m'^^mp- 
 
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 DUKE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Treasure "^om 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 J. P. Waggoner 
 
 ^ 
 
Tiiii: 
 
 ^j^in 
 
 G-fiJLASS 
 
 FOX THE 
 
 MIND, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE JUVENILE FRIEND, 
 
 BEING A VALUABLE COLLECTION OF 
 
 Interesting and Miscellaneous Incidents, 
 
 Calculated to exhibit to Young Minds the hafi/nj effects 
 of Youthful In?ioce?ice, and Filial Affection ; 
 
 IN PROSE AND TERSE: 
 
 DESIGNED TO IMPROVE AND AMUSE THE 
 RISIJVG GENERATIOjY, 
 
 i^rubellishedivrith an ejegant Frontiajjiece, and scvohIn 
 ^ A * / three Cuts. ^ *^m - 
 
 ^^^^ — ;~»r* '■'^Sk ,^ • 
 
 PHILADELPIIfA : . ''^^-^ 
 
 '■■' ^v J. BiorcTi^ NO. 88, Chesnui-stree 
 
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 -iz^'l>4^v- 
 
"iHiL, 
 
 c-r- r- '•- 
 
 <^K..ASS. 
 
 she 
 
2 THE LOOKING-CLASS. 
 
 home to her house, in order to remove him from 
 the scene of his affliction nn^ "^ r>r -ror.- hic crrjef 
 addin^ *■" 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 5 
 
 I will go and see him, and wish him jov.'* She 
 
 ■^ ^rom It; but when 
 ' ■ 5:he 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. ., 
 
 V 
 
 since I cannot now disturb him, or make him ufl- 
 happy on rn^r -ynr-- "^ "^ ^ Ut 
 
^ THE LOOKING-GLASS. 7 
 
 you do any thing to offend them -, and should you 
 offend them undesignedly, rest neither night nor 
 day till you have obtained their forgiveness. Re- 
 flect on, and enjoy the happiness, that you are 
 not, like poor little Adolphus, bereft of your fa- 
 thers and mothers, and left in the hands, though 
 of a gooc!, yet poor aunt. 
 
 But lo ! to give the unhappy mourners ease. 
 From pale affliction's eye to wipe the tear ; 
 
 To bid the plaintive voice of sorrow cease, 
 Behold religion's heavenly form appear. 
 
 «' Attend, she cries, poor mortal ! grieve no more 
 « No more lament thy dear departed friends, 
 
 *' Their souls are wafted to a happier shore, 
 " Where every sorrgw, every trouble ends. 
 
 «' Follow my steps, and soon you'll meet again, 
 '« Will meet in yonder blissful realms above ; 
 
 « Forever there to join the seraph's strains. 
 And sing the wonders of redeeming love." 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 4 
 
 anabella's journey to market. 
 
 NOTHING can be more natural and pleasing 
 than to see young children fond of their parents. 
 The birds of the air, and even the wild inhabi- 
 tants of the forest, love and are beloved by their 
 young progeny. 
 
 Little Anabella was six^ years old, very fond 
 of her mamma, and deliglUf d ii^ following her 
 every where. Her mother being one da\ oblig- 
 ed to go to market, wished to leave her little 
 daughter at home, thinking it would be too 
 
i 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 9 
 
 roublesome to herself ; but the child s entrea- 
 ties to go, were so earnest and pressing, that her 
 mother could not withstand them, and at last con- 
 sented to her request. 
 
 The cloak and bonnet was soon on, and the lit- 
 tle miss set off with her mamma in high spirits. 
 Such was the badness of the paths in some places, 
 that it was impossible for them to walk hand in 
 hand, so that Anabella was sometines obliged to 
 trudge on by herself behind her mamma; but these 
 were such kind of hardships as her little spirit was 
 above complaining of. 
 
 The town now appeared in sight, and the near- 
 er they approached it, the more the paths were 
 thronged with people. Anabella was often separa- 
 ted from her mamma ; but this did not at present 
 much disturb her, as by skipping over a rut, or 
 stepping between people as they passed, she soon 
 got up again to her mother. However, the nearer 
 they approached the market, the crowd of course 
 increased, which kept her eyes in full employment 
 to spy which way her mother went ; but a little 
 chaise drawn by six dogs having attracted her at- 
 tention, she stopped to look at them, and by that 
 means lost sight of her mother, which soon became 
 the cause of much uneasiness to her. 
 
 Here my little readers, let me pause for a mo- 
 B 
 
10 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ment to give you this necessary advice. When 
 you walk abroad with your parents or servants nev- 
 er look much about you, unless you have hold of 
 some part of their apparel. And I hope it will not 
 be deemed impertinent to give similar advice to pa- 
 rents and servants, to take care that children do not 
 wander from them, since, from such neglect, many 
 fatal accidents have frequently happened. But to 
 proceed. — 
 
 Little Anabella had not gazed on this object of 
 novelty for more than a minute, before she recol- 
 lected her mamma, and turned about to look for 
 her; but no mamma was there, and now the afflict- 
 ions of her heart began. She called aloud, " Mam- 
 ma, mamma;" but no mamma answered. She then 
 crawled up a bank, which afforded a view all around; 
 but no mamma was to be seen. She now burst in- 
 to a flood of tears, and sat herself down at the foot of 
 the bank, by which people were passing in great 
 numbers. 
 
 Almost every body that passed said something or 
 other to her, but none offered to help her to find 
 her mother. ** What is the matter with you, my 
 little dear, said one, that you cry so sadly ? « I 
 have lost my mamma!" said Anabella,as well as the 
 grief of her heart would permit her to speak. Ano- 
 ther told her never to mind it, she would find her 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 19 
 
 book also and ordering him to read what he had 
 written soon convinced him how contradictory his 
 wishes had been. In the winter, he wished it to 
 be always winter ; in the spring he wished for a 
 continuance of that season *, in the summer he wish- 
 ed it never to depart ; and when autumn came, it 
 afforded him too many delicious fruits to permit 
 him to have a single wish for the approach of 
 winter. 
 
 « My dear Tommy, said his father to him, I am 
 not displeased with you for enjoying the present 
 moment, and thinking it the best that can happen 
 to you ; but you see how necessary it is, that our 
 wishes should not always be complied with. God 
 knows how to govern this world much better than 
 any human being can pretend to. Had you last 
 winter been indulged in your wish, we should have 
 had neither spring, summer, nor autumn ; the earth 
 would have been perpetually covered with snow. 
 The beasts of the field, and the fowls of the air, 
 would either have been starved or frozen to death j 
 and even the pleasures of sliding, or making im- 
 ages of snow, would soon have become tiresome to 
 you. It is a happiness that we have it not in our pow- 
 er to regulate the course of nature : the wise and 
 unerring designs of Providence, in favour of man- 
 
20 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 kind, would then most probably be perverted to 
 their inevitable ruin." 
 
 -Behold fond man ! 
 
 See here thy j;?; >:ur'd life : Pass some few years ; 
 Thy flow' ring spring, thy summers ardent strength, 
 Thy sober autumn fading into age. 
 And pale concluding winter comes at last 
 And shuts the scene — Ah ! whither now are fled, 
 Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 
 Of hnppiness ? those longings after fame ? 
 Those restless cares ? those busy bust'ling days ? 
 Those gay spent festive nights ? those varying 
 
 thoughts 
 Lost between good and ill> that shar'd thy life ? 
 All now are fled ! Religion sole remains 
 Immortal, never failing friend of man, 
 His guide to happiness on high. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 21 
 
 LOUISA S TENDERNESS TO THE LITTLE BIRDS 
 IN WINT R. 
 
 HOWEVER long the winter may appear, the 
 spring will naturally succeed it. A gentle breeze 
 began to warm the air, the snow gradually vanish- 
 ed the fields put on their enamelled livery, the 
 flowers shot forth their buds, and the birds began 
 *o send forth their harmony from every bough. 
 C 
 
22 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Little Louisa and her father left the city, to 
 partake of the pleasures of the country. Scarce- 
 ly had the black-bird and the thrush began their 
 early whistle, to welcome Louisa, than the wea- 
 ther changed all on a sudden ; the north wind roar- 
 ed horribly In the grove, and the snow fell in 
 such abundance, that every thing appeared In a 
 silver white mantle. 
 
 Though the little maid went to bed shivering 
 with cold, and much disappointed In her expecta- 
 tions, yet she thanked God, for having given her 
 so comfortable a shelter from the inclemency of 
 the elements. 
 
 Such a quantity of snow had fallen during the 
 night, that the roads were almost impassable in the 
 morning, which was a matter of great affliction to 
 poor Louisa ; but she observed, that the birds 
 were as dull as herself upon the occasion. Eve- 
 ry tree and hedge being so covered with snow, 
 the poor birds could get nothing to eat, not so 
 much as a grain of corn or worm was to be found. 
 
 The feathered Inhabitants now forsook the 
 woods arid groves, and fled Into the neighbour- 
 hood of inhabited towns and villages, to seek that 
 relief from man, which nature alone would not 
 then afford them. Incredibly numerous were the 
 flight of sparrows, robins, and other birds, that 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 23 
 
 were seen in the streets and court-yards, where 
 their little beaks and claws were employed in 
 turning over whatever they thought could afford 
 them a single grain. 
 
 A large company of these feathered refugees, 
 alighted in the yard belonging to the house, in 
 which little Louisa and her father then were. 
 The distress of the poor birds seemed to afHict 
 the tender hearted maid very much, which her fa- 
 ther perceived as soon as she entered his chamber. 
 " What is it makes you look so pensive now, said 
 her father, since it is but a few minutes ago when 
 you was so remarkably cheerful ?" — O my dear 
 papa, said Louisa, all those sweet dear birds, that 
 sung so charmingly but a day or two ago, are now 
 come into the yard starving with hunger. Do, 
 pray, let me give them a little corn!" 
 
 Her papa very readily granted her so reasonable 
 a request, and away she ran, accompanied by her 
 governess, to the barn on the other side of the 
 yard, which had that morning been cleanly swept. 
 Here she got a handful or two of corn, which 
 she immediately scattered in different parts of the 
 yard. The poor little birds fluttered around her 
 and soon picked up what the bounty of her gene- 
 rous hand had bestowed on them. 
 It is impossible to describe the pleasure and sa» 
 
24 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 tisfaction, expressed in the countenance of Loui- 
 sa, on seeing herself the cause of givine so much 
 joy to those little animals. As soon as the birds 
 had picked up all the grains, they flew to the 
 house top, and seemed to look down on Louisa 
 as if they would say, « Can not you give us a lit- 
 tle more ?" She undersood their meaning, and 
 away she flew again to the barn, and down they 
 all came to partake of her new bounty, while 
 Louisa called to her papa and mamma to come 
 and enjoy with her the pleasing sight. 
 
 In the mean time, a little boy came into the 
 yard, whose heart was not of SO tender a nature 
 as Louisa's. He held in his hand a cage full of 
 birds, but carried it so carelessly, that it was evi- 
 dent he cared very little for his poor prisoners. 
 Louisa, who could not bear to see the pretty lit- 
 tle creatures used so roughly, asked the boy what 
 he was going to do with those birds. The boy 
 replied that he would sell them if he could, but 
 if he could not, his cat should have a dainty meal 
 of them, and they would not be the first she had 
 munched alive. 
 
 " O fie, said Louisa, give them to your cat ! 
 What, suffer such innocent things as those to be 
 killed by the merciless talons of a cat .'^" — "Even 
 so," said the boy, and giving the cage a careless 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 2o 
 
 swing, that tumbled the poor birds over one ano- 
 ther, off he was setting whenLouisa called him back, 
 and asked him what he would have tor his birds. "I 
 will sell them, (said he) three for a penny, and 
 there are eighteen of them." Louisa struck the 
 bargain, and ran to beg the money of her papa, 
 who not only cheerfully gave her the money, but 
 allowed her an empty room for the reception of 
 her little captives. 
 
 The boy, having thus found so good a market 
 for his birds, told all his companions of it ; so that 
 in a few hours, Louisa's yard was so filled with lit- 
 tle bird merchants that you would have supposed 
 it to be a bird market. However the pretty maid- 
 en purchased all they brought, and had them turn- 
 ed into the same room with those of her former 
 purchase. 
 
 When night came, Louisa went to bed with 
 more pleasure than she had felt for a long time.. 
 " What a pleasing reflection it is (said she to 
 herself) to be thus capable of preserving the lives 
 of so many innocent birds, and save them from 
 famine and merciless cats ! When summer comes,> 
 and I go into the woods and groves, these pretty 
 birds will fly round me, and sing their sweetest 
 notes, in gratitude for my kind attention to them,"^ 
 
 These thoughts at last lulled her to sleep, but 
 C2 
 
26 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 •they accompanied her even in her dreams ; for 
 she fancied herself in one of the most delightful 
 groves she had ever seen, where all the little birds 
 were busied, either in feeding their young, or in 
 singing, and in hopping from bough to bough. 
 
 The first thing that Louisa did, after she had got 
 up in the morning, was to go and feed her little 
 family in the room, and also those that c'^'^ie into 
 the yard. Though the seed to feed them cost her 
 nothing, yet she recollteted that the many pur- 
 chases she had lately made of birds must have al- 
 most exhausted her purse; " and if the frost should 
 continue, (said she to herself,) what will become of 
 those poor birds that I shall not be able to purchase! 
 Those naughty boys will either give them to their 
 cats, or suffer them to die with hunger. 
 
 While she was giving way to these sorrowful 
 reflections, her hand was moving gently into her 
 pocket, in order to bring out her exhausted purse ; 
 but judge what must be her surprise and astonish- 
 ment when, instead of pulling out an empty purse, 
 she found it brim full of money ! She ran imme- 
 diately to her papa, to tell him of this strange cir- 
 cumstance, when he snatched her up in his arms, 
 tenderly embraced her, and shed tears of joy on 
 her blooming cheeks. 
 
 " My dear child, (said her papa to her,) you 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 27 
 
 cannot conceive how happy you now make me ! 
 Let these little birds continue to be the o'oject of 
 your relief, and be assured, your purse shall never 
 be reduced to emptiness." This pleasing news 
 gladdened the little heart of Louisa, and she ran 
 immediately to fill her apron with seed, and then 
 hastened to feed her feathered guests. The birds 
 came fluttering round her, and seemed conscious 
 of her bounty and generosity. 
 
 After feeding these happy prisoners, she went 
 down into the yard, and there distributed a plenti- 
 ful meal to the starving wanderers without. What 
 an important trust she now had taken on herself ? — 
 nothing less than the support of a hundred depen- 
 dants within doors, and a still greater number 
 without ! No wonder that her dolls and other 
 playthings should be now totally forgotten. 
 
 As Louisa was putting her hand into the seed- 
 bag, to take out of it the afternoon food for her 
 birds, she found a paper on which w^as written 
 these words : " The inhabitants of the air fly to- 
 wards thee, O Lord ! and thou givest them their 
 food ; thou openest thy hand, and iillest all things 
 living with plenteousness." 
 
 As she saw her papa behind her, she turned 
 round and said, " I am therefore now imitating 
 God." — << Yes, my sweet Louisa, said her father. 
 
28 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 in every good action we imitate our maker 
 When you shall be grown to maturity, you will 
 then assist the necessitous part of the human race 
 as you now do the birds, and the more good you 
 do, the nearer you will approach the perfections 
 of God." 
 
 Louisa continued her attention to feed her hun- 
 gry birds, for more than a week, when the snow 
 began to melt, and the fields by degrees recover- 
 ed their former verdure. The birds who had 
 lately been afraid to quit the warm shelter of the 
 house, now returned to the woods and groves. 
 The birds in our little Louisa*s aviary were con- 
 fined and therefore could not get away -, but they 
 shewed their inclination to depart, by flying 
 against the windows, and pecking the glass with 
 their bills. These birds, perhaps were industrious, 
 and wished not to be troublesome to Louisa, since 
 they could now procure their own living. 
 
 Louisa not being able to comprehend what 
 could make them so uneasy, asked her papa if he 
 could tell the cause of it. " I know not, my dear, 
 (said her papa) but it is possible these little birds 
 may have left some companions in the fields, 
 which they now wish to see." — " You are very 
 right papa, (replied Louisa) and they shall have 
 their liberty immediately,'^ She accordingly open- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. '29 
 
 ^d the window, and all the birds soon flew out of 
 it. 
 
 These Httle feathered animals had no sooner 
 obtained their liberty, than some were seen hop- 
 ping on the ground, others darting into the air, 
 or sporting in the trees from twig to twig, and 
 some fl . ing about the windows chirping, as though 
 out of gratitude to their benefactor. 
 
 Louisa hardly ever went into the fields, but she 
 fancied that some of her little family seemed to 
 welcome her approach, either by hopping before 
 her, or entertaining her with their melodious 
 notes, which afforded her a source of inexhausti- 
 ble pleasure. 
 
 Hail lovely powV ! whose bosom heaves a sigh, 
 V»^hen fancy paints the scene of deep distress ; 
 
 Whose tears spontaneous chrystalize the eye. 
 When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless. 
 
 Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey 
 
 Fromflow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare 
 
 Not dew drops glittering in the morning ray, 
 Seem ne'er so beauteous as that falling tear. 
 
 Devoid of fear the fawns around thee play; 
 
 Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies ; 
 No blood-stained traces mark thy blameless way; 
 
 Beneath thy feet no helpless insect dies. 
 
30 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me, 
 To spring the partridge from the guileful foe, 
 
 From secret snares the struggling bird to free," 
 And stop the hand upraisM to give the blow. 
 
 And when the air with heat meridian glbws, 
 And nature droops beneath the conq'ring gleam, 
 
 ].-et us, slow wand'ring where the current flows, 
 Save sinking flies that float along the stream. 
 
 Or, turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care. 
 To me thy sympathetic griefs impart •, 
 
 Teach me in friendship's griefs to bear a share ; 
 And justly boast the genVous feeling heart. 
 
 Teach me to sooth the helpless orphan's grief; 
 With timely aid the widow's woes assuage ; 
 To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief, 
 And be the sure resource of drooping age. 
 
 So when the verdant spring of youth shall fade, 
 And sinking nature owns the dread decay, 
 
 Some soul congenial then may lend its aid, 
 And gild the close of life's eventful day. 
 
THE L00KIN<5-GLASS. 
 
 31 
 
 THE STORY OF BERTRAND, A POOR LABOURER, 
 AND HIS LITTLE FAMILY. 
 
 THINK yourselves happy, my little readers, 
 since none of you perhaps know what it is to en- 
 dure hunger day after day, without being able to 
 enjoy one plentiful meal. Confident I am, that 
 the following relation will not fail to make an in- 
 pression on your tender hearts. 
 
 Bertrand was a poor labourer, who had six 
 young children whom he maintained with the ut- 
 
32 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 most difficulty. To add to his distresses an unfa- 
 vourable season much increased the price of bread. 
 This honest labourer worked day and night to 
 procure subsistence for his family/ and though 
 their food was composed of the coarsest kind, yet 
 even of that he could not procure a sufficiency. 
 
 Finding himself reduced to extremity, he one 
 day called his little family together, and with 
 tears in his eyes, and a heart overflowing with 
 grief, " My sweet children, said he to them, bread 
 is now so extravagantly dear, that I find all my ef* 
 forts to support you ineffectual. My whole day's 
 labour is barely su.ficient to purchase this piece of 
 bread which you see in n^y hand ! it must there- 
 fore be divided among you, and you must be con- 
 tented with the little my labour can procure you. 
 Though it will not afford each of you a plentiful 
 meal, yet it will be sufficient to keep you from 
 perishing with hunger." Sorrow and tears inter- 
 rupted his words, and he could say no more, but 
 lifted up his hands and eyes to heaven. 
 
 His children wept in silence, and young as they 
 were their little hearts seemed to feel more for 
 their father than for themselves. Bertrand then 
 divided the small portion of bread into seven 
 equ il shares, one of which he kept for himself, and 
 gave to the rest each their lot. But one of them, 
 
THE LOOKING-GlLASS. 33 
 
 named Han;y, refused his share, telling his father 
 he could not eat, pretending to be sick. <" What 
 is the matter with you, my dear child ?" said his 
 father, taking him up in his arms. '■' I am very- 
 sick, (replied Harry) very sick indeed, and should 
 be glad to go to sleep " Bertrand then carried 
 him to bed and gave him a tender kiss, wishing 
 him a good night. 
 
 The next morning, the honest labourer, over- 
 whelmed with sorrow, went to a neighbouring 
 physician, and begged him, as a charity, to come 
 and see his poor boy. Though the physician was 
 sure of never being paid for his visit, yet such was 
 his humanity and feelings, that he instantly went 
 to the labourer's house. 
 
 On his arrival there, he found no particular 
 symptoms of illnessj though the boy was evidently 
 in a very low and languishing state. The doctor 
 tcld him he would send him a cordial draught ; 
 but Harry begged he would forbear sending him 
 any thing, as he could do him no good. The 
 doctor was a little angry at this behaviour, and in- 
 sisted on knowing what his disorder was, threat- 
 ening him, if he did not tell him immediately, he 
 would go and acquaint his father with his obstina- 
 D 
 
34- THE LOOKINC-GLASS. 
 
