resist the rigour of the climate, and, without wood, how was the fire to be produced or supported? However, in wandering along the beach, they collected plenty of wood, which had been driven ashore by the waves, and which at first consisted of the wrecks of ships, and afterwards of whole trees with their roots—the produce of some hospitable (but to them unknown) climate, which the overflowings of rivers or other accidents had sent into the ocean. Nothing proved of more essential service to these unfortunate men, during the first year of their exile, than some boards they found upon the beach, having a long iron hook, some nails of about five or six inches long, and proportionably thick, and other bits of old iron fixed in them—the melancholy relics of some vessels cast away in those remote parts. These were thrown ashore by the waves, at the time when the want of powder gave our men reason to apprehend that they must fall a prey to hunger, as they had nearly con

sumed those reindeer they had killed. This lucky circumstance was attended with another equally fortunate; they found on the shore the root of a fir-tree, which nearly approached to the figure of a bow. As necessity has ever been the mother of invention, so they soon fashioned this root to a good bow by the help of a knife; but still they wanted a string and arrows. Not knowing how to procure them at present, they resolved upon making a couple of lances, to defend themselves against the white bears, by far the most ferocious of their kind, whose attacks they had great reason to dread. Finding they could neither make the heads of their lances nor of their arrows without the help of a hammer, they contrived to form the above-mentioned large iron hook into one, by beating it, and widening a hole it happened to have about its middle with the help of one of their largest nails—this received the handle; a round button at one end of the hook served for the face of the hammer. A large pebble supplied the place of an anvil, and a couple of reindeer's horns made the tongs. By the means of such tools they made two heads of spears, and, after polishing and sharpening them on stones, they tied them as fast as possible, with thongs made of reindeer's skins, to sticks about the thickness of a man's arm, which they got from some branches of trees that had been cast on shore. Thus equipped with spears, they resolved to attack a white bear, and, after a most dangerous encounter, they killed the formidable creature, and thereby made a new supply of provisions. The flesh of this animal they relished exceedingly, as they thought it much resembled beef

in taste and flavour. The tendons, they saw with much pleasure, could, with little or no trouble, be divided into filaments of what fineness they thought fit. This, perhaps, was the most fortunate discovery these men could have made, for, besides other advantages, which will be hereafter mentioned, they were hereby furnished with strings for their bow.

"The success of our unfortunate islanders in making the spears, and the use these proved of, encouraged them to proceed, and forge some pieces of iron into heads of arrows of the same shape, though somewhat smaller in size than the spears above-mentioned. Having ground and sharpened these like the former, they tied them with the sinews of the white bears to pieces of fir, to which, by the help of fine threads of the same, they fastened feathers of sea-fowl, and thus became possessed of a complete bow and arrows. Their ingenuity in this respect was crowned with success far beyond their expectation; for, during the time of their continuance upon the island, with these arrows they killed no less than two hundred and fifty reindeer, besides a great number of blue and white foxes. The flesh of these animals served them also for food, and their skins for clothing and other necessary preservatives against the intense coldness of a climate so near the Pole. They killed, however, not more than ten white bears in all, and that not without the utmost danger; for these animals, being prodigiously strong, defended themselves with astonishing vigour and fury. The first our men attacked designedly; the other nine they slew in defending

themselves from their assaults, for [some of these creatures even ventured to enter the outer room of the hut, in order to devour them.] It is true that all the bears did not show (if I may be allowed the expression) equal intrepidity, either owing to some being less pressed by hunger, or to their being by nature less carnivorous than the others; for some of them which entered the hut immediately betook themselves to flight on the first attempt of the sailors to drive them away. A repetition, however, of these ferocious attacks threw the poor men into great terror and anxiety, as they were in almost a perpetual danger of being devoured."

"Some of these creatures even ventured to enter the outer room of the hut, in order to devour them."[P. 86.]