 Poor Harry begged the doctor would say no- 
 thing about it to his father, which still more in- 
 creased the doctor's wish to get at the bottom of 
 this mystery. At last, poor Harry finding the doc- 
 tor resolute, desired his brothers and sisters might 
 leave the room, and he would acquaint him with 
 every particular. 
 
 As soon as the physician had sent the children 
 out of the room, " Alas, sir, said little Harry, in 
 this season of scarcity, my poor dear father can- 
 not earn bread enough to feed us. What little 
 quantity he can get, he divides equally among us, 
 reserving to himself the smallest part. To see my 
 clear brothers and sisters suffer hunger is more 
 than I can bear ; and, as I am the eldest, and 
 stronger than they, I have therefore not eaten any 
 myself, but have divided my share among them. 
 It is on this account that I pretended to be sick, 
 and unable to eat. I beseech you, hpwever, to 
 keep this a secret from my father." 
 
 The physician, wiping a tear which started in- 
 voluntarily from his eye, asked poor Harry if he 
 was not then hungry. He acknowledged indeed 
 that he was hungry •, but said that did not give 
 him so much affliction as to sec the distresses of 
 his family. « But my good lad, said the doctor, 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 3o 
 
 if you do not take some nourishment you will 
 die." — I am indifferent about that, replied Harry, 
 since my father will have then one mouth less to 
 feed and I shall go to heaven, where I will pray 
 to God to assist my dear father and my little sis- 
 ters and brothers. 
 
 What heart but must melt with pity and admi- 
 ration at the relation of such facts ? the generous 
 physician taking up Karrv in his arms, and clasp- 
 ing him to his bosom, «' No, my dear little boy, 
 (said he) thou shalt not die. God and I will take 
 care of thy little family, and return thanks to 
 God for having sent me hither. I must leave you 
 for the present . but will soon return." 
 
 The good physician hastened home, and order- 
 ed one of his servants to load himself with refresh- 
 ments of every kind. He then hastened to the 
 relief of poor Harry and his starving brothers and 
 sisters. He made them all sit down at the table 
 and eat till they were perfectly satisfied. What 
 could be a more pleasing scene, than that which 
 the good physician then beheld, six pretty little 
 innocent creatures smiling over the bounty of 
 their generous and humane friend ! 
 
 The doctor on his departure, desired Harry to 
 be under no uneasiness, as he should take care to 
 
.36 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 procure them a supply of whatever might be want^ 
 ing. He faithfully performed his promise, and 
 t-hev had daily cause of rejoicing at his bounty and 
 benevolence. The doctor's generosity was imitat- 
 ed by every good person, to whom he related the 
 affecting scene. From some they received provi- 
 !iions, from some money, and from others clothes 
 and linen. So that, in a short time, this little fam- 
 ily, which was but lately in want of every thing, 
 became possessed of plenty. 
 
 Bcrtrand's landlord who was a gentleman of 
 onsiderable fortune, was so striMik with the ten- 
 der generosity of little Harry, that he sent for his 
 father, and paying him many compliments on his 
 happiness oi having such a son, he offered to take 
 Harry under his own inspection, and bring him 
 up in his own house. This matter being agreed 
 on, Bertrand's landlord settled an annuity on him, 
 promising at the same time, to provide for his 
 other children as they grew up. Bertrand, trans- 
 ported with joy, returned to his house, and falling 
 on liis knees offered up his most grateful thanks 
 to that good God, who had graciously condescend- 
 ed to bestow on him such a son ! 
 
 Hence you may learn, my young readers how 
 much you have it in your power to prove a bless- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 37 
 
 ing to your parents and a comfort to yourselves! 
 It is not necessary, that, in order to do so, you 
 should be reduced to the same necessity that poor 
 Harry was : for however exalted your station may 
 be, you will always find opportunities enough to 
 give proofs of your duty to your parents, your af- 
 fection for your brothers and sisters, and your hu- 
 manity and benevolence to the poor and needy, 
 Happy indeed are those poor children, who have 
 found a friend and protector when they were 
 needful and helpless ; but much happier those, 
 who, without ^ver feeUng the griping hand of 
 penury and want themselves, have received the 
 inexpressible delight that never fails to rise from 
 the pleasing reflection, of having raised honest 
 poverty to happiness and plenty. 
 
 HOW happy is he born or taught, 
 That serveth not another's will ; 
 
 Whose armour is his honest thought , 
 And simple truth his highest skill. 
 
 Whose passions not his masters are 5 
 Whose soul is still prepared for death , 
 
 Nor ty*d unto the world with care 
 Of princes' ear, or vulgar breath, 
 D 2 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Who hath his life from humours freed, 
 Whose CONSCIENCE is his strong retreat, 
 
 Whose state can neither flatt'rers feed, 
 Nor ruin make oppressors great. 
 
 Who envies none whom chance doth raise 
 Or vice •, who never understood 
 
 How deepest wounds aregiv'n with praise; 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 
 
 Who God doth late and early pray, 
 More of his grace than gifts to lend, 
 
 And entertains the harmless day 
 With a well chosen book or friend ! 
 
 This man is freed from servile bands 
 Of hope to rise or fear to fall, 
 
 Lord of himself though not of lands 
 And having nothing, yet hath alK 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 39 
 
 
 NANCY AND HER CANARY BIRD, POOR CHERRY. 
 
 AS Nancy was one day looking out of her win- 
 dow, a man happened to come by, crying, « Cana- 
 ry birds ', come buy my canary birds.'' The man 
 had a large cage upon his head, in which the birds 
 hopped about from perch to perch, and made 
 Nancy quite in love wim them. ^< Will you buy 
 a pretty bird or two, miss ?" said the man. I have 
 no objection, replied the litile lady, provided my 
 papa will give me leave. If you will stop a little 
 while's will soon let you know." So away ran 
 Nancy down stairs to her papa, while the bird man, 
 put down his cage at the door. 
 
10 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Nancy ran into her papa's chamber quite out 
 of breath, crying, *'- O dear papa ; only come here ! 
 here is a man in the street that has a large cage on 
 his head with I dare say, an hundred canary birds 
 in it. — " Well and what of all that ? replied her 
 papa, why does that seem to rejoice you so much ?'* 
 Nancy answering that she should be happy to buy 
 one of them, her papa reminded her, that the 
 bird must be fed, and should it be neglected, even 
 only for a day, it would certainly die. 
 
 Nancy promised, that she would never eat her 
 own breakfast till she had given her bird his ; but 
 her papa reminded her she was a giddy girl, and 
 that he feared she had promised too much. How- 
 ever, there was no getting over her coaxings and 
 wheed lings, so that her papa was at last obliged to 
 consent that she should buy one. 
 
 He then took Nancy by the hand, and led her 
 to the door, where the man was waiting with his 
 birds. He chose the prettiest canary bird in it ; 
 it was a male, of a fine lively yellow colour, with 
 a lictle black tuft upon his head. Nancy was now 
 quite cheerful and happy, and pulling out her 
 purse, gave it to her father to pay for the bird. 
 But what was to be done with the bird without a 
 cage, and Nancy had not money enough ? However 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 41 
 
 Upon her promising that she would take great care 
 to feed her bird, her papa bought her a fine new 
 cage of which he,4iiade her a present. 
 
 As soon as Nancy had given her canary bird 
 possession of his new palace, she ran about the 
 house, calling her mamma, her brothers and sssters, 
 and all the servants to come and see her pretty ca- 
 nary bird, to wliichshe gave the name of Cherry. 
 When any of her little friends came to see her, 
 the first thing she told them was t-hat she had one 
 of the prettiest canary birds in the world. " He 
 is as yellow as gold, said she, and he has a little 
 black crest like the plumes of my mamma's 
 hat. Come you must go and see him ! His nam.e 
 is Cheri y." 
 
 Cherry was as happy as any bird need wish to 
 be, under tlie care, of Nancy. Her first business 
 every morning was to feed Cherry :, and when- 
 ever there was any cake at table, Cherry was 
 sure to come in for a share of it. There was al- 
 ways some bits of sugar in store for him, and his 
 cage was constantly decorated v»'ith the most live- 
 ly herbage. 
 
 Her pretty bird was not ungreatful, but did all 
 in his pov/er to make N^mcy sensible how m.uch 
 he was obliged to her. He soon learned to distin- 
 guish her and the mom.ent he heard her step into 
 
1'^ TH R LOOKI V G-GL A iJS. 
 
 the room, he would flutter his wings, and keep up 
 an incessant chirping. It is no wonder, therefore, 
 if Cherry and Nancy became jaery fond of each 
 other. 
 
 At the expiration of a week he began to open 
 his Uttle throat, and sung the most deHghtful songs. 
 He would sometimes raise his notes to so great 
 a height, that you would almost think he must kill 
 hiuiself with such vast exertions. Then, after 
 stopping alittle» he would begin again, with a tone 
 so sweet and powerful, that he was heard in every 
 part of the house. 
 
 Nancy would often sit for whole hours by his 
 cage, listening to his melody. Sometimes, so at- 
 tentively would she gaze on him, that she would 
 insensibly let her work fall out of her hands *, and, 
 after he had entertained her with his melodious 
 notes, she would regale him with a tune on her 
 bird organ, which he would endeavour to imitate. 
 
 In length of time, however, these pleasures be- 
 gan to grow familiar to his friend Nancy. Her 
 papa, one day, presented her with a book of prints, 
 with which she was so much delighted, that Cher- 
 ry began to lose at least one half of her attention. 
 As usual, he would chirp the moment he saw her, 
 let her be at what distance she would •, but Nan- 
 cy began to take no notice of him, and almost a 
 
THE LOOKIKG-GLASS. 4-3 
 
 week had passed, without his receiving either a 
 bit of biscuit, or a fresh supply of chickweed. He 
 repeated the sweetest and most harmonious notes 
 that Nancy had taught him, but to no purpose. 
 
 It now appeared too clearly, that new objects 
 began to attract Nancy's attention. Her birth 
 day arrived, and her good father gave her a large 
 jointed doll, which she amed Columbine ; and 
 this said Columbine proved a sad rival to Cherry 5 
 for from morning to night, the dressing and 
 undressing of miss Columbine engrossed the whole 
 of her time. What with this and her carrying 
 her doll up and down stairs, and into every room 
 In the house, it was happy for poor Cherry if he 
 got fed by the evening, and sometimes it happened, 
 that he went a whole day without feeding. 
 
 One day, however, when Nancy's papa was at 
 table, accidentally casting his eyes upon the cage, 
 he saw poor Cherry lying upon his breast and 
 panting as if it were for life. The poor bird's fea- 
 thers appeared all rough, and it seemed contract- 
 ed into a mere lump. Nancy's papa went up 
 close to it ; but it was unable even to ch rp, and 
 the poor little creature had hardly strength enough 
 to breathe. He called to him his httle Nancy, 
 and asked her what wa^" the matter with her bird. 
 Nancy blushed, saying in a low voice, " Why pa- 
 
I'i THE LOOK ING-GL ASS. 
 
 pa, I somehow, I forgot ;" and ran to fetch the 
 seed box. 
 
 Her papa in the mean time, took down the cage 
 and found that poor Cherry had not a single seed 
 left, nor a drop of water. « Alas, poor bird, 
 said he, you have got into careless hands. Had I 
 foreseen this, I would never have bought yoii." 
 All the company joined in pity for the poor l.ir^, 
 and Nancy ran away into her chamber to ease her 
 h arr in tears. However, herpapa, with some dif- 
 ficulty, brought pretty cherry to himself again. 
 
 Her father, the next day ordered Cherry to be 
 m >de a present of to a young gentleman in the 
 neighbourhood, who, he said, would take much 
 better careof it than hislittle thoughtless daughter, 
 but poor Nancy could not bear the idea of parting 
 with her bird, and most iaithtully promised never 
 more to neglect him 
 
 Her papa, at last, gave way to her entreaties : 
 a i.i permitted her to keep little Cherry, but not 
 without a severe reprimand, and a strict injunc- 
 tion to be more careful for the future. '* This 
 p^or little creature said her papa, is confined in a 
 prison, and is therefore totally unable to provide 
 for its own wants. Whenever you want any thing, 
 you kiow how to get it ; but this little bird can 
 neither help himself, nor make his wants known 
 
THP LOOKING-GLASS, 45 
 
 to Others. If ever you let him want seed or wa- 
 ter again, look to it." 
 
 Nancy burst out into a flood of tears, took her 
 papa by the hand, and kissed it ; but her heart was 
 so full that she could not utter a syllable. Cherry 
 and Nancy were now again good friends, and he 
 for some time wanted nothing. 
 
 About a month afterwards, her father and 
 mother were obliged to go a little way into the 
 country on some particular business j but before 
 they set out, he gave Nancy strict charge to take 
 care of poor Cherry. No sooner were her parents 
 gone, than she ran to the cage, and gave Cherry 
 plenty of seed and water. 
 
 Little Nancy, now finding herself alone and at 
 liberty, sent for some of her companions to come 
 and spend the day with her. The former part of 
 the day they passed in the garden, and the latter at 
 playing at bjindman's buff and four corners. She 
 went to bed very much fatigued ; but, as soon as 
 she awoke in the morning, she began to think of 
 new pleasures. 
 
 She went abroad that day while poor Cherry 
 
 was obliged to stay at jjiome and fast. The second 
 
 ^fc ^d third Jay passed in the same playful manner as 
 
 before •, but no poor Cherry was thought of. On 
 
 E 
 
4ti I'HE LOQKIWC-GLASS. 
 
 the fourth day, her father and mother came home, 
 and, as soon as they had kissed her, her father en- 
 quired after poor Cherry. " He is very well," said 
 Nancy, a little confused, and then ran to fetch 
 him some seed and water. But alas, poor Cherry 
 was no more : he was lying upon his back, with 
 his wings spread, and his beak open. Nancy 
 screamed out, and wrung her hands, when all the 
 family ran to her, and were witnesses of the me- 
 lancholy scene. 
 
 ** Alas, poor bird, said her papa, what a me- 
 lancholy end hast thou come to ? If I had twisted 
 thy head off the day I went into the country,, it 
 would have caused you but a moment's pain, but 
 now you have endured all the pangs of hunger and 
 thirst, and expired in extreme agony. However, 
 poor Cherry, you are happy in being out of the 
 hands of so merciless a guardian. 
 
 Nancy was so shocked and dis resscd on the 
 occasion, that she would have given all her little 
 treasure, and even all her playthings to have 
 bi ought Cherry to life ; but it was now too late. 
 Her papa had the bird stuffed, and hung up to 
 the ceiling, in memory of Nancy's carelessness 
 She dared not even to lift her eyes up to look afi 
 for whenever she did, it was sure to make her crfT 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 4 i 
 
 At last she prevailed on her papa to have it remov- 
 ed, but not till after many earnest and repeated 
 acknowledgments of the fault she had been guilty 
 of Whenever Nancy w^as guilty of inattention or 
 giddiness, the bird was hung up again in its place, 
 and every one would say in her hearing, *' Alas, 
 poor Cherry, what a cruel death you suffered !" 
 
 Thus you see, my little friends, what are the 
 sad consequences of inattention, gid^*iness, and 
 too great a fondness for pleasure, v/hich always 
 makes us forgetful of what we ought carefully to 
 attend to. 
 
 Time was when I was free as air, 
 The thistle's downy seed my fare, 
 
 My drink the morning dew ; 
 I perch'd at will on ev'ry spray, 
 My form genteel, my plumage gay. 
 
 My strains forever new. 
 
 But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain. 
 And form genteel, were all in vain, 
 
 And of a transient date \ 
 For caught, and cag'd, and starv'd to death, 
 •^ In dying sighs my httle breath, 
 Soon pass'd the ^\xy giate. 
 
4.'8 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Thanks, little miss, for all my woes, 
 
 And thanks tor this effectual close, 
 
 And cure of every ill ! 
 
 More cruelty could none express. 
 
 And I, if you had shewn me less, 
 
 Had been your prisoner still. 
 
 € 
 
 
IHE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 iM 
 
 THE BIRDS, THE THORN-BUSHES, AND THE SHEEP,. 
 
 MR. STANHOPE and his son Gregory were 
 one evening, in the month of May, sitting at the 
 foot of a deHghtful hill, and surveying the beautiful 
 works of nature that surrounded them. The re- 
 clining sun now sinking into the west, seemed to 
 clothe every thing with a purple robe. The cheer- 
 ful song of a shepherd called off their attention 
 from their meditations on those delightful pros- 
 pects. This shepherd was driving home his flock 
 
 from the adjacent fields. 
 
 E2 
 
50 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Thorn bushes grew on each side of the road, 
 and every sheep that approached the thorns was 
 sure to be robbed of some part of its wool, which 
 a good deal displeased little Gregory. " Only see, 
 papa, said he, how the sheep are deprived of their 
 wool by those bushes ! You have often told me, 
 that God makes nothing in vain -, but these briars 
 seem made only for mischief ; people should join 
 to destroy them root and branch. Were the poor 
 sheep to come often this way, they would be rob- 
 bed of all their clothing. But that shall not be the 
 case j for I will rise with ihe sun to-morrow morn- 
 ing and with my little bill-hook and snip-snap, I 
 will level all these briars with the ground. You 
 may come with me, papa, if you please, and bring 
 with you an axe. Before breakfast, we shall be 
 able to destroy them all." 
 
 Mr Stanhope replied, " We must not go about 
 this business in too great a hurry, but take a lit- 
 tle time to consider of it j perhaps, there may not 
 be so much cause of being angry with these bushes 
 as you seem at present to imagine. Have you not 
 seen the shepherds about Lammas, with great 
 shears in their hands, take from the trembling 
 sheep all their wool, not being contented with a 
 few locks only ?" 
 
 Gregory allowed that was true j but they did ir 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 5i 
 
 in order to make clothes ; whereas the hedges 
 robbed the sheep without having the least occasion 
 for their wool, and evidently for no useful purpose. 
 " If it be usual, said he, for sheep to lose their 
 clothing at a certain time of the year, then it is 
 much better to take it for our own advantage, than 
 to suffer the hedges to pull it off for no end what- 
 ever." 
 
 Mr. Stanhope allowed the arguments of little 
 Gregory to be just ; for nature has given to every 
 beast a clothing, and we are obliged from them 
 to borrow our own, otherwise we should be forced 
 to go naked, and exposed to the inclemency of the 
 elements. 
 
 " Very well, papa, said Gregory, though we 
 want clothing, yet these bushes want none : they 
 rob usof Avhat we have need j and therefore down 
 they shall all come with to-morrow morning's ris- 
 ing sun. And I dare say, papa, you will come 
 along with me, and assist me." 
 
 Mr. Stanhope could not but consent, and little 
 Gregory thought himself nothing less than an 
 Alexander, merely from the expectation of des- 
 troying at once this formidable band of robbers. 
 He could hardly sleep, being so much taken up 
 with the idea of his victories, to which the next 
 morning's sun was to be witness. 
 
THE LOOKING GLASS. 5''2 
 
 The cheerful lark had hardly begun to proclaim 
 the approach of morning, when Gregory got up 
 and ran to awake his papa. Mr. Stanhope, though 
 he was very indifferent concerning the fate of the 
 thorn-bushes, yet he was not displeased with hav- 
 ing the opportunity ot shewing to his little Grego^ 
 ry the beauties of the rising sun. They both dress- 
 ed themselves immediately, took the necessary in- 
 struments, and set out on this important expedi- 
 tion. Young Gregory marched forward with such 
 hasty steps, that Mr. Stanhope was obliged to ex- 
 ert himself to avoid being left behind. 
 
 When they came near the bushes, they observ- 
 ed a multitude of little birds flying in and out of 
 them, and fluttering their wings, from branch to 
 branch. On seeing this, Mr. Stanhope stopped his 
 son, and desired him to suspend his vengeance a 
 little time, that they might not disturb those inno- 
 cent birds. With this view, they retired to the 
 foot ol the hill, where they had sat the preceding 
 evening, and from thence examined more particu- 
 larly what had occasioned this apparent bustle 
 among the birds. From hence they plainly saw, 
 that they were employed in carrying away those 
 bits of wool in their beaks, which the bushes had 
 Corn from the sheep the evening before, Ther? 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 53 
 
 came a multitude of different sorts of birds who 
 loaded themselves with the plunder. 
 
 Gregory was quite astonished at this sight, and 
 asked his papa what could be the meaning of it. 
 *^ You by this plainly see, replied Mr. Stanhope, 
 that Providence provides for creatures of every 
 class, and furnishes them with all things necessary 
 for their convenience and preservation. Here, 
 you see, the poor birds find what is necessary for 
 their habitations, wherein they are to nurse and 
 rear their young, and with this they make a com- 
 fortable bed tor themselves and their little proge- 
 ny. The innocent thorn-bush, against which you 
 yesterday so loudly exclaimed, is of infinite ser- 
 vice to the inhabitants of the air ; it takes from 
 those that are rich, only what they can very well 
 spare, in order to satisfy the wants of the poor. 
 Have you now any wish to cut those bushes down, 
 which you will perhaps no longer consider as rob- 
 bers I" 
 
 Gregory shook his head, and said, he would 
 not cut the bushes down for the world. Mr. Stan- 
 hope applauded his son for so saying ; and after 
 enjoying the sweets of the morning, they retired 
 home to breakfast, leaving the bushes to flourish 
 in peace, since they made so generous a use of their 
 conquests. 
 