"Sure," exclaimed Tommy, "such a life as that must have been miserable and dreadful indeed." "Why so?" said Mr Barlow. Tommy.—Because, being always in danger of being devoured by wild beasts, those men must have been always unhappy. Mr B.—And yet they never were devoured. T.—No, sir; because they made weapons to defend themselves. Mr B.—Perhaps, then, a person is not unhappy merely because he is exposed to danger, for he may escape from it, but because he does not know how to defend himself. T.—I do not exactly understand you, sir. Mr B.—I will give you an instance. Were you not very unhappy when the snake coiled itself round your leg, because you imagined it would bite you? T.—Yes, sir. Mr B.—But Harry was not unhappy. T.—That is very true, sir. Mr B.—And yet he was in more danger of being bitten than yourself, because he took hold of it. T.—Indeed he did. Mr B.—But he knew that by boldly seizing it, and flinging it away, he

was in very little danger; had you, therefore, known the same, you probably would neither have feared so much nor have been so unhappy as you were. T.—Indeed, sir, that is true; and, were such an accident to happen again, I think I should have courage enough to do the same. Mr B.—Should you then be as unhappy now as you were the first time? T.—By no means, because I have a great deal more courage. Mr B.—Why, then, persons that have courage are not so unhappy as those that are cowardly when they are exposed to danger. T.—Certainly not, sir. Mr B.—And that must be equally true in every kind of danger. T.—Indeed, it must; for I have sometimes heard my mother shriek out when she was passing in a coach through a small stream of water, while my father only laughed at her. Mr B.—Why, then, if she had possessed as much courage, perhaps she would have laughed too. T.—Indeed, I believe she might; for I have sometimes seen her laugh at herself, when it was over, for being so cowardly. Mr B.—Why, then, it is possible that when these men found they were so well able to defend themselves against the bears, they might no longer be afraid of them; and, not being afraid, they would not be unhappy. T.—Indeed, I believe so. Mr B.—Let us now continue.

"The three different kinds of animals above mentioned—viz., the reindeer, the blue and white foxes, and the white bears—were the only food these wretched mariners tasted during their continuance in this dreary abode. We do not at once see every resource; it is generally necessity which quickens our

invention, opening by degrees our eyes, and pointing out expedients which otherwise might never have occurred to our thoughts. The truth of this observation our four sailors experienced in various instances. They were for some time reduced to the necessity of eating their meat almost raw, and without either bread or salt, for they were quite destitute of both. The intenseness of the cold, together with the want of proper conveniences, prevented them from cooking their victuals in a proper manner. There was but one stove in the hut, and that being set up agreeable to the Russian taste, was more like an oven, and consequently not well adapted for boiling anything. Wood also was too precious a commodity to be wasted in keeping up two fires; and the one they might have made out of their habitation to dress their victuals would in no way have served to warm them. Another reason against their cooking in the open air was the continual danger of an attack from the white bears. And here I must observe that, suppose they had made the attempt it would still have been practicable for only some part of the year; for the cold, which in such a climate for some months scarcely ever abates, from the long absence of the sun, then enlightening the opposite hemisphere,—the inconceivable quantity of snow, which is continually falling through the greatest part of the winter, together with the almost incessant rains at certain seasons,—all these were almost insurmountable to that expedient. To remedy, therefore, in some degree the hardship of eating their meat raw, they bethought themselves of drying some of their provisions during the summer in

the open air, and afterwards of hanging it up in the upper part of the hut, which, as I mentioned before, was continually filled with smoke down to the windows; it was thus dried thoroughly by the help of that smoke. This meat so prepared, they used for bread, and it made them relish their other flesh the better, as they could only half-dress it. Finding this experiment answer in every respect to their wishes, they continued to practise it during the whole time of their confinement upon the island, and always kept up, by that means, a sufficient stock of provisions. Water they had in summer from small rivulets that fell from the rocks, and in winter from the snow and ice thawed. This was of course their only beverage; and their small kettle was the only vessel they could make use of for this and other purposes. I have mentioned above that our sailors brought a small bag of flour with them to the island. Of this they had consumed about one-half with their meat; the remainder they employed in a different manner equally useful. They soon saw the necessity of keeping up a continual fire in so cold a climate, and found that, if it should unfortunately go out, they had no means of lighting it again; for though they had a steel and flints, yet they wanted both match and tinder. In their excursions through the island they had met with a slimy loam, or a kind of clay nearly in the middle of it. Out of this they found means to form a utensil which might serve for a lamp, and they proposed to keep it constantly burning with the fat of the animals they should kill. This was certainly the most rational scheme they

could have thought of; for to be without a light in a climate where, during winter, darkness reigns for several months together, would have added much to their other calamities——"