34 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 My young friends, you will hence be convinceu 
 of the Impropriety of cherishing, too hastily, pre- 
 judices against any persons or things, since, how- 
 ever forbidding or useless they may at first sight 
 appear, a more familiar acquaintance with them 
 may discover those accomplishments or perfec- 
 tions, which prejudice at first obscured from dieir 
 observation. 
 
 Sweet contemplation to pursue, 
 Behold a rural scene in view, 
 The bleating herds, the lowing kine, 
 The spreading oak, the tow'ring pine, 
 The air from noxious vapours free, 
 Whilst squirrels trip from tree to tree, 
 And the sweet songsters hover round. 
 Fruits, herbs, and flowers, enrich the ground, 
 And each their various fruits produce, 
 Some for delight, and some for use. 
 Behold, O youth! this scene, and see, 
 What nature's God hath given thee. 
 With wonder view his great designs, 
 In which superior wisdom shines; 
 Revere his name, admire his love, 
 And raise thv thoughts to worlds above. 
 
LtlE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 5.5 
 
 POOR CRAZY JOE AND THE MISCHIEVOUS BOYS. 
 
 IN the city of Philadelphia lived a crazy per- 
 son, whose name was Joe. Whenever he went 
 out he put four or five wigs on his head at once, 
 and as many muffs upon each of his arms. Though 
 he had unfortunately lost his senses, yet he was not 
 mischievous, unless wicked boys played tricks with 
 him, and put him in a passion. 
 
 Whenever he appeared in the streets, all the 
 idle boys would surround him, crying, *^ Joe ! Joe ! 
 how do you sell your wigs and your mufFs ?" Some 
 boys were of such mischievous dispositions as to 
 
 kk 
 
56 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 throw dirt and stonps at him. Though the unfor- 
 tunate man generally bore all this treatment very 
 quietly, yet he would sometimes turn about in his 
 own defence, and throw among the rabble that fol- 
 lowed him, any thing that came in his way. 
 
 A contest of this nature happened one day near 
 the house of Mr. Denton, who hearing a noise in 
 the street went to the window, and with much re- 
 gret saw his son James concerned in the fray. Dis- 
 pleased at the sight he shut down the sash, and 
 went into another room. .^^^^ 
 
 When they were at dinner, Mr. Denton asked 
 his son who the man was, with whom he and Ihe 
 other boys in the street seemed to be so pleasingly 
 engaged. James said it was the crazy man whom 
 they called Joe. On his father asking him what 
 had occasioned that misfortune, he replied, that it 
 was said to be in consequence of a law suit, which 
 deprived him of a large estate. 
 
 " Had this man been known to you (said Mr. 
 Denton, at the time when he was cheated of his 
 estate } and had lie told you, that he had just lost a 
 large inheritance, which he had long peaceably 
 enjoyed; that all his property was expended in 
 supporting the cause, and that he had now neither 
 country or town house, in short nothing upon 
 

 -fHE LOOKING-GLASS. 57 
 
 earth left, would you then have laughed at this 
 poor man ?" 
 
 James with some confusion replied, he certainly 
 should not be guilty ot so wicked an action as to 
 laugh at the misfortunes of any man ; but should 
 rather endeavour to comfort him. 
 
 " This man, said Mr. Denton, is more to be pi- 
 tied now than he was then, since to the loss of his 
 fortune is added that of his senses also ; and yet 
 you have this day been throwing stones at this poor 
 man, and otherwise insulting him, who never gave 
 you any cause." James seemed very sorry for 
 what he had done, asked his papa's pardon, and 
 promised not only never to do the like again, but 
 to prevent others, as much as lay in his power 
 from committing the sam& crime. 
 
 His father told him, that as to his forgiveness, 
 he freely had it, but that there was another besides 
 him, whose forgiveness was more necessary. Lit- 
 tle James thought that his father meant poor Joe ; 
 but Mr. Denton explained the matter to him. 
 « Had Joe retained his senses, said he, it would 
 be certainly just that you should ask his pardon ; 
 but as his disordered mind will not permit him to 
 receive any apologies, it would be idle to attempt 
 to make any; It is not Joe, but God whom yen 
 F 
 
58 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 have offended. You have not shewn compassion to 
 poor Joe, but by your unmerited insults, have ad- 
 ded to his misfortunes. Can you think that God 
 will be pleased with such conduct .'"' 
 
 James now plainly perceived whom he had of- 
 fended, and therefore promised that night to ask 
 pardon of God in his prayers. He kept his word, 
 and not only forbore troubling Joe for several 
 weeks afterwards, but endeavom^d to dissuade all 
 his companions from doing the like. 
 
 The resolutions of young p«6plej however, are 
 not always to be depended on So it happened with 
 little James, who forgetting the promises he had 
 made, one day happened to mix with the rabble of 
 boys, who were following and hooting, and play- 
 ing many naughty tricks with poor unfortunate 
 Joe. 
 
 The more he mixed among them, the more he 
 forgot himself, and at last became as bad as the 
 worst of them. Joe's patience, however, being at 
 length tired out by the rude behaviour of the wick- 
 ed boys that pursued him, he suddenly turned 
 about, and picking up a large stone, threw it at 
 little James with such violence, that it grazed his 
 cheek and almost cut off part of his ear. 
 
 Poor James, on feeling the smart occasioned by 
 the blow, and finding the blood trickling down his 
 
 4 
 
w^ 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 59 
 
 cheek at a great rate, ran home roaring most ter- 
 ribly. Mr. Denton, however, shewed him no pity, 
 telling him it was the just judgment of God for 
 his wickedness 
 
 James attempted to justify himself by saying, 
 that Ife was not the only one who was guilty, and 
 therefore ought not to be the only one that was 
 punislied. His father replied, that, as he knew 
 better than the other boys, his crime was the great- 
 er. It is indeed but justice, that a child who knows 
 the commands of God and his parents, should be 
 doubly punished, whenever he so far forgets his 
 
 ri^uiy as to ranheadlong into wickedness. 
 
 ♦ Remember this, my young readers ; and, in- 
 stead of adding to the afHictions of others, do 
 whatever you can to alleviate them, and God will 
 then undoubtedly have compassion on you, when- 
 ever your wants and distresses shall require his as- 
 
 Ah me ! how little knows the human heart. 
 The pleasing task of sofi'ning other's woe ; 
 
 Stranger to joys that pity can impart. 
 
 And tears sweet sympathy can teach to flow. 
 
 If e'er I've mourn'd my humble, lowly state ; 
 If e'er I've bow'd my knees at fortune's shrine j 
 
JBO 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 If e'er a wish escaped me to be great, 
 The fervent pray'r, humanity, was thine. 
 
 Be mine the blush of modest worth to spare, 
 To change to smiles affliction's rising sigh ; 
 
 The kindred warmth of ch rity to share, ^.^ 
 Till joy shall sparkle from the tear-fiird ey^. 
 
THE LOOICIKG-CLASc 
 
 H 
 
 BELLA AND MARIAN. 
 
 THE sun was just peeping above the eastern 
 
 edge of the horizon, to enliven with his golden 
 
 rays one of the most beautiful mornings of the 
 
 spring when Bella went down into the garden to 
 
 taste with more pleasure, as she rambled through 
 
 those enchanting walks the delicacies of a rich cake, 
 
 of which she intended to make her first meal. 
 
 Her heart swelled with delight, on surveying 
 
 the beautifcs of the rising sun, in listening to the 
 F2 
 
62 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 enlivening notes of the lark and on breathing the 
 pleasing fragrance, which the surrounding shrubs 
 afforded. 
 
 Bella was so charmed with this complication of 
 delights, that her sweet eyes were bedewed with a 
 moisture, which rested on her eye-lids without 
 dropping in tears. Her heart felt a gentle sensa- 
 tion, and her mind was possessed with emotions of 
 benevolence and tenderness. 
 
 The sound of steps in the walk, however all on 
 a sudden, interrupted these happy feelings, and a 
 little girl came trippingr towards the same walk, 
 eating a piece of coarse brown bread with the 
 keenest appetite. As she was also rambling about 
 the garden for amusement, her eyes wandered 
 here and there unfixed ; so that she came up close 
 to Bella unexpectedly. 
 
 As soon as the little girl saw it was miss Bella, 
 she stopped short, seemed confused, and turning 
 about, ran away as fast as she could ; but Bella 
 called to her and asked her why she ran away. 
 This made the little girl run the faster, and Bella 
 endeavoured to pursue her ; but not being so 
 much used to exersise, she was soon left behind. 
 Luckily, as it happened, the little stranger had 
 turned up a path leading into that in which Bella 
 was. Here they suddenly met, and BeH,a cauglU 
 
 W 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 63 
 
 her by the arm, saying, « Come, I have you fast 
 now ; you are my prisoner, and cannot get away 
 from me." 
 
 The poor girl was now more frightened than 
 ever, and struggled hard for her liberty ; but> af- 
 ter some time the sweet accents of Bella, and her 
 assurances that she meant only to be her friend, 
 having rather allayed her fears, she became a little 
 more tractable, and quietly followed her into one 
 of the summer-houses. 
 
 Miss Bella, having made the stranger sit down by 
 her, asked her if she had a father living, and what 
 was his profession. The girl told her, that, thank 
 God, her father was living, and that he did any 
 thing for an honest livelihood. She said he was 
 then at work in the garden, and had brought her 
 with him that morning, 
 
 Bella then observing that the young stranger had 
 got a piece of brown bread in her hand, desired 
 she would let her taste it, but she said it so scratch- 
 ed her throat on swallowing a bit of it, that she 
 could eat no more, and asked the little girl, why 
 her father did not get better bread for her. «' Be- 
 cause, replied the stranger, he does not get so 
 much ijaoney as your papa •, and besides that there 
 are four more of us, and we all eat heartily. 
 
64 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Sometimes one wants a frock, another a jackec 
 and all he can get is hardly sufficient for us, 
 without laying out hardly any thing upon himself, 
 though he never misses a day's work while he has 
 it to do. 
 
 Upon Bella's asking her if she ever eat any 
 plumb-cake, she said she did not even know what 
 it was i but she had no sooner put a bit into her 
 mouth, which miss Bella gave her, than she said 
 she had never in her life tasted any thing so nice. 
 She then asked her what was her name ; when the 
 girl rising and making a low counesy, said it was 
 Marian. 
 
 <* Well then, my good Marian, said Bella, stop 
 here a moment ; I will go and ask my governess 
 for something for you, and will come back direct- 
 ly ; but be sure you do not go away." Marian re- 
 plied that she was now no ways afraid of her, and 
 that she should certainly wait her coming back. • 
 
 Bella ran directly to her governess, and begged 
 she would give her some currant jelly for a little 
 girl, who had nothing but dry bread for breakfast. 
 The governess, being highly pleased with the good 
 nature of her amiable pupil, gave her some in a 
 cup, and a small roll also. Bella instalftly ran 
 away with it, and coming to Marian, said she hoped 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. G5 
 
 she had not made her wait •, but begged her to 
 put down her brown bread till another time, and 
 eat what she had brought her. 
 
 Marian, after tasting the jelly, and smacking her 
 lips, said it was very nice indeed, and asked Bella 
 if she eat such every day. Miss replied that she 
 eat those things frequently, and if she would come 
 now and then, she would always give her* some: 
 
 They now became very familiar together, and 
 miss Bella asked Marian a number of questions, 
 such as whether s^ie never was sick, seeing her 
 now look so hearty, and in what manner she em- 
 ployed her time*.;, 
 
 Marian repli^oTshe did not know what it was to 
 be sick ; and as to her employments, in winter 
 she went to get straw for the cow, and dry sticks 
 la make -the pot boil ; in summer she went to 
 weed the corn, and in harvest-time, to glean and 
 pull hops. In short they were never at a loss for 
 work ; and she said her mother would make a sad 
 noise, if any of her little ones should take it into 
 their heads to be lazy. 
 
 Miss Bella observing that her little visitor went 
 barefooted, which much surprised her, was in- 
 duced toa^k her the reason of it ; when Marian re- 
 plied that it would be too expensive for their father 
 to think of finding shoes and stockings for them 
 
66 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 all and therefore none of them had an^; but they 
 found no inconveniency from it, since, time had 
 so hardened the bottom of their feet, as to make 
 shoes unnecessary. 
 
 The time having slipt away in tn1| J5:ind of chit- 
 chat, Marian told miss Bella thst she must be go- 
 ing, in order to gather some greens for her cow, 
 who woirid want her breakfast by eight o'clock. 
 This little girl did not eat up all th^'tfeli and jelly, 
 "but saved some part of it to carry home to her 
 youngest sister, who she said,"*^e was sure wouljfc; 
 be very fond of it. Bella was vastly pleased to find 
 Marian was so tender of 1 er.sdster, and desired 
 she would not fail to come again at the same hour 
 the next morning. So after a mutual good-bye, 
 they separated for the present. 
 
 Miss Bella had now, fdr the first time, tasted 
 the pleasure of doing good. She walked a littlflft 
 ionger in the garden, enjoying the pleasing reflec- 
 tion how happy she had made Marian, how grate- 
 ful that little girl had showed herself, and how 
 pleased her sister would be to taste currant jelly, 
 which she had never even seen before. 
 
 Miss Bella was enjoying the idea of the plea- 
 sure she bhould receive from her future bounties 
 to her new acquaintance, when she recollected, 
 thai she had some ribbands and a necklace, which 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 6 7 
 
 ker mamma had given h«r a little time before, but 
 of which she now began to grow tired. Besides 
 these, she had some other old things to give her, 
 which, though of no use to herself, would make 
 Marian quite fine. 
 
 The next morning Marian came into the garden 
 again, and miss Bella was ready to receive her, 
 with a tolerable good portion of gingerbread. In- 
 deed this interview was continued every morn- 
 ing, and miss Bella always carried some dainties 
 along with her. I'Wybien her pocke^ failed her, she 
 would beg her maniraa to supply her with some- 
 thing out of ijie pantry, which was always cheer- 
 fully complied with. 
 
 One day, however, it happened, that Bella re- 
 ceived an answer which gave her some uneasiness. 
 She had been begging her mamma to advance her 
 something on her weekly allowance, in order to 
 buy shoes and stockings for Marian ; to which her 
 mamma gave her a flat denial, 1^}l^g her, that 
 she wished she would be a little more sparing to 
 her favourite, for which she would give her a rea- 
 son at dinner-time. Bella was a little surprised at 
 this answer, and every hour appeared an age till 
 dinner-time arrived. 
 
 At length they sat down to table, aud dinner was 
 half over before her mamma said a word about 
 Marian -, but a dish of shrimps being then served 
 
eS THE L00KING-GLA$S. 
 
 Up, gave her mamma an opportunity of beginning 
 the conversation. " I think Bella, said the ladjr, 
 this is your favourite dish." Bella replied it was, 
 and could not help observing, how happy s^e sup- 
 posed poor Marian would be to taste them, who 
 she imagined, had never . so much as seen any. 
 With her mamma's leave, she begged two of the 
 smallest, to give to that little girl. 
 
 Mrs. Adams, for such was her mamma's name, 
 seemed unwilling to grant her request, urging, 
 that she was afraid she would do her favourite mi 
 harm than good. «' At present, said her mam 
 she eats her dry brown bread with an appetite and 
 walks barefooted on the gravel without complain- 
 ing. Should you continue to feed her with dain- 
 ties, and accustom her to wear shoes and stockings, 
 wh^t would she do, should she by any means lose 
 your favour, and with it all those indulgencie&j? 
 She will then lament that she had ever experierBf 
 ed your bounty. 
 
 Miss Bella hastily replied, that she meant to be 
 a friend to her all her life, and only wished that her 
 mamma in order to enable her to do so, would 
 add a little to her weekly allowance, and she would 
 manage it with all the frugality possible. 
 
 Mrs. Adams then asked her daughter, if she did 
 not know of any other children in distress ; to 
 which Bella replied, that she knew several besides 
 
THE looking-glass; 69 
 
 and particularly two in a neighbouring village, 
 who had neither father nor mother, and who, 
 without doubt, stood much in need of assistance, 
 her mamma then reminded her, that it was some- 
 what uncharitable to feed Marian with sweetmeats 
 and dainties, while other poor children were starv- 
 ing with hunger. To this Bella replied, that she 
 hoped she should have something to spare for them 
 likewise ; but at all events she loved Marian best. 
 However her mamma advised her to give her 
 sweet things seldomer, and instead thereof, some- 
 thing that would be of more use to her, such as 
 an apron or a gown. Miss Bella immediately pro- 
 posed to give her one of her frocks ; but her mam- 
 ma soon made her sensible of the impropriety of 
 dressing up a village girl, without shoes or stock- 
 ings, in a muslin slip. " Were I in your place, 
 said her mamma, I would be more sparing in my 
 amusements for some time, and when I had saved 
 a little money, I would lay it out in buying what- 
 ever was most necessary for her. The stuffs that 
 poor children wear are not very expensive," Bella 
 followed her mamma's advice. Marian was not, 
 indeed, so punctual in her morning visits, but Bel- 
 la made her presents that were far more useful 
 than sweetmeats. 
 
 G 
 
70 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Miss Bella, besides frequently giving Marian an 
 apron,a petticoat, or such like, paid a certain sum 
 every month to the schoolmaster of the village to 
 improve her in reading. Marian was so sensible 
 of these kindnesses that she grew every day more 
 tenderly fond of her kind benefactress. She fre- 
 quently paid her a visit, and was never so happy 
 as when she could do any little matters to oblige 
 her, 
 
 Marian came one day to the garden gate to wait 
 for Bella's coming down to her, but she did not 
 come, and she was obliged to go back again with- 
 out seeing her. She returned two days successive- 
 ly, hut no Bella appeared, which was a great af- 
 fliction to her little heart, and she began to fear 
 she had inadvertently offended her. "I have per- 
 haps, (said she to herself) done something to vex 
 her: I am sure, if I knew I had, I would ask her 
 a thousand pardons, for I cannot live without lov- 
 ing her." 
 
 While she was thus reflecting, one of Mrs. Ad- 
 ams's maids came out of the house, when poor 
 Marian stopped her, and asked her where miss 
 Bella was. « Miss Bella ! (replied the woman) 
 she is ill of the small-pox •, so ill, indeed, that 
 there are are no hopes of her recovery !" Poor 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. y1 
 
 Marian was all distraction, and without considering 
 what she did, flew up stairs, and burst into Mrs. 
 Adams's room, imploring on her knees, that she 
 might be permitted to see her dear miss Bella. 
 
 Mrs. Adams would have stopped Marian, but 
 the door being half open, she flew to her bedside 
 like an arrow out of a bow. Poor Bella was in a 
 violent fever alone, and very low spirited ; for all 
 her little companions had forsaken her. Marian 
 drowned in tears, seized hold of Bella's hand, 
 squeezed it in her's and kissed it. ** Ah ! my 
 dear miss, (said she) is it in this condition that I 
 find you ! but you must not die ; what would then 
 become of me ? I will watch o^er you and serve 
 you ! shall I my dear miss Bella ?" 
 
 Miss Bella, squeezing Marian's hand signified 
 to her, that staying with her would do her a great 
 favour. And the little maid, with Mrs. Adams's 
 consent, became Bella's nurse, which she perform- 
 ed the part of, to admiration. She had a small 
 bed made up for her, close beside her little sick, 
 friend, whom she never left for a moment. If the 
 slightest sigh escaped Bella, Marian was up in an 
 instant to know what she wanted, and gave her, 
 with her own hands, all her medicines. 
 
 This grateful girl did every thing she could to 
 amuse her friend. She ransacked Mrs. Adams's 
 
72 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 library for books that had pictures in them, which 
 ihe would shew to Bella j and during the time that 
 her eyes were darkened by her disorder, which 
 was for near a week, Marian exerted herself to the 
 utmost to divert her. When Hella grew impatient, 
 at the want of sight, Marian told her stories of 
 what happened in the village ; and, as she had 
 made a good use of her schoolmaster's instructions, 
 she read whatever she thought would be amusing 
 and diverting to her. 
 
 Thus Marian was not only her nurse, but phi- 
 losopher also •, for she would sometimes say to her, 
 *^ God Almighty will have pity upon you, as you 
 have had pity upon me. Will you let me sing 
 jOu 3 pretty song to divert you ?" Bella had only 
 to make a sign, and the little maid would sing eve- 
 ry song she had learned from the village nymphs 
 and swains, endeavouring by this means to soften 
 the affliction of her generous friend. 
 
 At length she began to open her eyes, her low- 
 ness of spirits left her, the pock dried up, and her 
 appetite returned. Her face was still covered with 
 red spots ; but Marian looked at her with more 
 pleasure than ever, from the consideration of the 
 danger she had been in of losing her ; while the 
 grateful Bella on the other hand, regarded her 
 with equal tenderness. " In what manner, (slie 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 73 
 
 would sometimes say,) can I think of requiting you 
 to my own satisfaction, for the tender care you 
 have taken of me ?" 
 
 Miss Bella, as soon as she found herself perfect- 
 ly recovered, asked her mamma in what manner 
 she should recompense her faithful and tender 
 nurse ; but Mrs. Adams, whose joy on the recove- 
 ry of her daughter was inexpressible, desired Bella 
 to leave that matter to her, as she was likewise 
 equally in her debt. 
 
 Mrs. Adams gave private orders to have a com- 
 plete suit of clothes made for Marian, and Bella 
 desired that she might have the pleasure of dress- 
 ing her the first time she was permitted to go into 
 the garden. The day arrived, and it was indeed a 
 day of rejoicing throughout the whole family 5 for 
 Bella was beloved by all the servants, as well as by 
 all her acquaintance. 
 
 This was a joyful day to miss Bella, who had 
 the double satisfaction of seeing her health restor- 
 ed, and of beholding her little friend dressed out 
 in her new clothes. It is much easier to conceive 
 than to express the emotions of these two tender 
 hearts, when they again found themselves in the 
 garden, on that very spot where their acquaintance 
 first commenced. They tenderly embraced each 
 other, and vowed an inseparable friendship, 
 G 2 
 
»4f THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 It is evidently clear from the story of Bella and 
 Marian, how advantageous it is to be generous and 
 humane. Had not Bella by her kindness attached 
 Marian to her interest, she might have sunk under 
 the severe indisposition, from which the kind at- 
 tentions, and the unremitting assiduities of Marian, 
 were perhaps the chief means of restoring her. 
 
 Friendship, peculiar boon of heaven, 
 
 The noble mind's delight and pride, 
 To men and angels only giv'n. 
 
 To all the lower world deny*d. 
 While Love, unknown among the blest> 
 
 Parent of thousand wild desires. 
 The savage and the human breast 
 
 Torments alike with raging lires. 
 "With bright, but oft destructive gleair;. 
 
 Alike o'er all his lightnings fly, 
 Thy lambent glories only beam 
 
 Around the fav'rites of the sky : 
 Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys 
 
 On fools and villains ne'er descend, 
 In vain for thee the tyrant sighs, 
 
 And hugs a flatterer for a friend. 
 Directress of the brave and just, 
 
 O guide us through life's darksome ways f 
 And let the tortures of mistrust. 
 
 On selfish bosoms only prey. 
 Nor shall thine ardors cease to glow, 
 
 When souls to peaceful climes remove; 
 What rais'd our virtue here below, 
 
 Shall aid our happiness above. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 75' 
 
 LITTLE JACK. 
 
 ONE day, as Mr. Glover was returning home, 
 after taking a ride over his estates, and passing by 
 the wall of a burying ground belonging to a small 
 village, he heard the sound of groans and lamen- 
 tations. As he had a heart that was ever open to 
 the distresses of others, he alighted from his horse 
 to see from whence the voice proceeded, and got 
 over the enclosure. 
 
 On his entering the place, he perceived a grave 
 fresh filled up, upon which, at full length, lay a 
 child about &vq years old, who was crying sadly^ 
 
T6 THE LOOKING-GXASS. 
 
 Mr. Glover went up to him, and tenderly asked 
 him what he did there. « I am calling my mo- 
 ther, (said he) they laid her here yesterday, and 
 she does not get up." 
 
 Mr. Glover then told him, that his poor mo- 
 ther was dead, and would get up no more. « I 
 know, (replied the poor child) that they tell me she 
 is dead, but I do not believe it. She was perfectly 
 well when she left me the other day with old Su- 
 san our neighbour ; she told me she would soon 
 come back, but she has not kept her word. My 
 father has gone away too, and also my little bro- 
 ther -, and the other boys of the village will not 
 play with me, but say very naughty things about ^ 
 my father and mother which vexes me more than 
 all. O mammy, get up, get up." 
 
 Mr. Glover's eyes were filled with tears ; he 
 asked him where his father and brother were gone 
 to. He replied, that he did not know where his 
 father was : and as to his little brother, he was the 
 day before taken to another town, by a person 
 dressed in black, just like their parson. Mr. Glo- 
 ver then asked him where he lived, *' "With our 
 neighbour Susan, said he, I am to be there till my 
 mother comes back, as she promised me. I love 
 my other mammy Susan very well ! but I love my 
 mammy ti at lies here a great deal better. O mo^ 
 ther ! laother ! why do you lie so long ? When 
 will you get up ?'' 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 7Y 
 
 My poor child, said Mr. Glover, it is in vain to 
 call her, for she will awake no more ! — " Then, 
 said the poor little boy, I will lie down here, and 
 sleep by her. Ah ! I saw her when they put her 
 into a great chest to carry her away. Oh, how 
 white she was ! and how cold I I will lie down here 
 and sleep by her !" 
 
 The tears now started from the eyes of Mr. 
 Glover, for he could no longer conceal them, but 
 stooping down^ took the child up in his arms, and 
 tenderly kissed him, asking him whut was his name. 
 <' When I am a good boy, they call me Jacky, and 
 when I behave amiss, they say, you Jack." Mr. 
 Glover, though in tears, could not help smiling at 
 the innocence and simplicity of this answer, and 
 begged Jacky to conduct him to the house of the 
 good Susan. 
 
 The child very readily consented, and running 
 before him as fast as his legs could carry him, con- 
 ducted Mr. Glover to Susan's door. Susan was 
 not a Httle surprised, on seeing Jack conduct a 
 gentleman into her cottage, and then running to 
 her, hid his little head in her lap, crying, « This 
 is she ! this is my other mammy !" Mr. Glover, 
 however, did not keep her long in suspense, but 
 related to her what he had just seen, and begged 
 Susan to give him the history of the parents of 
 this little boy. Susan desired ftie gentleman to be 
 
78 THE LOOKING-GLASS^ 
 
 seated, and then related to him the following par- 
 ticulars : 
 
 ** The father of this poor child is a shoe- maker, 
 and his house is next to mine. His wife, though 
 a handsome, was not a healthy woman j but she 
 was a careful and good housewife. It is about se*- 
 ven years since they were married, always lived to- 
 gether on the best terms, and undoubtedly would 
 have been perfectly happy, had their affairs been 
 a little better. 
 
 " John had nothing beyond what his trade pro- 
 duced him, and Margaret, his wife, being left an 
 orphan, had only a little money which she had 
 scraped together in the service of a worthy neigh- 
 bouring curate. With this they bought the most 
 ftecessary articles of hvjsehold furniture, and a 
 small stock of leather to begin business with. ^How- 
 ever, by dint of labour and good management, 
 they for some years contrived to live a little com- 
 fortable. 
 
 " As children increased so did their difficulties, 
 and misfortunes seldom come alone. Poor Mar- 
 garet, who had daily worked in the fields during 
 hay-time, to bring home a little money to her hus- 
 band at night, fell ill, and continued so all the har- 
 vest and winter. John's customers left him one 
 after another, fearing that work could not go on 
 properly in a sick house. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 79 
 
 *< Though Margaret a^ :ast grew better, yet her 
 husband's work continued to decline, and he was 
 obliged to borrow money to pay the apothecary ; 
 while poor Margaret continued so weakly that no- 
 body thought it worth their while to employ her. 
 The rent of their house, and the interest of the 
 money they had borrowed, were heavy loads upon 
 them J and they were frequently obliged to en- 
 dure hunger themselves, in order to give a morsel 
 of bre^.d t'.' their poor children. 
 
 << To i:Jid to their misfortunes, their hard-heart- 
 ed landlord threatened to put poor John in jail, if 
 he did not pay the two quarters rent that were due; 
 and, though he is the richest man in the place, it 
 was with the greatest difriculty that they could ob- 
 tain a month's delay. He declared, if they did not 
 at the end of that time pay the whole, he would 
 sell their furniture, and put John in prison. Their 
 house was now a picture of melancholy and patient 
 distress. How often have I lamented my inability 
 to assist the distresses of this honest couple ! 
 
 *< I went myself to their landlord, and begged of 
 him, for God's sake, to have some compassion on 
 these unfortunate people, and even offered to 
 pawn to him all I was possessed of in the world ; 
 but he treated me with contempt, and told me I 
 was as bad as they were. I wis obliged, however, 
 being only a poor widow, to bear the insult with 
 
80 THE LOOfClNG-GLASb. 
 
 patience, and contented myself by easing my heart 
 with a flood of tears. 
 
 « I advised poor Margaret to make her distres- 
 ses known to the worthy clergyman, with whom 
 she had so long lived with an unblemished charac- 
 ter, and to beg of him to advance them a little 'mo- 
 ney, Margaret replied, that she supposed her hus- 
 band would not like that proposal fearing that their 
 friend might suspect their necessities proceeded 
 from mismanagment." 
 
 " It is but a few days ago since she brought me 
 her two children, and begged me to take care of 
 them till the evening. Her intention was to go to 
 a village at a little distance, and endeavour to get 
 some hemp from the weaver to spin, with a view 
 to get something towards the debt. As she could 
 not persuade herself to wait upon the clergyman, 
 her husband had undertaken it, and had accord- 
 ingly set off on that business. As Margaret was 
 going, she clasped her two children to her breast, 
 and kissed them, little thinking it was to be the 
 last time she should ever see them. 
 
 « Soon after she was gone, I heard some noise 
 in her house, but supposed it might be only the flap- 
 ping of the door. However, the evening came on 
 and my neighbour did not come to fetch her chil- 
 dren as usual. I therefore determined to go to 
 her house, and see if she was come home. I found 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 8 1 
 
 ttie door open, and went in ; but how shall I ex- 
 press my horror and astonishment, when I found 
 poor Margaret lying dead at the foot of the stairs. 
 
 " After trying in vain to recover her, I fetched 
 the surgeon, who shook his head and said all was 
 over. The coroner's inquest brought in their ver- 
 dict Accidental Death ; but as her husband was 
 missing ill-natured people raised suspicious re- 
 ports. Her death, however, was easily to be ac- 
 counted for : she had returned to her house, to 
 go up to the loft for a big to hold her hemp, and, 
 as her eyes were still dimmed with tears, she had 
 missed her step in coming down, and fallen from 
 the top of the stairs, with her head foremost, on the 
 ground. The bag that laid by her side shewed this 
 to have been the case. 
 
 «' I made an offer to the parish oiHcers to keep 
 the two children myself, not doubting, but that 
 the goodness of God, even to a poor widow as I 
 was, would enable me to support them. The 
 worthy curate came yesterday to see the unfortu- 
 nate Margaret, and great indeed was his af^iction, 
 when I related to him what I have been now tel- 
 ling you, I then told him, that John was gone 
 to him J but I was much surprised, when he declar- 
 ed he had seen nothing of him. The two chil- 
 dren come up to him, and little Jack asked hinij 
 H 
 
82 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 if he could not awake his mother, who has been 
 a long time asleep. This brought tears into the 
 eyes of the good curate, who proposed to take the 
 two children home to his own house, and bring 
 them up under his care ; but as I could not con- 
 sent to part with both these innocents, it was at 
 Jast agreed, that he should take the younger, and 
 leave me the elder. 
 
 " He asked little Jack, if he should not like to 
 go with him. " What, where my mother is ? said 
 Jack, oh 1 yes, with all mljl^heart !" — <« No, my lit- 
 tle man, replied the curate, I do not mean there, 
 but to my handsome house and garden." — « No, 
 no, answered Jack, I will stay here with Susan, and 
 every day go to where my mother is ; for I would 
 rather go there than to your handsome gard^.'\;» 
 
 t*- This worthy curate did not choose to v4jt th« f 
 child more, who went and hid himself behind my 
 bed curtains. He told me he would send his man 
 for the younger, wh would be more trouble to me 
 than the elder child, and before he went, left me 
 some money towards the support of this. 
 
 '* This, sir, is the whole uf this unfortunate bu- 
 siness. What makes me exceedingly uneasy at 
 present is, that John does not return, and that it is 
 reported in the parish, that he has connected him- 
 self with a gang of smugglers, and that his wife 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, 83 
 
 put an end to her life through grief. These sto- 
 ries have gained such credit in the village, that 
 tven the children have got it ; and whenever poor 
 Jack attempts to mix with them, they drive him 
 away as though he were infectious. Hence the 
 poor little fellow is quite dull, and :.ow never goes 
 out but to pay a sad vi^it to his mother's grave." 
 
 Mr. Glover, who had silently listened to this 
 melancholy tale, was deeply affected by it. Little 
 Jack was now got close up to Susan, he looked at 
 her with fondness, and olfcen called her his mother. 
 Mr. Glover at length broke silence, and told Su- 
 san she was a worthy woman, and that God would 
 not fail to reward her for her generosity towards 
 this unfortunate family. 
 
 ; " Ah !" said Susan, <«I am happy in what I have; 
 done^' and I wish I could have done niore'Vbut 
 my only possession consists in my cottage, a little 
 garden, in which I have a few greens, and what I 
 can earn by the labour of my hands. Yet for these 
 eight years that I have been a widow, God has not 
 suffered me to want, and I trust he never will." 
 
 Mr. Glover reminded her, that keeping this lit- 
 tle boy must be very inconvenient to her, and that 
 she would find it difficult to supply him with 
 clothes. She answered, *■ I leave the care of that 
 to him who clothes the fields with grass, and the 
 
S4 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 trees with leaves. He has given me fingers to 
 sew and spin, and they shall work to clothe my 
 poor little orphan. I will never part with him." 
 Mr. Glover was astonished at this good woman's 
 resolution. I must not suffer you alone, said he, 
 to have all the honour of befriending this poor or- 
 phan, since God has bestowed on me those bless- 
 ings of affluence which you do not enjoy. Permit 
 me to take care of the education of this sweet boy ; 
 and since I find you cannot live sepat-ate, I will take 
 you both home with me, 4nd provide for you. Sell 
 your cottage and garden, and make my house your 
 own, where you may spend the remainder of your 
 life amidst peace and plenty." 
 
 Susan gave Mr. Glover a most afFectionate look, , 
 but begged he would excuse her accepting his of- 
 fer, as she was fond of the spot on which she was 
 born, and had lived so long. Besides, she added, 
 she could not suit herself to the bustle of a great 
 house, and should soon grow sick, were she to live 
 upon dainties in idleness. « If you please, contin- 
 ued Susan, now and then to send him a small mat- 
 ter to pay for his schooling, and to supply him with % 
 tools when he shall take to business, God will not 
 fail to reward you for your bounty. As I have no 
 child, he shall be as one to me, and whatever X 
 possess shall be his at my death." 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. ^5 
 
 Mr. Glover, finding she did not choose to quit 
 her habitation, told her he sliould every month 
 send her what vp-ould be sufficient for her support, 
 and that he would sometimes come and see them 
 himself. Susan lifted up her hands to heaven, and 
 bid Jackey go and ask the gentleman's blessing, 
 which he did. He then threw down his purse on 
 the table, bid them farewell, and mounting his 
 horse, took the road that led to the parish in which 
 the worthy curate lived. 
 
 On Mr. Glover's arrival there, he found the 
 worthy curate reading a letter on which he had 
 shed some tears. He explained the cause of his 
 visit to this worthy divine, and asked him if he 
 knew what was become of the father of the two lit- 
 tle unfortunate children. The curate replied, that 
 it was not a quarter of an hour since he received a 
 letter from him to his wife. " It was, said the cu° 
 rate, enclosed in one to me, and contains a small 
 draft for the use of his wife j he requests me to de- 
 liver it to her, and console her for his absence. As 
 she is dead, I have opened the letter, and here it 
 is : be so kind as to read it." Mr. Glover took 
 the letter, the particulars of which were as follow : 
 He hoped his wife would not give herself any 
 uneasiness on account of his absence. As he was 
 going to the clergyman's house, he began to think, 
 H2 
 
86 ' THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 that it could be of no use to go thus a begging, and 
 if he should borrow money, he was not sure he 
 should be able to pay it, which he thought would 
 be as bad as thieving. At this instant a thought 
 struck into his head, that he was young and hearty, 
 stout and able-bodied, and therefore could see no 
 harm in entering on board a man of war for a few 
 years, where he might stand a chance of getting a 
 fortune for his wife and children, at least enough 
 to pay all his debts. While he was thinking of this 
 matter a press gang came up, and asked him if he 
 would enter, telling him that they would give him 
 five pounds bounty. The thought of receiving five 
 pounds, fixed his determination at once, and he 
 accordingly entered, received the money, and sent 
 every farthing to his wife, with his love and bless- 
 ing, hoping that they would all join in their pray- 
 ers to God for him. He hoped the war W^mld 
 soon be over, and that he should then return with 
 inexpressible joy to his dear wife. 
 
 Mr. Glover's eyes swimmed with tears all the 
 time he was reading the letter. When he had 
 finished it, " This man (said he) may indeed justly 
 be called a good husband, a tender father, and an 
 honest man. There is an expressive pleasure in 
 being a friend to such characters as these. I will 
 pay John's debts, and enable him to take up his 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 87 
 
 trade again. Let his money be kept for the chil- 
 dren, to be divided between them, as soon as they 
 shall be at an age to know how to make use of it, 
 and I will add something to this sacred deposit." 
 
 So greatly was the worthy curate affected, that 
 he could make no reply -, and Mr Glover perfect- 
 ly understanding the cause of his silence, squeezed 
 him by the hand, and took his leave *, but he com- 
 pletely accompHshed all his designs in favour of 
 John, who at length returned, and enjoyed an ea- 
 siness of circumstances beyond any thing he had 
 before experienced. 
 
 Nothing now disturbed John's felicity, but the 
 sorrowful reflection of having lost his dear Marga- 
 ret ; she had experienced part of his misfortunes, 
 but had not lived to share in his felicity ; and John's 
 only consolation is perpetually to talk about her to 
 Susan, whom he looks upon as a sister to him, and 
 as a mother to his children. Little Jack frequent- 
 ly visits his mother's grave *, and has made so good 
 a use 01 Mr. Glover's generosity, in improving him- 
 self, that this excellent gentleman intends placing 
 him in a very desirable situation. John's younger 
 son has likewise a share in his favours ; and when- 
 ever Mr. Glover's mind is oppressed, a visit to vhis 
 spot, where such an affecting scene passed, and 
 where he has been enabled to do so much good, ne- 
 ver fails to raise his spirits. 
 
S8 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 My young readers will from hence learn, that 
 God always assists those who put their trust in him. 
 It is on him we must rely on every occasion, and 
 he will not desert us, provided we ourselves also 
 try to surmount difficulties by patience and indus- 
 try. 
 
 Hail, lovely pow'r ! whose bosom heaves a sigh, 
 When fancy paints the scene of deep distress ; 
 
 Whose tears spontaneous chrystalize the eye, 
 When rigid fate denies the powV to bless. 
 
 Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey 
 
 From flow'ry meads, can with that sight compare ; 
 Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray. 
 Seem ne'er so beauteous as the falling tear. 
 
 Teach me to sooth the helpless orphan's grief ! 
 
 With timely aid the widow's woes assuage j^i^ 
 To misery's moving cries to yield relief, 
 
 And be the sure resource of drooping age. 
 
 So when the verdant spring of youth shall fade, 
 And sinking nature owns the dread decay, 
 
 Some soul congenial then may lend its aid, 
 And gild the close of life's eventful day. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 89 
 
 LEONORA AND ADOLPHUS. 
 
 A YOUNG widow lady, whose name was Le* 
 nox, had two children equally deserving the affec- 
 tions of a parent, which however, were unequally 
 shared. Adolphus was the favourite, which Leo- 
 nora very early began to discover, and consequently 
 felt no small share of uneasiness on the occasion ; 
 but she was prudent enough to conceal her sorrow. 
 
90 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Leonora, though not remarkably handsome, 
 had a mind that made ample amends for the want of 
 beauty : but her brother was a little cupid, on whom 
 Mi-s. Lenox lavished all her kisses and caresses. It 
 is no wonder that the servants, to gain the favour 
 of their mistress, were very attentive to humour 
 him in all his whimsies. Leonora, on the other 
 hand, was consequently slighted by every one in 
 the house ; and, so far from wishing to study her 
 humour, they scarcely treated her with common 
 civility. 
 
 Finding herself frequently alone and neglected, 
 and taken little notice of by any one, she would 
 privately shed a torrent of tears ; but she always 
 took care, that not the least mark of discontent 
 should escape her in the presence of any one. Her 
 constant attention to the observance of her duty, 
 her mildness, and endeavours to convince her mo- 
 ther, her mind was superior to her face, had no ef- 
 fect i for beauty alone attracts the attention of 
 those, who examine no further than external ap- 
 pearances. 
 
 Mrs. Lenox, who was continually chiding Leo- 
 nora, and expecting from her perfections far be- 
 yond the reach of those more advanced in years, 
 at last fell sick. Adolphus seemed very sorry for 
 his mother's illness ; but Leonora, with the softest 
 
 ( 
 
THE looking-glass; 91 
 
 looks and most languishing countenance, fancied 
 she perceived in her mother an abatement of her 
 accustomed rigour towards her, and far surpassed 
 her brother in her attention to her parent. She 
 endeavoured to supply her slightest wants, exerted 
 all her penetration to discover them, that she might 
 even spare her the pain of asking for any thing, 
 so long as her mother's illness had the least ap- 
 pearance of d:in^er, she never quitted her pillow, 
 and neither threats nor commands could prevail on 
 her to take the least repose. 
 