Tommy.—Pray, sir, stop. What! are there countries in the world where it is night continually for several months together? Mr Barlow.—Indeed there are. T.—How can that be? Mr B.—How happens it that there is night at all? T.—How happens it! It must be so, must it not? Mr B.—That is only saying that you do not know the reason. But do you observe no difference here between night and day? T.—Yes, sir, it is light in the day and dark in the night. Mr B.—But why is it dark in the night? T.—Really I do not know. Mr B.—What! does the sun shine every night? T.—No, sir, certainly not. Mr B.—Then it only shines on some nights, and not on others. T.—It never shines at all in the night. Mr B.—And does it in the day? T.—Yes, sir. Mr B.—Every day? T.—Every day, I believe, only sometimes the clouds prevent you from seeing it. Mr B.—And what becomes of it in the night? T.—It goes away, so that we cannot see it. Mr B.—So, then, when you can see the sun, it is never night. T.—No, sir. Mr B.—But when the sun goes away the night comes on. T.—Yes, sir. Mr B.—And when the sun comes again what happens? T.—Then it is day again; for I have seen the day break, and the sun always rises presently after. Mr B.—Then if the sun were not to rise for several months together, what would happen? T.—Sure, it would always remain night, and be dark. Mr B.

—That is exactly the case with the countries we are reading about.

"Having therefore fashioned a kind of lamp, they filled it with reindeer's fat, and stuck into it some twisted linen shaped into a wick; but they had the mortification to find that, as soon as the fat melted, it not only soaked into the clay but fairly ran out of it on all sides. The thing, therefore, was to devise some means of preventing this inconvenience, not arising from cracks, but from the substance of which the lamp was made being too porous. They made, therefore, a new one, dried it thoroughly in the air, then heated it red-hot, and afterwards quenched it in their kettle, wherein they had boiled a quantity of flour down to the consistence of thin starch. The lamp being thus dried and filled with melted fat, they now found, to their great joy, that it did not leak; but for greater security they dipped linen rags in their paste, and with them covered all its outside. Succeeding in this attempt, they immediately made another lamp for fear of an accident, that at all events they might not be destitute of light; and, when they had done so much, they thought proper to save the remainder of their flour for similar purposes. As they had carefully collected whatever

happened to be cast on shore, to supply them with fuel, they had found amongst the wrecks of vessels some cordage and a small quantity of oakum (a kind of hemp used for caulking ships), which served them to make wicks for their lamps. When these stores began to fail, their shirts and their drawers (which are worn by almost all the Russian peasants) were employed to make good the deficiency. By these

means they kept their lamp burning without intermission, from the day they first made it (a work they set about soon after their arrival on the island) until that of their embarkation for their native country.

"The necessity of converting the most essential part of their clothing, such as their shirts and drawers, to the use above specified, exposed them the more to the rigour of the climate. They also found themselves in want of shoes, boots, and other articles of dress; and as winter was approaching, they were again obliged to have recourse to that ingenuity which necessity suggests, and which seldom fails in the trying hour of distress. They had skins of reindeer and foxes in plenty, that had hitherto served them for bedding, and which they now thought of employing in some more essential service; but the question was how to tan them. After deliberating on this subject, they took to the following method: they soaked the skins for several days in fresh water till they could pull off the hair very easily; they then rubbed the wet leather with their hands till it was nearly dry, when they spread some melted reindeer fat over it, and again rubbed it well. By this process the leather became soft, pliant, and supple—proper for answering every purpose they wanted it for. Those skins which they designed for furs they only soaked one day, to prepare them for being wrought, and then proceeded in the manner before-mentioned, except only that they did not remove the hair. Thus they soon provided themselves with the necessary materials for all the parts of dress they wanted. But here another difficulty occurred; they had neither awls for making

shoes or boots, nor needles for sewing their garments. This want, however, they soon supplied by means of the pieces of iron they had occasionally collected. Out of these they made both, and by their industry even brought them to a certain degree of perfection. The making eyes to their needles gave them indeed no little trouble, but this they also performed with the assistance of their knife; for, having ground it to a very sharp point, and heated red-hot a kind of wire forged for that purpose, they pierced a hole through one end; and by whetting and smoothing it on stones, brought the other to a point, and thus gave the whole needle a very tolerable form. Scissors to cut out the skin were what they next had occasion for; but having none, their place they supplied with the knife; and, though there was neither shoemaker nor tailor amongst them, yet they had contrived to cut out the leather and furs well enough for their purpose. The sinews of the bears and the reindeer—which, as I mentioned before, they had found means to split—served them for thread; and thus, provided with the necessary implements, they proceeded to make their new clothes."