 Mrs. Lenox, however, at length recovered, 
 which afforded inexpressible pleasure to the ami- 
 able Leonora; but she soon experienced a renewal 
 of her misfortunes, as her mother began to treat 
 her with her usual severity and indifference. 
 
 As Mrs. Lenox was one day talking to her chil- 
 dren on the pain she had suffered during her ill- 
 ness, and were praising them for the anxiety they 
 had shewn on her account, she desired them to ask 
 of her whatever they thought would be the most 
 pleasing to them, and they <^hould certainly- be in- 
 dulged in it, provided their demands were not 
 unreasonable. 
 
 First addressing herself to Adolphus, she desired 
 to know what he would choose ; and his desire was 
 to have a cane and a watch, which his mother pro- 
 
92 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 mised he should have next morning. " And pray, 
 Leonora, said Mrs. Lenox, what is your wish •* — 
 " Me, mamma, me ! (answered she trembHng) if 
 you do but love me I have nothing else to wish 
 for !" — t^That is not an answer, replied her mo- 
 ther ; you shall have your recompence likewise, 
 miss ; therefore speak your wish instantly." 
 
 However accustomed Leonora might have been 
 to this severe tone, yet she felt it on this occasion 
 more sensibly than ever she had before. She 
 threw herself at her mother's feet, looked up to her 
 with eyes swimming in tears, and instantly hiding 
 her face with both her hands, lisped out these 
 words : " Only give me two kisses, such as you give 
 my brother." 
 
 What heart could fail to relent at these words ? 
 Mrs. Lenox felt all the tender sentiments of a pa* 
 rent arise in her heart, and taking her up in her 
 arms, she clasped her to her breast, and loaded 
 her with kisses. The sweet Leonora, who now, 
 for the first time received her mother's caresses, 
 gave way to the effusion of her joy and love j she 
 kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her breasts and her 
 hands -, Adolphus, who loved his sister, mixed his 
 embraces with hers. Thus all had a share in this 
 scene of unexpected happiness. 
 
 The affection which Mrs. Lenox had so long 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 93 
 
 withheld from Leonora, she now repaid with in- 
 terest, and her daughter returned it with the most 
 dutiful attention. Adolphus, so far from being 
 jealous at this change of his mother's affection for 
 his sister, showed every mark of pleasure on the 
 occasion, and he afterwards reaped a reward of so 
 generous a conduct ; for his natural disposition hav- 
 ing been, in some measure, injured by the too 
 great indulgence of his mother, he gave way in his 
 early days to those little indiscretions, which would 
 have lost him the heart of his parent, had not his 
 sister stepped in between them. It was to the ad- 
 vice of this amiable girl that Adolphus at last owed 
 his entire reformation of manners. They all three 
 then experienced, that true happiness cannot exist 
 in a family, unless the most perfect union between 
 brothers and sisters, and the most lively and equal 
 affection between parents and children, are con- 
 ".tantly and strictly adhered to. 
 
 The shape alone let others prize, 
 
 The features of the fair ; 
 I look tor spirit in her eyes, 
 
 And meaning in her air. 
 
 A damask cheek, and ivory arm, 
 Shall ne'er my wishes win : 
 I 
 
04- THE LOOKINC-GLASS. 
 
 Give me an animated form 
 That speaks a mind within. 
 
 A face where awful honour shines. 
 Where sense and sweetness move, 
 
 And angel innocence refines 
 The tenderness of love. 
 
 These are the soul of beauty's frame, 
 Without whose vital aid 
 
 Unfinished all her features seem, 
 And all her roses* dead. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 95 
 
 FLORA AND HER LITTLE LAMB. 
 
 A POOR countryman's little daughter, whose 
 name was Flora, was one morning sitting by the 
 side of the road, holding on her lap a pan of milk 
 for her brjeakfast, into which she was breaking 
 some bits of coarse black bread. 
 
 While Flora was thus busily employed at her 
 breakfast, a farmer was passing the road with his 
 cart in which were about twenty lambs, and these 
 he was going to carry to the market for sale. 
 These pretty little lambs were tied together like sg 
 
96 , THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 many criminals, and lay with their legs fastened 
 with cords, and their heads hanging down. Their 
 plaintive bleatings pierced the heart of poor Flora, 
 but they had no manner of effect on the hard- 
 hearted farmer. 
 
 As soon as he came op^site to the place where 
 little Flora was sitting, he threw down to her a 
 lamb, which he was carrying across his shoulder, 
 saying, <« There, my girl, is a poor sorry creature 
 that has just died, and made me some shillings poor- 
 er than I was. You may take it, if you will, and 
 do what you like with it." 
 
 Flora put down her milk and bread, and taking 
 up the lamb, viewed it with looks of tenderness 
 and compassion. «< But why should I pity you ? 
 (said she to the lamb.) Either this day or to-morrow 
 they would have run a great knife through your 
 throat, whereas now you have nothing to fear." 
 
 Whilst she was thus speaking, the warmth of her 
 arms somewhat revived the lamb, who opening its 
 eyes a little, made a slight motion, and cried baa 
 in a very low tone, as if it were calling for its mo- 
 ther. It would be impossible to express little Flo- 
 ra's joy on this occasion. She covered the lamb in 
 her apron, and over that put her stuff petticoat ; 
 sh? then bent her breast down towards her lap, in 
 
THE LOOKlNG-GLASi, 97 
 
 order to increase the warmth, and blew into its 
 mouth and nostrils with all the force she could. By- 
 degrees, the poor animal began to stir, and every 
 motion it made conveyed joy to her little heart. 
 
 This success encouraged her to proceed : she 
 crumbled some of her b%ad into her pan, and tak- 
 ing it up in her fingers, she with no small difficul- 
 ty forced it between its teeth, which were very 
 firmly closed together. The lamb whose only dis- 
 order was hunger and fatigue, began to feel the 
 effects of this nourishment. It first began to 
 stretch out its limbs, then to shake its head, wag 
 its tail, and -at last to prick up its ears. In a little 
 time it was able to stand upon its legs, and then 
 went off itself to Flora's breakfast pan, who was 
 highly delighted to see it take such pleasing liberties ; 
 for she cared not a farthing about losing her own 
 breakfast since it saved the life of the little lamb. 
 In short, in a little time it recovered its usual 
 strength, and began to skip and play about hen 
 kind deliverer. 
 
 It may naturally be supposed, that Flora was 
 greatly pleased at this unexpected success. She 
 took it up in her arms, and ran with it to the cot- 
 tage to shew it to her mother. HerBaba, for so 
 Flora called it, became the first object of her cares, 
 and it constantly shared with her in her little al^ 
 12 
 
98 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 iowance of bread and milk, which she received for 
 her meals. Indeed so fond was she of it, that she 
 would not have exchanged it for a whole flock. 
 Nor was Baba insensible of the fondness of her lit- 
 tle mistress, since she would follow her wherever 
 she went, would come iHd eat out of her hand, 
 skip and frisk round her, and would bleat most 
 piteously, whenever Flora was obliged to leave her 
 at home. 
 
 Baba, however, repaid the services of her little 
 mistress in a more substantial manner, than that 
 of merely dancing about her ; for she brought 
 forth young lambs, those lambs grew up, and 
 brought forth others j so that, within the space of 
 a few years, Flora had a very capital stock, that 
 furnished the whole family with food and raiment. 
 Such, my little readers, are the rewards which 
 Providence bestows on acts of goodness, tender- 
 ness, and humanity. 
 
 Wide as the sun his bright dominion spreads, 
 Heav'n-born benevolence her bounty sheds. 
 She, meek-eyed goddess, quits th' angelic sphere, 
 To banish gi ief, and dry the human tear. 
 
 Plenty's rich urn her willing arm sustain. 
 Life, hope, and joy, exulting in her train. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 99 
 
 Her ear is open to the orphan's cry, 
 Her soul expanding as the poor pass by. 
 
 From her bless'd tongue the words of manna flow, 
 And carry courage to desponding woe, 
 Objects of aid she seeks through all the land, 
 Diffusing bounty with a Saviour's hand. 
 
 Thro' prison bars she darts a pitying eye. 
 Her heart, responsive, echoes sigh for sigh : 
 Nor scorifs she ev'n the malefactor's chain : 
 She mourns his guilt — but mitigates his pain. 
 
 The wretch she asks not, in what climate bred^ 
 To what profession or religion wed ; 
 That's not the subject of her mis-sion there— 
 To succour all who want, is all her care. 
 
 These are, O bright Benevolence, thy ways. 
 And these the solid basis of thy praise ! 
 When Csesar's fame, and Marlbro's deeds are past, 
 Th' effects of thy philanthropy shall last. 
 
 In nature's wreck, the juster fates shall see 
 Distinguished worth ; and fix their eyes on thee : 
 A preference far thy honest heart shall find, 
 Before the proud destroyers of mankind. 
 
 Their lapsing honours shall forbear to save : 
 But thy blest name shall triumph o'er the grave. 
 
loa 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLA33. 
 
 THE FRUITFUL VINE. 
 
 IT was in the beginning of the spring, when 
 Mr. Jackson went to his country house, and took 
 with him his little son Junius, in order to treat 
 him' with a walk in the garden. The primroses 
 and violets were then displaying all their beauties, 
 and many trees had began to shew what liverjr 
 they were soon to wear. 
 
 After walking some time about the garden, they 
 happened to go into the summer-house, at the foot 
 of which grew the stump of a vine, which twisted 
 wildly, and extended its naked branches in a rude 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 101 
 
 and irregular manner. As soon as little Junius saw 
 this tree, he exclaimed sadly against the ugly ap- 
 pearance it made, and began to exert all his 
 strength to pull it up, but he found his efforts in 
 vain, it being too well rooted to yield to his weak 
 arm. He begged his papa to call the gardener to 
 grub it up, and make fire-wood of it ; but Mr. 
 Jackson desired his son to let the tree alone, tell- 
 ing him that he would, in a few months, give him 
 his reasons for not complying with his request. 
 
 This did not satisfy Junius, who desired his fa- 
 ther to look at those lively crocusses, and snow- 
 drops, saying, he could not see why that barren 
 stump should be kept, which did not produce a 
 single green leaf. He thought it spoiled and dis- 
 figured the garden, and therefore begged his fa- 
 ther would permit him to fetch the gardener to 
 pluck it up. 
 
 Mr. Jackson, who could not think of granting 
 him his request, told him, that it must stand as it 
 then was, at least for some time to come. Lfttle 
 Junius still persisted in his entreaties, urging how 
 disgraceful it was to the garden j but his father 
 diverted his attention from the vine, by turning 
 the conversation. 
 
 It so happened, that Mr. Jackson's affairs call- 
 ed him to a different part of the country, froni 
 
102 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 whence he did not return till the middle of ai> 
 tumn. He no sooner came home, than he paid 
 a visit to his country house, taking little Junius 
 with him. As the day happened to be exceed- 
 ingly warm, they retired to enjoy the benefit of 
 the shade, and entered the arbour, in which the 
 vine stump had before so much offended his son 
 Junius. 
 
 '< Ah ! papa, said the young gentleman, how 
 charming and delightful is this greeh shade ! I 
 am much obliged to you for having that dry and 
 ugly stump plucked up, which I found so much 
 fault with when we were here last, and for putting 
 in its place this beautiful plant ; I suppose vou 
 did it in order to give me an agreeable surprisCj 
 How delightful and tempting the fruit looks f 
 What fine grapes ! some purple, and others almost 
 black. I see no tree in the garden that looks in 
 so blooming a state. All have lost their fruit ; 
 but this fine one seems in the highest perfection. 
 See how it is loaded ! See those wide spreading 
 leaves that hide the clusters. If the fruit be as 
 good as it appears beautiful, it must be delicious." 
 
 Little Junius was in raptures when he tasted one 
 of the grapes, which his father gave him ; and 
 still more when he informed him that from such 
 fruit was made that delicious liquor, which h<5 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 103 
 
 sometimes tasted after dinner. The little fellow 
 was quite astonished on hearing his father talk 
 thus •, but he was far more surprised, when Mr. 
 Jackson told him, that all those fine leaves and 
 delicious fruit, grew from that very crooked and 
 mishapen stump, with which he had been so an- 
 gry in the spring. His father then asked him, if 
 he should now order the gardener to pluck it up, 
 and make fire-wood of it. Junius was much con- 
 fused ; but after a short silence, told his papa, 
 that he would rather see every other tree in the 
 garden cut down than that, so beautiful were its 
 leaves, and so delicious its fruit. 
 
 As Mr. Jackson was a man of good sense, he 
 thus moralized on this occasion, " You see then 
 my dear, said he, how imprudently I should have 
 acted had I followed your advice, and cut down 
 this tree. Daily experience convinces us, that the 
 same 'hing happens frequently in the commerce 
 of this world, which has in this instance misled you. 
 When we see a child badly clothed, and of an un- 
 pleasing external appearance, we are too apt to 
 despise him, and grow conceited on comparing 
 ourselves with him ; and sometimes even go so far 
 as cruelly to address him in haughty and insulting 
 language. But beware my dear boy, how you 
 run into errors by forming a too hasty judgment. 
 It is possible, that in a person so little favoured 
 
104? TIIE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 by nature, may dwell an exalted soul, which may 
 one day astonish the world with the greatness of 
 its virtues, or enlighten it with knowledge. The 
 most rugged stem may produce the most delicious 
 fruit, while the straight and stately plant may be 
 worthless and barren. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew trees shade. 
 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring 
 heap, 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid 
 . The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
 How jocund did they drive their teams afield ! 
 
 How bow'd the woods beneaththeirsturdystroker 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure j 
 Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile. 
 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of powV, 
 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 Await alike the inevitable hour ; 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene. 
 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear 5 
 Full many a flowV is born to blush unseen. 
 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
rriE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 105* 
 
 3Ky^^4 
 
 ^'IR JOHN DENHAM AND HIS WORTHY TENANT* 
 
 ONE morning, Sir John Denham having shut 
 iiiniselfupin his study on some particular business, 
 his servant came to inform him, that one of his te- 
 nants, farmer Harris, desired to speak with him. 
 Sir John told him to shew the farmer into the 
 drawing-room, and to beg him to stay one moment, 
 until he had finished writing a letter. 
 
 Sir John had three children, Robert, Arthur, 
 and Sophia, who were in the drawing room when 
 the farnler was introduced. As soon as he enter- 
 ed he saluted them very respectfully, though no' 
 K 
 
•i06 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 with the grace of a dancing master, nor were his 
 compHments very elegantly turned. The two sons 
 looked at each other with a smile of contempt and 
 disrespect. Indeed they behaved in such a man. 
 ner, that the poor farmer blushed, and was quite 
 out of countenance. 
 
 Robert was so shamefully impertinent as to walk 
 round him, holding his nose, and asked his brother, 
 if he did not perceive something of the smell of a 
 dung-heap ? then he lighted some paper at the fire, 
 and carried it round the room, in order to disperse, 
 as he said the unpleasant smell. Arthur all ihe 
 while stood laughing most heartily. 
 
 Sophia however acted in a very different man- 
 ner : for instead of imitating the rudeness of her 
 brothers, she checked them for their behaviour, 
 made apologies for them to the farmer, and ap- 
 proaching him with the most complaisant looks, 
 offered him some wine to refresh him, made him 
 sit down, and took from him his hat and stick to 
 put by. 
 
 In a little time, Sir John came out of his study 
 and approaching the farmer in a friendly manner, 
 took him by the hand, enquired after the health of 
 his family, and asked him what had brought him 
 to town* The farmer replied that he was come 
 
THE LOOKING-GLAS.S. 107 
 
 to pay him half a year's rent, and that he hoped he 
 would not be displeased at his not coming sooner 
 the roads having been so bad that he could not 
 till then carry his corn to market. 
 
 Sir John told him he was not displeased at his 
 not coming sooner, because he knew him to be 
 an honest man, who had no occasion to be put in 
 mind of his debts. The farmer then put down the 
 money, and drew out of his great coat pocket ajar 
 of candied fruits. I have brought something here, 
 said he, for the young folks. Won't you be so 
 kind, Sir John, as to let them come out one of 
 these days, and take a mouthful of the country air 
 .with us ? Fd try, as well as I could to entertain and 
 amuse them. I .have two good stout nags, and 
 would come for them myself, and take them down 
 in my four wheeled chaise, which will carry them 
 very safely I'll warrant it. 
 
 Sir John said, that he would certainly take an 
 opportunity to pay him a visit, and invited him to 
 stay to dinner ; but the farmer excused himself 
 saying, he had a good deal of business to do in town, 
 and wished to get home before night. Sir John fill- 
 ed his pocket with cakes for his children, thanked 
 him for the present he had made to his, and thea 
 took leave of him. 
 
108 THE LOOKING-GLA33. 
 
 No sooner was the farmer gone, than Sophia, in 
 the presence of her brothers, acquainted her paf» 
 of the very rude reception they had given to the 
 hon*t farmer. Sir John was exceedingly displeas- 
 ed at their conduct, and much applauded Sophia 
 for her different behaviour. 
 
 Sir Jolin being seated at breakfast with his chil- 
 dren, opened the farmer's jar of fruit, and h^ and 
 his daughter ate some of them, which they thought 
 were very nice ; but Robert and Arthur were nei- 
 ther of them invited to a single taste. Their long- 
 ing eyes were fixed upon them ; but their father, ^ 
 instead of taking any notice of them, continued 
 con versing with Sophia, whom he advised never to 
 despise a person merely for the plainness of his 
 dress ; " for, said he, were we to behave politely to 
 those only who are finely clothed, we should ap- 
 pear to direct our attention more to the dress than 
 to the wearer. The most worthy people are fre- 
 quently found under the plainest dress> and of this 
 we have an example in farmer Harris. It is this 
 man who helps to clothe you, and also to procure 
 you a proper education, for the money that he 
 ;md my other tenants bring me enables me to do 
 these things." 
 
 Breakfast being finished, the remainder of tlae 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 113 
 
 Robert blushed, and seemed at a loss what an- 
 swer to make j but at length replied that it was 
 his duty to receive them well, as he got his living 
 ofF their lands. *« That is true, (answered Sir John) 
 but it may be easily seen who draws the greatest 
 profit from my lands, the farmer or I. He in- ieed 
 feeds his horses with hay which he gets off my 
 meadows, but his horses in return plow the fields, 
 which otherwise would be overrun with weeds. 
 He also feeds his cows and his sheep with the hay ; 
 but their dung is useful in giving fertility to the 
 ground. His wife and children are fed with the 
 harvest corn ; but they in return devote the sum- 
 mer to weeding the crops ; and afterwards, soq^e 
 in reaping them and some in threshing. All these* 
 labours end in my advantage. The rest of the hay 
 and corn he takes to market to sell, and with the 
 produce thereof he pays his rent, from this it is 
 evident, who derives the greatest profit from my 
 lands 
 
 Here a long pause ensued ; but at last, Robert 
 confessed that he saw his error. ** Remember then 
 all your life, s^d Sir John, what has now been 
 offered to your eyes and ears. This farmer so 
 homely dressed, whose manners you have consi- 
 dered as so rustic, this man is better bred than 
 you •, and, though he knows nothing of Latin, he 
 
114; tHE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 knows much more than you, and things of muck 
 greater use, you see, therefore, how unjust it is to 
 despise any one for the plainness of his dress, and 
 the rusticity of his manners. You may understand 
 a little Latin, but you know not how to plow, sow 
 grain, or reap the harvest, nor even to prune a 
 tree. Sit down with being convinced that you 
 have despised your superior. 
 
 Nature expects mankind should share 
 The duties of the public care. 
 Who's born for sloth ? To some we find 
 The plow- share's annual toil assign''d, 
 Some at the sounding anvil glow ; 
 Some the swift sliding shuttle throw : 
 Some studious of the wind and tide, 
 From pole to pole our commerce guide. 
 Some taught by industry impart 
 With hands and feet the works of art : 
 While some of genius more refin'd, 
 With head and tongue assist mankind : 
 Each ainDing at one common end, 
 Proves to the whole a needful friend. 
 Thus born each others useful aid,, 
 By turns are obligations paid. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. il- 
 
 The monarch, when his table's spread. 
 Is to the clown oblig'd for bread ; 
 And when in all his glory drest, 
 Owes to the loom the royal vest: 
 Do not the mason's toil and care, 
 Protect him from th' inclement air ? 
 Does not the cutler's art supply 
 The ornament that guards his thigh ? 
 Thus they their honest toil employ, 
 And with content their fruits enjoy. 
 In ev'ry rank, or great or small, 
 'Tis industry supports us all. 
 
 Consider, sot, what would ensue, 
 Were all such worthless things as you. 
 You'd soon be forc'd, by hunger stung. 
 To make your dirty meals on dung ; 
 On which such despicable need, 
 Unpitied, is reduc'd to feed. 
 Besides, vain, selfish insect, learn. 
 If you can right and wrong discern, 
 That he who, with industrious zeal. 
 Contributes to the public weal 
 By adding to the common good^ 
 His own hath rightly understood. 
 