"These," said Mr Barlow, "are the extracts which I have made from this very extraordinary story; and they are sufficient to show both the many accidents to which men are exposed, and the wonderful expedients which may be found out, even in the most dismal circumstances." "It is very true, indeed," answered Tommy; "but pray what became of these poor men at last?" "After they had lived more than six years upon this dreary and inhospitable

coast," answered Mr Barlow, "a ship arrived there by accident, which took three of them on board, and carried them in safety to their own country." "And what became of the fourth?" said Tommy. "He," said Mr Barlow, "was seized with a dangerous disease, called the scurvy; and, being of an indolent temper, and therefore not using the exercise which was necessary to preserve his life, after having lingered some time, died, and was buried in the snow by his companions."

CHAPTER III.

Harry's Chicken—Tommy tries kindness on the Pig—Account of the Elephant—Story of the Elephant and the Tailor—Story of the Elephant and the Child—Stories of the Good Natured Boy and the Ill Natured Boy—The Boys determine to Build a House—Story of the Grateful Turk—The Boys' House blown down—They rebuild it stronger—The Roof lets in the Rain—At last is made Water-tight.

Here little Harry came in from his father's house, and brought with him the chicken, which, it had been mentioned, he had saved from the claws of the kite. The little animal was now perfectly recovered of the hurt it had received, and showed so great a degree of affection to its protector, that it would run after him like a dog, hop upon his shoulder, nestle in his bosom, and eat crumbs out of his hand. Tommy was extremely surprised and pleased to remark its tameness and docility, and asked by what means it had been made so gentle. Harry told him he had taken no particular pains about it; but that, as the poor little creature had been sadly hurt, he

had fed it every day till it was well; and that, in consequence of that kindness, it had conceived a great degree of affection towards him.

"Indeed," said Tommy, "that is very surprising; for I thought all birds had flown away whenever a man came near them, and that even the fowls which are kept at home would never let you touch them." Mr B.—And what do you imagine is the reason of that? T.—Because they are wild. Mr B.—And what is a fowl's being wild? T.—When he will not let you come near him. Mr B.—Then a fowl is wild because he will not let you come near him. This is saying nothing more than that when a fowl is wild he will not let you approach him. But I want to know what is the reason of his being wild. T.—Indeed, sir, I cannot tell, unless it is because they are naturally so. Mr B.—But if they were naturally so, this fowl could not be fond of

Harry. T.—That is because he is so good to it. Mr B.—Very likely. Then it is not natural for an animal to run away from a person that is good to him? T.—No, sir; I believe not. Mr B.—But when a person is not good to him, or endeavours to hurt him, it is natural for an animal to run away from him, is it not? T.—Yes. Mr B.—And then you say he is wild, do you not? T.—Yes, sir. Mr B.—Why, then, it is probable that animals are only wild because they are afraid of being hurt, and that they only run away from the fear of danger. I believe you would do the same from a lion or a tiger. T.—Indeed I would, sir. Mr B.—And yet you do not call yourself a wild animal? Tommy laughed heartily at this, and said No. "Therefore," said

Mr Barlow, "if you want to tame animals, you must be good to them, and treat them kindly, and then they will no longer fear you, but come to you and love you." "Indeed," said Harry, "that is very true; for I knew a little boy that took a great fancy to a snake that lived in his father's garden; and, when he had the milk for breakfast, he used to sit under a nut tree and whistle, and the snake would come to him and eat out of his bowl." T.—And did it not bite him? H.—No; he sometimes used to give it a pat with his spoon, if it ate too fast; but it never hurt him.

Tommy was much pleased with this conversation; and, being both good-natured and desirous of making experiments, he determined to try his skill in taming animals. Accordingly, he took a large slice of bread in his hand, and went out to seek some animal that he might give it to. The first thing that he happened to meet was a sucking pig that had rambled from its mother, and was basking in the sun. Tommy would not neglect the opportunity of showing his talents; he therefore called Pig, pig, pig! come hither, little pig! But the pig, who did not exactly comprehend his intentions, only grunted, and ran away. "You little ungrateful thing," said Tommy, "do you treat me in this manner, when I want to feed you? If you do not know your friends I must teach you." So saying this, he sprang at the pig, and caught him by the hind-leg, intending to have given him the bread which he had in his hand; but the pig, who was not used to be treated in that manner, began struggling and squeaking to that degree, that the

sow, who was within hearing, came running to the place, with all the rest of the litter at her heels. As Tommy did not know whether she would be pleased with his civilities to her young one or not, he thought it most prudent to let it go; and the pig, endeavouring to escape as speedily as possible, unfortunately ran between his legs and threw him down. The place where this accident happened was extremely wet; therefore Tommy, in falling, dirtied himself from head to foot; and the sow, who came up at that instant, passed over him, as he attempted to rise, and rolled him back again into the mire.

Tommy, who was not the coolest in his temper, was extremely provoked at this ungrateful return for his intended kindness; and, losing all patience, he seized the sow by the hind-leg and began pommelling her with all his might, as she attempted to escape. The sow, as may be imagined, did not relish such treatment, but endeavoured with all her force to escape; but Tommy still keeping his hold, and continuing his discipline, she struggled with such violence as to drag him several yards, squeaking at the same time in the most lamentable manner, in which she was joined by the whole litter of pigs.

During the heat of this contest a large flock of geese happened to be crossing the road, into the midst of which the affrighted sow ran headlong, dragging the enraged Tommy at her heels. The goslings retreated with the greatest precipitation, joining their mournful cackling to the general noise; but a gander of more than common size and

courage, resenting the unprovoked attack which had been made upon his family, flew at Tommy's hinder parts, and gave him several severe strokes with his bill.

Tommy, whose courage had hitherto been unconquerable, being thus unexpectedly attacked by a new enemy, was obliged to yield to fortune, and not knowing the precise extent of his danger, he not only suffered the sow to escape, but joined his vociferations to the general scream. This alarmed Mr Barlow, who, coming up to the place, found his pupil in the most woeful plight, daubed from head to foot, with his face and hands as black as those of any chimney-sweeper. He inquired what was the matter; and Tommy, as soon as he had recovered breath enough to speak, answered in this manner: "Sir, all this is owing to what you told me about taming animals; I wanted to make them tame and gentle, and to love me, and you see the consequences." "Indeed," said Mr Barlow, "I see you have been ill-treated, but I hope you are not hurt; and if it is owing to anything I have said, I shall feel the more concern." "No," said Tommy, "I cannot say that I am much hurt." "Why, then," said Mr Barlow, "you had better go and wash yourself; and, when you are clean, we will talk over the affair together."

When Tommy had returned, Mr Barlow asked him how the accident had happened? and when he had heard the story, he said, "I am very sorry for your misfortune; but I do not perceive that I was the cause of it, for I do not remember that I ever advised you to catch pigs by the hinder

leg." Tommy.—No, sir; but you told me that feeding

animals was the way to make them love me; and so I wanted to feed the pig. Mr B.—But it was not my fault that you attempted it in a wrong manner. The animal did not know your intentions, and therefore, when you seized him in so violent a manner, he naturally attempted to escape, and his mother hearing his cries, very naturally came to his assistance. All that happened was owing to your inexperience. Before you meddle with any animal, you should make yourself acquainted with his nature and disposition, otherwise you may fare like the little boy that, in attempting to catch flies, was stung by a wasp; or like another that, seeing an adder sleeping upon a bank, took it for an eel, and was bitten by it, which had nearly cost him his life. T.—But, sir, I thought Harry had mentioned a little boy that used to feed a snake without receiving any hurt from it. Mr B.—That might very well happen; there is scarcely any creature that will do hurt, unless it is attacked or wants food; and some of these reptiles are entirely harmless, others not; therefore the best way is not to meddle with any till you are perfectly acquainted with its nature. Had you observed this rule, you never would have attempted to catch the pig by the hinder leg, in order to tame it; and it is very lucky that you did not make the experiment upon a larger animal, otherwise you might have been as badly treated as the tailor was by the elephant. T.—Pray, sir, what is this curious story? But first tell me, if you please, what an elephant is?