116 
 
 THE LOOKIxNG-GLASS. 
 
 ALFRED AND DORINDA, 
 
 MR. VEN ABLES, one fine summer day, hav- 
 mg promised his two children, vVlfred and Dorinda, 
 to treat them with a walk in a fine garden a little 
 way out of town, went up into his dressing-room to 
 prepare himself, leaving the two children in the 
 parlour. 
 
 Alfred was so delighted with the thoughts of the 
 pleasure he should receive from his walk, that he 
 jumped about the room, without thinking, of any 
 evil consequence that could happen j but unluckily 
 
THE LOOKINGI-GLASS. Il7*^ 
 
 tiie skirt of his coat brushed against a very valuable 
 flower, which his father was rearing with great 
 pains, and which he had unfortunately just remov- 
 ed from before the window, in order to screen it 
 from the scorching heat of the sun. 
 
 <' O brother ! brother ! (said Dorinda taking up 
 the flower which was broken off from the stdik) 
 what have you doae !" The sweet girl was holding 
 the flower in her hand, when her father, having 
 dressed himself came into the parlour. « B'ess 
 me, Dorinda, said Mr. Venables, in an angry tone 
 how could you be so thoughtless as to pluck a flow- 
 er, whiclvyou had seen me take so much care to 
 rear, in ordejr to have seed from it." Poor Dorin- 
 da was in such a fright, that she could only beg 
 her papa not to be angry. Mr. Venables, growing 
 more calm, replied he was not angry, but remind- 
 ed her, that as they were going to a garden where 
 there was a variety of flowers, she might have wait- 
 ed till they had got there to indulge her fancy. 
 He therefore hoped she would not take it amiss if 
 he left her at home. 
 
 . This was a terrible situation for Dorinda, who 
 held her head down and said nothing. Little Al- 
 fred however, was of too generous a temper to 
 keep silence any longer. He went up to his papa 
 with bis eyes swimming in tears, and told him 
 L 
 
'^118 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 at it was not his sister but himself, who had ac- 
 cidentally beaten off the head of the flower with 
 the flap of his coat. He therefore desired that his 
 sister might go abroad, and he stay at home. 
 
 Mr. Venables was so delighted with the genero- 
 sity of his children, that he instantly forgave the 
 accident, and tenderly kissed them both, being 
 happy to sec them have such an affection for each 
 other. He told them, that he loved them equally 
 alike, and that they should both go with him. 
 Alfred and Dorinda kissed each other and leaped 
 about for joy. 
 
 They all three then walked to the garden, where 
 they saw plants of the most valuable" kinds. Mr. 
 Venables observed with pleasure how Dorinda 
 pressed her clothes on each side, and Alfred kept 
 the skirts of his coat under his arms, for fear of do- 
 ing any damage in their walk among the flowers. 
 
 The flower Mr. Venables had lost would have 
 given him some pain had it happened from any 
 other circumstance ; but the pleasure he received 
 from seeing such mutual affection and regard sub- 
 sist between his two children, amply repaid him 
 for the loss of his flower. I cannot omit the oppor- 
 tunity that here presents itself, of reminding my 
 young friends, not only how necessary, but how 
 amiable and praise-worthy it is, for brothers and 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. H 
 
 sisters to live together in harmony. It is not only 
 their most important interest to do so, but what 
 should be a still stronger argument with theip, 
 such are the commands of him who made them. 
 
 From the gay world we'll oft retire, 
 To our own family and fire, 
 
 Where love our hours employs , 
 No noisy neighbours enter here, 
 Ko intermeddling stranger near, 
 
 To spoil our heart-felt joys. 
 
 If solid happiness we prize. 
 Within our breast this jewel lies , 
 
 And they are fools who roam : 
 The world has nothing to bestow, 
 From our own selves our joys must flow. 
 
 And that dear hut our home. 
 
 Our babes shall richest comforts bring 5 
 If tutor'd right they'll prove a spring 
 
 Whence pleasures ever rise ; 
 We'll form their minds with studious care. 
 To all that's manly, good and fair, 
 
 And train them for the skies. 
 
 While they our wisest hours engage. 
 They'll joy cur youth, support our agC;, 
 
120 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 And crown our hoary hairs : 
 They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day, 
 And thus our fondest loves repay, 
 
 And recompense our cares. 
 
 Thus hand in hand through life we'll ge. 
 Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe 
 
 With cautious steps we'll tread : 
 Quit its vain scenes without a tear. 
 Without a trouble or a fear, 
 
 And mingle with the dead. 
 
 While conscience like a faithful friend, 
 Shall through the gloomy vale attend, 
 
 And cheer our dying breath : 
 Shall, when all other comforts cease, 
 Like a kind angel whisper peace, 
 
 And smooth the bed of death ! 
 
 1 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 121 
 
 ► 
 
 ROSINA, ©R THE. FROWARD GIRL REFORMED. 
 
 I WOULD recommend to all my little readers, 
 who have had the misfortune to contract a vicious 
 habit, very attentively to peruse the following his- 
 torical fragment, in which, if they will but pro- 
 perly reflect, they will see that amendment is no 
 very dijSicult thing, when once they form a sincere 
 resolution to accomplish it. 
 
 Rosina was the joy of her parents until the se* 
 venth year of her age, at which period the glowing 
 light of reason begins to unfold itself, and makes 
 us sensible of our infantile faults , but this period 
 
122 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 of life had a different effect on Rosina, who had 
 contracted an unhappy disposition which cannot 
 better be described, than by the practises of those 
 snarHng curs that grumble incessantly, and seem 
 always ready to run at and bite those who approach 
 them. 
 
 If a person touched any pf her play-things 
 though it were by mistake, she would be out of 
 temper for hours, and murmur about the house as 
 though she had been robbed. If any one attempt- 
 ed to correct her, though in the most gentle man- 
 ner, she would fly into a rage, equalled only by the 
 fury of contending elements, and the uproar of the 
 angry billows of the ocean. 
 
 Her father and mother saw this unaccountable 
 change with inexpressible sorrow ; for neither they 
 Tior any one in the house, could now bear with her. 
 Indeed she would sometimes seem sensible of her 
 errors, and would often shed tears in private, on 
 seeing herself thus become the object of con- 
 tempt to every one, not excepting her parents ; 
 but an ill habit had got the better of her temper, 
 and she consequently every day grew worse and 
 worse. 
 
 One evening, which happened to be new-year's 
 eve, she saw her mother going towards her room, 
 vnth a basket under her cloak. Rosiaa followed her 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 125 
 
 mother who ordered her to go back to the parlour 
 immediately. As Rosina went thither, she threw 
 about all the stools and chairs that came in her 
 way. 
 
 About half an hour after, her mamma sent for 
 her, and great indeed was her surprise on seeing 
 the room lighted up with a number of candles, 
 and the table covered with the most elegant toys. 
 
 Her mother called her to her, and desired her 
 to read, in a bit of paper which she gave her, for 
 whom those toys were intended, on which she 
 read the following words written in large letters : 
 *« For an amiable little girl, in return for her good 
 behaviour." Rosina looked down, and could not 
 say a word. On her mother's asking her, for 
 whom those toys were intended, she replied, with 
 tears in her eyes, that they could not be intended 
 for her. 
 
 Her parent then, shewed her another paper, de- 
 siring her to see if that did not concern her. Ro- 
 sina took it, and read as follows : <' For a froward 
 little girl, who is sensible of her faults, and in 
 beginning a new year will take pains to amend 
 them," Rosina immediately throwing herself in- 
 to her mother's arms, and crying bitterly, said, 
 «< O ! that is I, that is I " The tears also fell from 
 her parent's eyes, partly for sorrow on account of 
 
124 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 her daughter's faults, and partly through joy in 
 the promising hope of her amendment. 
 
 '< Come, Rosina, (said she to her, after a short 
 pause) and take what was intended for you, and 
 may God, who has heard your resolution, give you 
 ability to fulfil it," Rosina, however, insisted on 
 it that it belonged to the person described in the 
 first paper, and therefore desired her mamma to 
 keep those things for her till she had answered 
 that description. This answer gave her mother 
 a deal of pleasure, and she immediately put all the 
 toys into a drawer, giving the key of it to Rosina, 
 and telling her to open the drawer, . whenever 
 she should think it proper so to do. 
 
 Several weeks passed without the least com- 
 plaint against Rosina, who had performed wonders 
 on herself. She then went to her mamma, threw 
 her arms round her neck, and asked her if she 
 thought she had then a right to open the drawer. 
 « Yes, my dear, (said her mother, clasping her 
 tenderly in her arms) you may now open the 
 drawer with great propriety. But pray tell me how 
 you have so well managed to get the better of your 
 temper ? Rosina said it had cost her a deal of trou- 
 ble *, but every morning and evening and indeed 
 almost every hour in the day, she prayed to God 
 to assist her. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 125 
 
 Her mother shed tears of delight on this occa- 
 sion -y and Rosina became not only mistress of the 
 toys, but of the affection of all her friends and ac- 
 quaintances. Her mother related this happy 
 change in the temper of her daughter in the 
 presence ot a little miss, who gave way to the 
 same unhappy disposition ; when the little miss was 
 so struck with the relation of it, that she immedi- 
 ately determined to set about the work of refor- 
 mation, in order to become as amiable as Rosina. 
 Her attempt was not made in vain, and Rosina 
 had the satisfaction to find, that in being useful 
 to herself, she had contributed to make others 
 happy. My youthful readers, if any of you la- 
 bour under bad habits, set about a reformation 
 immediately, lest you become hardened by time, 
 and thus totally destroy your present and future 
 happiness. 
 
 Lovely, lasting peace of mind ! 
 Sweet delight of human kind ! 
 Heav'nly born, and bred on high 
 To crown the fav'rites of the sky 
 With more of happiness below ! 
 Than victors in a triumph know ! 
 Whither. O ! whither art thou fled. 
 To lay thy meek contented head ! 
 What happy regions dost thou please^ 
 To make the seat of calms and ease ? 
 
126 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Lovely lasting peace ! appear ; 
 This world itself if thou art here, 
 Is once again with Eden blest. 
 And man contains it in his breast. 
 
 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
 I sung my wishes to the wood, 
 And, lost in thought, no more perceiv'd 
 The branches whisper as they wav'd : 
 It seem'd as all the quiet place 
 Confessed the presence of the grace : 
 When thus she spoke — <' Go rule thy will ; 
 *' Bid thy wild passions all be still ; 
 « Know God — and bring thy heart to know 
 <« The jov3 which from religion flow ; 
 « Then ev'ry grace shall prove its guest, 
 " And ril be there to crown the rest." 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 127 
 
 LITTLE ANTHONY. 
 
 ON one of those fine mornings, which the 
 month of June frequently affords us, little Antho- 
 ny| was busily employed in preparing to set out 
 with his father on a party of pleasure, which, for 
 several days before, had engrossed all his attention. 
 Though, in general he found it very difficult to 
 rise early, yet this morning he got up soon, with- 
 out being called, so much was his mind fixed on 
 the intended jaunt. 
 
 It often happens, with young people in partic- 
 ular, that all on a gudden, they lose the object 
 
128 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 they flatter themselves they were almost in posses- 
 sion of. So it fared with little Anthony; for just 
 as they were ready to set out, the sky darkened 
 all at once, the clouds grew thick, and a tempes- 
 tuous wind bent down the trees, and raised a cloud 
 of dust. 
 
 Little Anthony was running down the garden 
 every minute to see how the sky looked, and then 
 jumped up stairs to examine the barometer ; but 
 neither the sky nor the barometer seemed to fore- 
 bode any thing in his favour. Notwithstanding 
 all this, he gave his father the most flattering hopes 
 that it would soon disperse. Me doubted not but 
 that it would be one of the finest days in the 
 world ; and he therefore thought, that the sooner 
 they set out the better, as it would be a pity to 
 lose a moment of their time. 
 
 His father, however, did not choose to be too 
 hasty in giving credit to his son's prediction, and 
 thought it more s^dviseable to wait a little. While 
 Anthony and his father were reasoning on this 
 matter, the clouds burst and down came a very 
 heavy shower of rain. Poor Anthony was now 
 doubly disappointed, and vented his grief in tears, 
 refusing to listen to the voice of consolation 
 
 The rain continued without inter riission, till 
 three o'clock in the afternoon, when the clouds 
 
THE LOOKlNG-GLASS. 129 
 
 began to disperse, the sun resumed its splendor, 
 the elements its clearness, and all nature breathed 
 the odours of spring. As the weather brightened, 
 so did the countenance of little Anthony, and by 
 degrees he recovered his good humour. 
 
 His father now thought it necessary to indulge 
 him with a little walk, and off they set. The 
 calmness of the air, the music of the feathered 
 songsters, the lively and enchanting verdure of the 
 fields, and the sweet perfumes that breathed all 
 around them, completely quieted and composed the 
 troubled heart of the disappointed Anthony. 
 
 " Do not you observe, (said his father to him) 
 how agreeable is the change of every thing be- 
 fore you ? You cannot have yet forgotten how dull 
 every thing appeared to us yesterday ; the ground 
 was parched up for want of rain ; the flowers had 
 lost their colour, and hung their heads in langour ; 
 and, in short, all nature seemed to be in a state of 
 inaction. What can be the reason, that nature 
 has so suddenly put on such a different aspect ?■' — 
 «' That is easily accounted for, sir, (said Anthony) 
 it undoubtedly is occasioned by the rain that has 
 fallen to day." 
 
 Anthony had no sooner pronounced these words 
 *han he saw his father's motive for asking him the 
 M 
 
130 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 question. He now plainly perceived the impro- 
 priety of his late conduct, in being so unhappy 
 about what was evidently so universally serviceable. 
 He blushed, but his father took no notice of it, 
 judging that his own good sense would sufficiently 
 teach him another time, without reluctance, to 
 sacrifice selfish pleasure to the general good of the 
 community at large. 
 
 Nature attend ! join every living soul 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
 In adoration join ; and ardent raise 
 One general song ! To him, ye vocal gales. 
 Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes; 
 O talk of him in solitary glooms. 
 Where o*er the rock the scarcely waving pine 
 Eills the brown shade with a religious awe ! 
 And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar. 
 Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heav'n 
 Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
 And let me catch it as I muse along. 
 
•THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 131 
 
 THE HISTORY OF JONATHAN THE GARDENER. 
 
 IN the city of Lincoln lived an honest and in- 
 dustrious gardener, whose name was Jonathan, and 
 who was in general considered as the most skilful 
 in his profession of any in that country. His fruits 
 were much larger than any of his neighbours', and 
 were generally supposed to have a more exquisite 
 flavour. 
 
 It was the pride of all the neighbouring gentle- 
 men to have Jonathan's fruits to form their de- 
 serts, so that he was under no necessity of sending 
 the produce of his garden to market, as he was 
 
132 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 always sure of meeting with a sale for them at 
 home. His prudence and assiduity increased, as 
 his fortune enlarged, and instead of riches ma- 
 king him idle, he attended more closely to culti- 
 vation. 
 
 Such a character and situation could not fail of 
 procuring him a suitable matrimonial mate, and 
 he accordingly married a young woman in the 
 neighbourhood, whose name was Bella, and, who 
 was both prudent and handsome; The first year 
 of their marriage was as comfortable as they could 
 wish for j for Bella assisted her husband in his bu- 
 siness, and every thing prospered with them. 
 
 This happiness, however, was not to last long ; 
 for near his house lived another gardener, whose 
 name was Guzzle, and who spent his time, from 
 morning to night, in an alehouse. The merry 
 and thoughtless humour of Guzzle by degrees be- 
 gan to be pleasing to Jonathan, who soon fell in- 
 to the same ruinous error. At first he only went 
 now and then to drink with him, and talk to him 
 about gardening •, and he very soon began to drop 
 the subject of plants, and delight only in the 
 praises of malt. 
 
 Bella saw this change in her husband with the 
 utmost grief and consternation. As yet not hav- 
 ing sufficient experience to attend to the wall- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, 133 
 
 fruit herself, she was frequently obliged to fetch 
 him home to his work, when she generally found 
 him in a state of intoxication. It would often 
 have been better had he kept out of the garden 
 than gone into it ; for his head was generally so 
 muddled with beer when he went to work on his 
 trees, that his pruning knife committed the great- 
 est depredations, cutting away those branches 
 which ought to have been left, and leaving those 
 that were useless. 
 
 Hence it was not to be wondered at, that the 
 garden fell off in the quality and quantity of its 
 ^^ fruit, and the more Jonathan perceived the de- 
 cay, the more he gave himself up to drinking. 
 As his garden gradually failed in procuring him 
 the means of getting strong liquor, he first parted 
 with his furniture, and then with his linen and 
 clothes. 
 
 Bella, in the mean time, did what little she 
 could to keep things together ; but all to no pur- 
 pose; One day, when she was gone to market 
 with some roots she had reared herself, he went 
 and sold his working utensils, and immediately 
 went and spent all with Guzzle. Judge what 
 must be the situation of poor Bella on her return! 
 It was indeed a heart breaking consideration to be 
 thus reduced to poverty by the folly of her hus^ 
 M2 
 
IS* THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 band ; but yet she loved him, and equally felt for 
 him as for herself, but still more for an infant, 
 as yet but six months old, and which received its 
 nourishment from her breast. 
 
 In the evening, Jonathan came home drunk, 
 and swearing at his wife, asked her for something 
 to eat. Bella handed him a knife, and put before 
 him a large basket covered with her apron ; but 
 Jonathan in a pet pulled away the apron ; his as- 
 tonishment was inexpressible, when he beheld no- 
 thing in the basket but his own child fast asleep: ' 
 *' Eat that," said Bella, " for I have nothing else 
 to give you. It is your own child, and if you do 
 not devour it, famine and misery will, in a sh(^ 
 time." 
 
 Jonathan seemed almost petrified into a stone 
 at these words, and for some time remained speech- 
 less with his eyes fixed on his sleeping son. At 
 ).ast recovering himself, quite sobered, his heart 
 eased itself in tears and lamentations. He arose 
 and embraced his wife, asked her pardon, and pro- 
 mised to amend ; and what was still better, he was 
 faithful to his promise. 
 
 Though his wife's father had for some time re- 
 fused to see him, yet on being made acquainted 
 with his promises of reformation, he advanced 
 money sufiicient to enable him tp restore his gaN 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 135 
 
 den to its former state. Jonathan did not deceive 
 him ! for his garden put on another appearance, 
 and cut a more splendid figure than ever. After 
 this, neither his prudence nor activity forsook him, 
 but he became at once, and continued so even to 
 old age, the honest man, the indulgent husband, 
 and the tender father. He would sometimes tell 
 this tale of his follies to his son, as a lesson to him, 
 how dangerous it is to get connected with bad 
 company, and how easily human nature is led 
 astray by the poison of example. The son, who 
 thus acquired knowledge at his father's former 
 expense became a wise and prudent man, and con- 
 ceived such an aversion to idleness and drinking, 
 that he continued all his life as sober as he was 
 laborious. Thus was an innocent infant the cause 
 of a reformation in a deluded father. 
 
 Great heav'n! how frail thy creature man is made! 
 How by himself insensibly betray'd ! 
 In our own strength unhappily secure, 
 Too little cautious of the adverse pow'r ; 
 And by the blast of self opinion mov'd 
 We wish to charm, and seek to be belov'd. 
 On pleasure's flow'ry brink we idly stray. 
 Masters as yet of our returning way : 
 Seeing no danger, we disarm our mind. 
 And give our conduct to the waves and wind : 
 
1 36 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 # 
 
 Then in the flow'ry mead, or verdant shade, 
 To wanton dalliance negligently laid, 
 We weave the chaplet, and we crown the bowl,, 
 And smiling see the nearer waters roll ; 
 Till the strong gusts of passion rise, 
 Till the dire tempest mingles earth and skies ; 
 And, swift into the boundless ocean borne, 
 Our foolish confidence too late we mourn. 
 Round our devoted heads the billows beat ; 
 And from our troubled view the lessen'd lands re- 
 treat. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 137 
 
 THE sparrow's NEST. 
 
 BILLY JESSAMY, having one day espied a 
 sparrow's nest under the eves of the house, ran 
 directly to inform his sisters of the important dis- 
 covery, and they immediately fell into a consulta- 
 tion concerning the manner in which they should 
 take it. It was at last agreed, that they should 
 wait till the young ones were fledged, that Billy 
 should then get a ladder up against the wall, and 
 that his sisters should hold it fast below, while he 
 mounted after the prize. 
 
138 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 As soon as they thought these poor little crea- 
 tures were properly fledged, preparations were 
 made for the execution of their intended plan. 
 The old birds flew backwards and forwards about 
 the nest, and expressed, as well as they were able, 
 the sorrow and affliction they felt on being robbed 
 of their young. Billy and his two sisters, however, 
 paid no regard to their piteous moans ; for they 
 took the nest, with three young ones in it. 
 
 As they had now got the innocent prisoners in 
 their possession, the next thing to be considered 
 was what they should do with them. The young- 
 er sister being of a mild and tender-hearted dispo- 
 sition proposed putting them into a cage, promis- 
 ing to look after them herself, and to see that they 
 wanted for nothing. She reminded her brother 
 and sister how pretty it would be to see and hear 
 those birds when grown up. 
 
 Billy, however was of a very different opinion *, 
 for he insisted on it, that it would be better to pluck 
 off their feathers, and then set them down in the 
 middle of the room, as it would be very funny to 
 see how they would hop about without feathers* 
 The elder sister was of the same way of thinking 
 as the younger, but Billy was determined to have 
 the matter entirely his own way. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 139 
 
 The two little ladies finding they were not likely 
 to have things as they wished, gave up the point 
 without much hesitation; for Billy had already be- 
 gan to strip the helpless birds. As fast as he 
 plucked them he put them down on the floor, and 
 it was not long before the little birds were stripped 
 of all their tender feathers. The poor things cried 
 Wheet ! Wheet I and complained in the most pite- 
 ous accents ; they shook their little wings and 
 shuddered with the cold, 
 
 Billy, however, who had not the least kind of 
 feeling for their sufferings, carried his persecu- 
 tions still further, pushing them with his toe to 
 make them go on when they stopped, and laughed 
 most heartily whenever they staggered or tumbled 
 down through weakness. Though his two sisters 
 at first setting off had pleaded against this cruel 
 kind of sport, yet seeing their brother so merry on 
 the oocasion, they forgot the former dictates of 
 humanity, and joined in the cruel sport with him. 
 Such as we see in the preceding Tale, is the in- 
 fluence of a bad example I 
 
 In the midst of this cruel kind of enjoyment, at 
 a distance they saw their tutor approaching ; this 
 put them into some flurry, and each pocketed a bird. 
 They would have avoided their tutor, but he call- 
 ed to them, and asked their reasons for wishing to 
 
14;0 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 shun him. They approached him very slowly, 
 with their eyes cast downwards, which convinced 
 him something amiss was going forwards. 
 
 On their answering that they were only playing, 
 their tutor observed to them that they very well 
 knew he never denied them innocent amuse- 
 ment, but on the contrary w^as always glad to see 
 them cheerful and happy. He took notice that 
 each held one of their hands in their pocket, upon 
 when he insisted on their pulling them out, and 
 let him see what it was they endeavoured to con- 
 ceal. 
 
 They were obliged to comply much against 
 their will, when each produced a poor bird that 
 had been stripped of its feathers. The tutor was 
 filled with pity and indignation, and gave each of 
 them a look, that was more dreadful than any 
 words he could have spoken. After some silence, 
 Billy attempted to justify himself by saying, that 
 it was a droll sight to see sparrows hopping about 
 without feathers, and he could not see any harm in 
 it. 
 
 « Can you then, said the tutor to Billy, take 
 pleasure in seeing innocent creatures suffer, and 
 hear their cries without pity ?" Billy said he did 
 not see how they could suffer from having a few 
 feathers pulled off. The tutor to convince him 
 
THE looking-glass; Ul 
 
 ©f his error, pulled a few hairs from his head, 
 when he roared out loudly, that he hurt him. 
 « What would your pain be then, said the tutor, 
 were I thus to pluck all the hair oft your head ? 
 You are sensible of the pain you now feel, but you 
 was insensible of the torment to which you put 
 those innocent creatures that never offended you. 
 But that you, ladles, should join in such an act of 
 cruelty, very much surprises me ! 
 
 The ladies stood motionless, and then, without 
 being able to say a word, sat dov^n with their eyes 
 swimming in tears ; which their tutor observing, 
 he said no more to them. But Billy still persisted 
 in his opinion that he did the birds no harm j on 
 the contrary, he said, they shewed their pleasure 
 by clapping their wings and chirping. "* 
 
 They clapped their wings, said the tutor, from 
 the pain you put them to ; and what you call sing- 
 ing, were cries and lamentations. Could those 
 birds have expressed themselves in your speech, 
 you would have heard them cry. Ah, father and 
 mother, save us, for we have fallen into the hands 
 of cruel children, who have robbed us of all our 
 feathers ! We are cold and in pain. Come warm 
 us and cure us, or we shall soon die !" 
 
 The little ladies could no longer refrain from 
 N 
 
142 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 tears and accused Billy of leading them into this 
 act of cruelty. Billy was himself become sensible 
 of his faults, and had already felt the smart of hav- 
 ing a few hairs plucked from his head ; but the 
 reproaches of his own heart, were now visible on 
 his countenance. It appeared to the tutor, that 
 there was no need of carrying the punishment any 
 further ; for the error Billy had committed did not 
 arise from a natural love of cruelty, but merely 
 from want of thought and reflection. From this 
 moment Billy, instead of punishing and tormenting 
 dumb creatures, always felt for their distresses, and 
 did what he could to relieve them. 
 
 «' When returning with her loaded bill, 
 Th* astonish'd mother finds a vacant nest. 
 By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns, 
 Robb'd : to the ground the vain provision falls j 
 Her pinions ruffle, and, low drooping, scarce 
 Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade ; 
 Where, all abandon'd to despair, she sings 
 Her sorrows thro' the night, and on the boughs 
 Sole sitting ; still, at every dying fall. 
 Takes up again her lamentable strain 
 Of windirg woe, till, wide around, the woods 
 Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound." 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 14.3 
 
 I would not enter on my list of friends 
 (Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fine 
 
 sense. 
 Yet wanting sensibility) the man 
 Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
 An inadvertent step may crush the snail 
 That crawls at evening in the public path. 
 But he that has humanity, forewarn'd. 
 Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. 
 Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons 
 To love it too. The spring time of our years 
 Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most 
 By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 
 To check them. But alas I none sooner shoots, 
 If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth. 
 Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. 
 Mercy to him that shews it, is the rule 
 And righteous limitation ot its act, 
 By which heav'n moves in pardoning guilty man 5 
 And he that shews none, being ripe in years. 
 And conscious of the outrage he commits, 
 Shall seek it, and not find it in his turn. 
 
144 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 WILLIAM AND THOMAS ', OR, THE CONTRAST BE- 
 TWEEN INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 
 
 IN a village at a small distance from the metro- 
 polis, lived a wealthy husbandman, who had two 
 sons, William and Fhomas, of whom the former 
 was exactly a year older than the latter. 
 
 On the day that the second son was born, the 
 husbandman set in his orchard two young apple- 
 tfees of an equal size, on which he bestowed the 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 145 
 
 same care in cultivating, and they throve so much 
 alike, that it was a difficult matter to say which 
 claimed the preference. 
 
 As soon as the children were capable of using 
 garden implements, their father took them, on a 
 fine day early in the spring, to see the two plants 
 he had reared for them, and called after their 
 names. William and Thomas having much admir- 
 ed the beauty of those trees, now filled with bios-, 
 soms, their father told them, that he made them a 
 present of them in good condition, and that they 
 would continue to thrive or decay, in proportion 
 to the labour or neglect they received. 
 
 Thomas, though the younger son, turned all his 
 attention to the improvement of his tree, by clear- 
 ing it of insects as soon as he discovered them, and 
 propping up the stem that it might grow perfectly 
 upright. He dug all around it to loosen the earth, 
 that the root might receive nourishment from the 
 warmth of the sun, and the moisture of the dews. 
 No mother could nurse her child more tenderly 
 in its infancy, than Thomas did his tree. 
 
 His brother William, however, pursued a very 
 difi^erent conduct ; for he loitered away all his time 
 in the most idle and "mischievous manner, one of 
 his principal amusements being to throw stones at 
 
 N 2 
 
146 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 people as they passed. He kept company with all 
 the idle boys in the neighbourhood, with whom he 
 was continually fighting and was seldom without 
 a black eye or a broken shin. His poor tree was 
 neglected and never thought of, till one day in the 
 autumn, when, by chance, seeing his brother's 
 tree loaded with the finest apples, and almost rea- 
 dy to break down with the weight, he ran to see 
 his own tree, not doubting but he should find it in 
 the same pleasing condition. 
 
 Great indeed was his disappointment and surprise. 
 when, instead of finding the tree loaded with excel- 
 lent fruit, he beheld nothing but a few withered 
 leaves, and branches covered with moss. He in- 
 stantly went to his father, and complained of his 
 partiality in giving him a tree that was worthless 
 and barren, while his brother's produced the most 
 luxuriant fruit. He therefore thought, that his 
 brother should, at least give him one half of his 
 apples. 
 
 His father told him, that it was by no means 
 reasonable, that the industrious should give up part 
 of their labour to feed the idle. «^ If your tree 
 said he, has produced you nothing, it is but a just 
 reward of your indolence, since you see what the 
 industry of your brother has gained him. Your 
 tree was equally full of blossoms, and grew in 
 
THE LOOKI^fG-GLASS. 147 
 
 the same soil -, %\it you paid no attention to the 
 culture of it. Your brother suffered no visible in- 
 sect to remain in his tree j but you neglected that 
 caution and left them even to eat up the very buds. 
 As I cannot bear to see even plants pei'ish through 
 neglect, I must now take this tree from you, and 
 give it to your brother, whose care and attention 
 may possibly restore it to its former vigour. The 
 fruit it shall produce must be his property, and 
 you must no longer consider yourself as having any 
 right therein. However you may go to my nur- 
 sery, and there choose any other, which you may 
 like better, and try what you can do with it ; but 
 if you neglect to take proper care of it j I shall also 
 take that from you, and give it to your brother, as 
 a reward for his superior industry and attention." 
 This had the desired effect on William, who 
 clearly perceived the justice and propriety of his 
 father's reasoning, and instantly got into the nur- 
 sery to choose the most thriving apple-tree he 
 could there meet with. His brother Thomas as- 
 sisted him in the culture of his tree, advising him 
 in what manner to proceed ; and William made 
 the best use of his time, and the instructions he 
 received from his brother. He left off all his mis- 
 chievous tricks, forsook the company of idle boys, 
 applied himself cheerfully to work, and in autumn 
 
148 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 received the reward of his labour, his tree being 
 then loaded with fruit. 
 
 From the happy change in his conduct he de- 
 rived the advantage, not only of enriching him- 
 self with a plentiful crop of fruit, but also of get- 
 ting rid of bad and pernicious habits. His father 
 was so perfectly satisfied with his reformation, that 
 the following season he gave him and his brother 
 the produce of a small orchard, which they shared 
 equally between thero. 
 
 *Tis the voice of a sluggard — I heard him com- 
 plain, 
 
 " You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber 
 again. 
 
 As the door on its hinges so he on his bed 
 
 Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy 
 head. 
 
 <* A little more sleep and a little more slumber j" 
 Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours with- 
 out number. 
 And when he gets up he sits folding his hands. 
 Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands. 
 
 I pass'd by his garden and saw the wild briar, 
 The thorn and the thistle grew broader and higher^ 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 149 
 
 The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags ; 
 And his money still wastes, till he starves or he 
 begs; 
 
 I made him a visit, still hoping to find 
 He had took better care for improving his mind ; 
 He told me his dreams, talk'd of eating and drink- 
 ing* 
 But he scarce reads his bible, and never loves think- 
 ing. 
 
 Said I then to my heart, «' Here's a lesson for mej 
 That man's but a picture of what I might be ; 
 But thanks to my friends for their care in my 
 
 breeding, 
 Who taught me betimes to love working and read- 
 
 ing 
 
 p? 
 
 m)^m^ 
 
1$^ 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 MISCHIEF ITS OWN PUNISHMENT, EXEMPLIFIED IN 
 THE HISTORY OF WILLIAM AND HARRY. 
 
 Mr. Stevenson and his little son Richard, as 
 they were one fine day walking in the fields toge- 
 ther, passed by the side of a garden, in which they 
 saw a beautiful pear-tree loaded with fruit. Richard 
 cast a longing eye at it, and complained to his pa- 
 pa that he was very dry. On Mr. Stevenson's say- 
 ing that he was dry also, but they must bear it 
 with patience till they got home, Richard point- 
 ed to the pear-tree, and begged his papa would 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 151 
 
 let him go and get one *, for as the hedge was not 
 very thick, he said he could easily get through, 
 without being seen by any one. 
 
 Richard's father reminded him, that the garden 
 and fruit were private property, and to take any- 
 thing from thence without permission was nothing 
 less than being guilty of a robbery. He allowed, 
 that there might be a possibility of getting into 
 the garden without being seen by the owner of it 5 
 but such a wicked action could not be concealed 
 from him, who sees every action of our lives, and 
 who penetrates even into the very secrets of our 
 hearts ; and that is God. 
 
 His son shook his head, and said, he was sensi- 
 ble of his error, and would no more think of com- 
 mitting what might be called a robbery. He re- 
 collected, that parson Jackson had told him the 
 same thing before, but he had then forgotten it. 
 
 At this instant a man started up from behind the 
 hedge, which had before concealed him from their 
 sight. This was an old man, the owner of the 
 garden, who had heard every thing that had pas- 
 sed between Mr. Stevenson and his son. " Be 
 thankful to God, my child, said the old man, that 
 your father prevented your getting into my gar- 
 den with the view to deprive me of that which 
 does not belong to you. You little thought, that 
 
152 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 at the foot of each tree is placed a trap to catcli 
 thieves, which you could not have escaped, and 
 which might have lamed you for the rest of your 
 life. I am however happy to find, that you so 
 readily listened to the first admonition of your fa- 
 ther, and shewed such a fear of offending God. As 
 you have behaved in so just and sensible a manner, 
 you shall now, without any danger or trouble, par- 
 take of the fruit of my garden." He then went 
 to the finest pear-tree, gave it a shake, and brought 
 down near a hat-full of fruit, which he immediate- 
 ly gave to Richard. 
 
 This civil old man could not be prevailed on to 
 accept of any thing in return, though Mr. Steven- 
 son pulled out his purse for that purpose. " I am 
 sufficiently satisfied, sir, said he, in thus obliging 
 your son, and were I to accept of any thing, that 
 satisfaction would be lost." Mr Stevenson thjmk- 
 ed him kindly, and, having shaken hands over the 
 hedge, they parted, Richard at the same time tak- 
 ing leave of the old man in a polite manner. 
 
 Little Richard, having finished several of the 
 pears, began to find himself at leisure to talk to 
 his papa. This is a very good old man, said he, 
 but would God have punished me, had I taken 
 these pears without his leave ?" «« He certainly 
 would, replied Mr. Stevenson, for he never fails to 
 
THE LOOKING-GLA^. 153 
 
 reward good actions, and chastise those who com- 
 mit evil. The good old man fully explained to 
 you this matter, in telling you of the traps laid for 
 thieves, into which you must have inevitably fal- 
 len, had you entered his garden in a clandestine 
 manner. God orders every thing that passes upon 
 earth, and directs events so as to reward good peo- 
 ple for virtuous actions, and to punish the wicked 
 for their crimes. In order to make this more clear 
 to you, I will relate to you an affair which happen- 
 ed when I was a boy, and which I shall never for- 
 get." Richard seemed very attentive to his father, 
 and having said he should be very glad to hear his 
 story, Mr. Stevenson thus proceeded. 
 
 <^ When I lived with my father, and was much 
 about your age, we had two neighbours, between 
 whose houses ours was situated, and their names 
 were Davis and Johnson. Mr. Davis had a son 
 named William, and Mr. Johnson one also of the 
 name of Harry. Our gardens were at that time se- 
 parated only by quickset hedges, so that it v/as ea- 
 sy to see into each other's grounds. 
 
 <' It was too often the practice with William, 
 when he found himself alone in his father's garden, 
 to take pleasure in throwing stones over the hedges, 
 without paying the least regard to the mischief 
 they might do. Mr. Davis had frequently caught 
 O 
 
15d' THE LOOKlKG-GLASb". 
 
 Iiim at this dangerous sport, and never failed se- 
 verely to reprimand him for it, threatening him 
 with severe punishment if he did not disist. 
 
 " This child, unhappily, either knew not, or 
 would not take the trouble to reflect that we are 
 not to do amiss, even when we are alone, for rea- 
 sons I have already mentioned to you. His father 
 being one day gone out, and therefore thinking 
 that nobody could see him, or bring him to pun- 
 ishment, he filled his pockets with stones, and then 
 began to fling them about at random. 
 
 " Mr. Johnson happened to be in his garden at 
 the same time, and his son Harry with him. This 
 boy was much of the same disposition as William, 
 thinking there was no crime in committing any 
 mischief, provided he were not discovered. His 
 father had a gun charged, which he brought into 
 the garden in order to shoot the sparrows that 
 made sad havock among his cherries, and was set- 
 tini]: in a summer-house to watch them. 
 
 « At this instant, a servant came to acquaint 
 him, that a strange gentleman desired to speak with 
 him, and was waiting in the parlour. He there- 
 fore put down the gun in the summer-house, and 
 strictly ordered Harry by no means to touch it ; 
 but he was no sooner gone, than his naughty son 
 said to himself, that he could see no harm in play- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 1^5 
 
 ing a little with the gun, and therefore took it up, 
 put it on his shoulder, and endeavoured to act the 
 part of a soldier. 
 
 " The muzzle ot the gun happened to be point- 
 ed towards Mr. Davis's garden, and just as he was 
 in the midst of his military exercises, a stone 
 thrown by William hit him directly in one of his 
 eyes. The fright and pain together made Harry 
 drop the gun, which went off, and in a moment 
 both gardens resounded with the most dismal 
 shrieks and lamentations. Harry had received a 
 blow in the eye with a stone, and the whole charge 
 had entered William's leg. The sad consequences 
 of which were, the one lost his eye, and the other 
 a leg." 
 
 Richard could not help pitying poor William 
 and Harry for their terrible misfortune ; and Mr. 
 Stephenson was not angry with his son for his ten- 
 derness: '^ It is true (said he) they were much to 
 be pitied, and their parents still more, £pr having 
 such vicious and disobedient children. Yet it is 
 probable, if God had not early punished these boys, 
 they would have continued their mischievous prac- 
 tices as often as they should find themselves alone 5 
 but by these misfortunes they learned to know, that 
 God publicly punishes all wickedness done in se- 
 cret. This had the desired effect, as both ever 
 
156 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 after left off all kinds of mischief, and became pru- 
 dent and sedate. Certain it is that an all-wise 
 Creator never chastises us but with a view to add 
 to our happiness. 
 
 Richard was very much struck with this story, 
 and said he hoped he should never lose either a leg 
 or an eye by such imprudent conduct. This inte- 
 resting conversation was. interrupted by their arri- 
 -val at their own house, \men Richard hastened to 
 find his brothers and sistets, to tell them the ad- 
 ventures of his walk, and the history of William 
 and Harry. 
 
 Why should I deprive my neighbour 
 Of his pears against his wiltV 
 Hands were made for honest labour, 
 Not to plunder or to steal. 
 
 'Tis a foolish, self deceiving, 
 By such tricks to hope for gain : 
 All that*s ever got by thieving. 
 Turns to sorrow, shame, and pain. 
 
 Have not Eve and Adam taught us 
 Their sad conduct to compute ? 
 To what dismal state they brought us j 
 When they stole forbidden fruit ! 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 157 
 
 Oft we see a young beginner 
 Practice little pilPring ways, 
 Till grown up a harden'd sinner ; 
 Then the gallows ends his days. 
 
 Theft will not be always hidden, 
 Though we fancy none can spy : 
 When we take a thing forbidden, 
 God beholds it with his eye. 
 
 Ol: 
 
Jt58 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ANTHONY AND AUGUSTUS ; OR, A RATIONAL EDU- 
 CATION PREFERABLE TO RICHES. 
 
 A VERY early friendship commenced between 
 Anthony and Augustus, who were nearly of an age, 
 and as they were neighbours, they were almost in- 
 separable companions. The father of Anthony, 
 whose name was Lenox, possessed a very lucrative 
 employment under government, and wa§ besides 
 possessed of a considerable fortune*, but Mr. Little- 
 ton, the father of Augustus, was not in such afHu- 
 ent circumstances, though he lived contentedly, 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 159 
 
 and turned all his thoughts to the welfare and hap- 
 piness of his son, in giving him a well grounded 
 education, which he thought might prove of more 
 advantage to him than riches, or, at least, might 
 anxply supply the place of them. 
 
 As soon as Augustus was nine years of age, he 
 was accustomed to bodily exercise, and his mind 
 inured to study, which at once contributed to im- 
 prove his health, strength and understanding. 
 Being thus used to exercise and motion, he was 
 healthy and robust ; and being contented and hap- 
 py in the affection of his parents, he enjoyed^, 
 tranquil cheerfulness, which much influenced those 
 who enjoyed his company. 
 
 Anthony was one of his happy companions, who 
 was always at a loss for amusement when Augus- 
 tus was absent ; and in that case, in order to fill up 
 his time he was continually eating without being 
 hungry, drinking without being dry, and slumber- 
 ing without being sleepy. This naturally brought 
 on a weak habit of body, and frequent head-aches. 
 
 BoDi parents ardently wished to see their ch'iU 
 dren healthy and happy ; but Mr. Lenox unfor- 
 tunately pursued that object in a wrong channel, 
 by bringing up !bis son even from his cradle, in 
 the most excessive delicacy. He was not suffered 
 to lift himself a chair, whenever he had a mind to 
 
160 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 change his seat, but a servant was called for that 
 purpose. He was dressed and undressed by other 
 people, and even the cutting of his own victuals 
 seemed a pain to him. 
 
 While Augustus, in a thin linen jacket, assisted 
 his father to cultivate a small garden for their 
 amusement, Anthony, in a rich .velvet coat was 
 lolling in a coach, and paying morning visits with 
 his mamma. If he went abroad to enjoy the air, 
 and got out of the carriage but for a minute, his 
 great coat was put on, and a handkerchief tied 
 rx)und his neck, to prevent his catching cold. 
 Thus accustomed to be humoured to excess he 
 wished for every thing he saw or could think of ; 
 but his wish was no sooner obtained, than he be- 
 came tired of it, and was constantly unhappy in 
 the pursuit of new objects. 
 
 As the servants had strict orders to obey him 
 with implicit submission, he became so whimsical 
 and imperious, that he was hated and despised by 
 every one in the house, excepting his parents. Au- 
 gustus was his only companion who loved h.i%, and 
 it was upon that account he patiently put up with 
 his humours. He was so perfectly master of his 
 temper, that he would at times make him as good 
 humoured as himself. 
 
 Mr. Lenox would sometimes ask Augustus, how 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. i61 
 
 he contrived to be always so merry ? To which he 
 one day answered that his father had told him, that 
 no person could be perfectly happy, unless they 
 mixed some kind of employment with their plea- 
 sures. « I have frequently observed, (continued 
 Augustus) that the most tedious and dull days I ex- 
 perience, are those, in which I do no kind of work. 
 It is properly blending exercise with amusement 
 that keeps me in ^uch good health and spirits.. 
 I fear neither the winds nor the rain, neither the- 
 heat of summer nor the cold of winter, and I 
 have frequently dug up a whole plat in my garden 
 before Anthony has quitted his pil!ow in the 
 morning/* 
 
 Mr. Lenox felt the propriety of such conduct, 
 and a sigh unavoidably escaped him. He then 
 went to consult Mr. Littleton in what manner he 
 should act, in order to make Anthony as hearty 
 and robust as Augustus. Mr. Littleton informed 
 him in what manner he treated his son. « Phe 
 powers of the body and the mind, (said he) should 
 be equally kept in exercise, unless we mean them 
 to be unserviceable, as money buried in the ground 
 would be to its owner. Nothing can be more in- 
 jurious to the health and happiness of children, 
 than using them to excess of delicacy, and, under 
 tiie idea of pleasing them, to indulge them in their 
 
1^2 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 whimsical and obstinate humours. The person who 
 has been accustomed from his childhood to have 
 his wishes flattered will be exposed to many vexa- 
 tious disappointments. He will sigh after those 
 things, the want or possession of which will equally 
 make him miserable. I have, however, every rea- 
 son to believe, that Augustus will never be that . 
 man." "\ 
 
 Mr. Lenox saw the truth of those arguments, 
 and determined to adopt the same plan for the 
 treatment of his son. But it was now too late for 
 Anthony was fourteen years of age, and his mind, 
 and body so much enervated, that he could not 
 bear the least fatiguing exertions. His mother, 
 who was as weak as himself, begged of her husband 
 not to tease their darling, and he was at last obliged 
 to give way to her importunities, when Anthony 
 again sunk into his former destructive effeminacy. 
 The strength of his body declined, in proportion 
 as his mind was degraded by ignorance. 
 
 As soon as Anthony had entered his seventeenth 
 year, his parents sent him to the university, in- 
 tending to bring him up to the study of the law j 
 and Augustus being intended for the same profes- 
 sion, he accompanied him thither. Augustus, io 
 his different studies and pursuits, had never had 
 any other instructor thaG his father ; while Antho- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 163 
 
 ny had as many masters as there are different sci- 
 ences, from whom he learned only a superficial 
 education by retaining little more than the terms 
 used in the different branches he had studied. Au- 
 gustus, on the contrary, was like a garden, whose 
 airy situation admits the rays of the sun to every 
 *part of it, and in which every seed by a proper 
 cultivation, advances rapidly to perfection. Al- 
 ready well instructed, he still thirsted after further 
 knowledge, and his diligence and good behaviour 
 afforded a pattern for imitation to all his compa- 
 nions. The mildness of his temper, and his viva- 
 city and sprightly humour, made his company at 
 all times desirable ; he was universally beloved, 
 and every one was his friend. 
 
 Anthony was at first happy on being in the same 
 room with Augustus •, but his pride was soon hurt 
 on seeing the preference that was given by every 
 one to his friend, and he could not think of any 
 longer submitting to so mortifying a distinction. 
 He therefore found some frivolous excuse, and 
 forsook the company of Augustus. 
 
 Anthony, having now nobody to advise or check 
 him, gave loose to his vitiated taste and wandered 
 from pleasure to pleasure in search of happiness. 
 It will be to little purpose to say, ho\v often he 
 hlushed at his own conduct ; but being hardened 
 
164< THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 by a repetition of his follies, he gradually fell into 
 the grossest irregularities. To be short, he at last 
 returned home with the seeds of a mortal distemper 
 in his bosom, and after languishing a few months, 
 expired in the greatest agonies. 
 
 Some time after, Augustus returned home to 
 his parents, possessed of an equal stock of learning 
 and prudence, his departure from the university 
 being regretted both by his teachers and compa- 
 nions. It may easily be supposed, that his family 
 teceived him with transports of joy. You know 
 not, my little readers, how pleasing are those ten- 
 der parental feelings, which raise from the pros- 
 pect of seing their children beloved and respect- 
 ed : His parents thought themselves the happiest 
 t)f people, and tears of joy filled their eyes when 
 they beheld him. 
 
 Augustus had not been long at home, before 
 a considerable employment in his profession was 
 conferred on him, with the unanimous approbation 
 of all who were acquainted with his character. 
 This enabled him to gratify his generous desire 
 of promoting the felicity of his friends, and a sense 
 of their happiness added to his own. He was the 
 comfort of his parents in the evening of their 
 lives, and with interest repaid their attention and 
 care of liim in his childhood. An amiable wife, 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 165 
 
 equally endued with sense, virtue, and beauty, 
 who bore him children like himself, completed 
 his happiness. 
 
 In the characters of Anthony and Augustus, we 
 see the fatal consequences of giving way to folly 
 and vice, and what a happy effect the contrary con- 
 duct has. Anthony fell a victim to the misguided 
 indulgence of his parents, while Augustus lived 
 to be happy by the prudent management he re-= 
 ceived in his infancy. 
 
 Queen of all virtues ! for whatever we call 
 Sublime and great, 'tis thou obtain'st it all. 
 No task too arduous for thy strong essay. 
 And art and nature own thy potent sway. 
 The sage whilst learning studious he pursues, 
 By force the stubborn sciences subdues : 
 Thro' truth's wide fields expatiates unconfin'd, 
 And stores forever his capacious mind. 
 
16$ 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 THE DESTRUCTIVE CONSEQUENCES OF DISSIPATION 
 AND LUXURY. 
 
 ON a fine evening, in the midst of summer, Mr. 
 Drake and his son Albert took a walk in some of 
 the most agreeable environs of the city. The sky 
 was clear, the air cool, and the purling streams, 
 and gentle zephyrs rustling in the trees, lulled the 
 mind into an agreeable gloom. Albert, enchant- 
 ed with the natural beauties which surrounded him, 
 could not help exclaiming, « What a lovely even- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 167 
 
 ing !" He pressed his father's hand and looking up 
 to him, said, «* You know not papa, what thoughts 
 rise in my heart ! He was silent for a moment, 
 and then looking towards heaven, his eyes moist- 
 ened with tears, « I thank God, said he, for the 
 happy moments he now permits me to enjoy ! Had 
 I my wish, every one should taste the beauties of 
 this evening as I do. Were 1 king of a large coun- 
 try, I would make my subjects perfectly happy." 
 
 Mr. Drake embraced his son and told him, that 
 the benevolent wish he had just uttered came from 
 a heart as generoiis as it was humane. " But 
 would not your thoughts change with your for- 
 ^^tune ? Are you certain, that in an exalted station 
 _you should preserve the sentiments, which now an- 
 imate you in that middle state, in which it has 
 pleased heaven to place you ?" 
 
 Albert was a little surprised that his father 
 should ask such a question •, for he had no idea 
 that riches could bring with them cruelty and 
 wickedness. 
 
 INIr. Drake told him, that indeed was not aU 
 ways the case. <« The v/orld has produced fortu- 
 nate persons, said he, who have remembered their 
 past distresses, and have always retained the most 
 charitable ideas for the unfortunate ; but we too 
 olten^ see what is a disgrace to the human heart, 
 
168 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 that a change of fortune alters the n\ost tender 
 and sympathetic affections. While we ourselves 
 labour under misfortunes, we look upon it as a duty 
 incumbent on every man to assist us. Should 
 the hand of God relieve us, we then think that all 
 his intentions in the preservation of the world are 
 answered, and too often cease to remember those 
 unfortunate wretches, who remain in the gulph 
 from which we have been rescued. You may see an 
 instance of this in the man, who frequently comes 
 to beg charity of me, whom I relieve with reluc- 
 tance, and cannot but censure myself for so doing. 
 
 Albert told his father that he had frequently ob- 
 served how coolly he put money into his hands, 
 without speaking to him in that tender language, 
 whidh he generally used to other poor people. He 
 therefore begged his father would tell him what 
 could be his reason for it. 
 
 « I will tell you, my dear, said Mr. Drake, what 
 has been his conduct, and then leave you to judge 
 how far I do right. Mr. Mason was a linen dra- 
 per in Cheapside ; and, though the profits of his 
 business were but moderate, yet a poor person ne- 
 ver asked his charity in vain. This he viewed as 
 his most pleasing extravagance, and he considered 
 himself happy in the enjoyment of It, though he 
 could not pursue this indulgence to the extent of 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. %€^ 
 
 his wishes. Business one day calling him on 'Change 
 he heard a number of capital merchants talking 
 together of vast cargoes, and the immense profits 
 to be expected from them. Ah 1 said he how- 
 happy these people are ! Were I as rich, heaven 
 knows, I should not make money my idol, for 
 the poor should plentifully partake of my abun- 
 dance." 
 
 <« This man went home with a bosom full of am» 
 bitious thoughts ; but his circumstances were too 
 narrow to embrace his vast projects, as it required 
 no small share of prudence in the management of 
 his affairs, to make every thing meet at the end of 
 the year. ' Ah ! cried he, I shall never get for- 
 ward, nor rise above the middHng condition, in 
 which I at present linger." 
 
 ** In the midst of these gloomy thoughts, a paper^ 
 inviting adventurers to purchase shares in the lot° 
 tery was put into his hand. He seemed as if inspir- 
 ed by Fortune, and caught the idea immediately. 
 Without considering the inconvenience to which 
 his covetousness might reduce him, he hastened to 
 the lottery office, and there laid out four guineas; 
 From this moment he waited with impatience for 
 the drawing, nor could he find repose even at night 
 on his pillow. He sometimes repented of having 
 so foolishly hazarded what he could not well bear 
 
4*J0 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 the loss of, and at other times he fancied he saw 
 riches pouring in upon him from all quarters. 
 At last the drawing began, and, in the midst of his 
 hopes and fears, Fortune favoured him with a 
 prize of five thousand pounds. 
 
 " Having received his money, he thought of no- 
 thing else for several days ; but when his imagina- 
 tion had cooled a little, he began to think what 
 use he should make of it. He therefore increased 
 his stock, extended his business, and by care and 
 assiduity in trade soon doubled his capital. In less 
 than ten years, he became one of the most consi- 
 derable men in the city, and hitherto he had punc- 
 tually kept his promise, in being the friend and 
 patron to the poor ; for the sight of an unfortunate 
 person always put him in mind of his former con- 
 dition and pleaded powerfully in behalf of the dis- 
 tressed. 
 
 " As he now frequented gay company, he by 
 degrees began to contract a habit of luxury and 
 dissipation ; he purchased a splendid country-house 
 with elegant gardens, and his life became a scene 
 of uninterrupted pleasures and amusements. All 
 this extravagance, however, soon convinced him, 
 that he was considerably reducing his fortune ; 
 and his trade which he had given up, to be the 
 more at leisure for the enjoyment of his pleasures. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, 17 1 
 
 no longer enabled him to repair it. Besides, hav- 
 ing been so long accustomed to put no restraint on 
 his vanity and pride, he could not submit to the 
 meanness of lessening his expenses. * I shall always 
 have enough for myself, thought he, and let others 
 take care of themselves/ 
 
 " As his fortune decreased, so did his feelings 
 for the distressed, and his heart grew callous to the 
 cries of misery, as with indifference we hear the 
 roaring tempest when sheltered from its fury. 
 Friends, whom he had till then still supported, 
 came as usual to implore his bounty •, but he receiv- 
 ed them roughly, and forbid them his house. «Am 
 I said he, to squander my fortune upon you ? Do 
 as I have cfSie, and get one for yourselves ? 
 
 '^ His- poor unhappy mother, from whom he 
 had taken half the pension he used to allow her, 
 carfte to beg a corner in any part of his house, 
 where sKe might finish her few remaining days ; 
 but he was so cruel as to refuse her request, and 
 with the utmost indifference saw her perish for 
 want. The measure of his crimes, however, was 
 now nearly filled. His wealth was all soon exhaust- 
 ed in debaucheries and other excesses, and he had 
 neither the inclination nor ability to return to 
 trade. Misery soon overtook him, and brought 
 him to that state in which you now see him. He 
 
172 THE LOOiClNG' GLASS. 
 
 begs his bread from door to door, an object of 
 contempt and detestation to all honest people, 
 and a just example of the indignation of the Al- 
 mighty. 
 
 ••' Albert told his father, that if fortune made 
 men so wicked and miserable, he wished to remain 
 as he was, above pity, and secure from contempt. 
 
 " Think often, my dear child, said his father ta 
 him, of this story, and learn from this example, 
 that no true happiness can be enjoyed, unless we 
 feel for the misfortunes of others. It is the rich 
 man's duty, to relieve the distresses oj . the poor, 
 and in this, more solid pleasure is found, than can 
 be expected from the enervating excesses of luxu- 
 ry and pomp. 
 
 The sun was now sinking beneath the horizon, 
 and his parting beams reflected a lively glow upon 
 the clouds, which seemed to form a purple curtain 
 round his bed. 'Ihe air freshened by the approach 
 of evening, breathed an agreeable calm ; and the 
 leathered inhabitants of the grove sung their fare- 
 wel song The wind rustling among the trees ad- 
 ded a gentle murmur to the concert, and every 
 thing seemed to inspire joy and happiness, while 
 Albert and his father returned to their house with 
 thoughtful and pensive steps. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 17' 
 
 For him who lost to ev'ry hope of life. 
 Has long with fortune held unequal strife. 
 Known to no human love, no human care. 
 The friendless, hopeless object of despair •, 
 For the poor vagrant seat, while he complains, 
 Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. 
 Alike, if folly or misfortune brought 
 Those last of woes his evil days have wrought ? 
 Relieve with social mercy, and, with me, 
 Folly's misfortune in the first degree. 
 
 Perhaps on some inhospitable shore 
 The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore; 
 Who, then no more by golden prospects led, 
 Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed. 
 Cold on Canadian hills, or Mindin's plain, 
 Perhaps that parent mourn'd her soldier slain : 
 Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew. 
 The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, 
 Gave the sad presage of his future years, 
 The child of misery baptiz'd in tears 1 
 
174 
 
 THE LOOtfUNG-GLASi 
 
 WILLIAM AND AMELIA. 
 
 IN a pleasant village, at some distance from the 
 metropolis, lived lord and lady Russel who had 
 brought up an orphan named William, from his 
 infancy, and had a stranger to the family seen in 
 what a tender manner he was treated, he would 
 have supposed him to be their son. This amiable 
 couple had only one child living, a daughter, nam- 
 ed Amelia, who was nearly of the same age with 
 William, and the lady was pleased to see that the 
 two children had som.ething beyond a common at- 
 tachment for each other. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. l75 
 
 William and Amelia were one fine summer morn- 
 ing sauntering in the orchard with their Httle 
 friend Charlotte, whose parents lived in the neigh- 
 bourhood. Of these two little misses, Amelia was 
 the youngest, and not quite eight years of age. 
 They were walking arm in arm, and humming 
 over a pretty song, then fashionable in the village 
 collection of ballads. At the same time William 
 was walking before them, at some little distance, 
 amusing himself with a shepherd's pipe. 
 
 While AmeUa and Charlotte were thus ram- 
 bling about, they cast their eyes on some beautiful 
 apples that hung on a fine tree, from which all the 
 fruit had been supposed to be gathered, bat the 
 branches had hidden some from view, and in 
 course had escaped the notice of the gatherers. 
 The beautiful vermilion, with which these apples 
 were tinged, and which the leaves could not en- 
 tirely hide, seemingly invited the hand to come 
 and take them. William instantly climbed the tree 
 they were admiring, and threw down as many ap- 
 ples as he could reachj while the ladies below held 
 their aprons to catch them as they fell. 
 
 Chance so directed it, that two or three, which 
 were considered as the finest, fell into the apron of 
 C'lrt.iOtte, who was much pleased with this acci- 
 dental distribution, as she might with reason have 
 
176 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 been, had a premeditated preference been the 
 cause of it, for William was in reality the politest 
 and prettiest little fellow in the village. 
 
 Charlotte, with joy and triumph in her eyes, 
 thus addressed herself to Amelia: "Only see how 
 fine and large my apples are, while yours are no- 
 thing to compare to them !" Amelia was very 
 much displeased with these words, she hung down 
 her head, and putting on a serious countenance^ 
 remained silent during the remainder of the walk. 
 William, by an hundred assiduities, endeavoured 
 to recover Amelia's cheerfulness, again to spread 
 a smile on her clouded countenance, and make her 
 renew her usual pleasing prattle. 
 
 As soon as they arrived near home, Charlotte 
 took her leave. Little William then addressed his 
 sister, for by that tender name he always called her, 
 and asked her why she seemed so angry with him. 
 <' Certainly, said he, you cannot be angry at Char- 
 lotte having her share of the apples. You very 
 well know that I always loved you best, and there- 
 fore endeavoured to throw into your apron those 
 apples, which by chance, fell into Charlbtte's. 
 You must be sensible, that I could not afterwards 
 take them from her. Besides, I thought you of too 
 generous a disposition to take notice of such trifles. 
 Be assured, the first opportunity that shall offer I 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, lT7 
 
 will give you a convincing proof that I had no de- 
 sign to vex you, whatever you may at present think 
 of my intentions." 
 
 « Very pretty, indeed, Mr. William ! replied 
 Amelia with a look of uneasiness and disdain. Pray 
 who told you that I was vexed ? Suppose miss 
 Charlotte's apples had been ten times finer than 
 mine, would that be any consideration to me? You 
 very well know, sir, that I am no glutton ; neither 
 should I have taken notice of the preference you 
 shewed her, had it not been for that saucy crea- 
 ture's looks, I never wish to see her more ; and as 
 for you, fall on your knees this instant, or I never 
 will forgive you while I live. 
 
 Little William could not tliink of submitting to 
 such an indignity, as that would be confessing a 
 fault of which he was not guilty, and therefore now 
 stood more upright than before. « I am no story- 
 teller, miss Amelia, said he, and therefore it is 
 very wrong in you not to believe what I so posi- 
 tively aiiirm, for I certainly had no design to vex 
 l-ou. 
 
 "' •'"Very wrong in me, sir! replied Amelia. 
 That is very pretty indeed 1 But you need not; 
 thus affront me, because miss Charlotte is your 
 favourite !" So saying, and bestowing a contemptu- 
 O 
 
ITS THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ous courtesy on him, she left him with r.n affected 
 air of scorn and contempt. 
 
 Dinner being now ready, they sat down at table, 
 but pouted at each other all the time it lasted. 
 Amelia would not once drink, in order to avoid 
 saying, '« Your good health William," And Wil- 
 liam, on his part, was so vexed at her treatmetJt 
 of him, that he was determined not to give up the 
 point. Amelia, however could not help sometimes 
 stealing a glance at William, and from a corner 
 of her eye watch all his motions. As it happen- 
 ed, one of these sly glances met the eye of Wil- 
 liam who was equally attentive to watch all the 
 motions of Amelia, without wishing to be observed. 
 Their eyes thus meeting, she instantly turned hers 
 away to another object : and as William attribut- 
 ed this to contempt, which in reality it was not, 
 he affected much indifference, and continued eat- 
 ing with the most apparent composure. 
 
 As soon as the cloth was removed, and the wine 
 and fruit put on the table, poor Amelia, being sad- 
 ly out of temper at the indifference, she expe- 
 rienced from William, made a disrespectful answer^ 
 to a question put to her by her mamma, and, for 
 a second offence of the same nature,, was ordered 
 to retire from table. She obeyed, and bursting into a 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 179 
 
 flood of tears, instantly withdrew, not caring whi- 
 ther she went. However it so happened, that the gar- 
 den door was open; she therefore flew down the 
 walk, and went into the arbour, in order there in 
 secret to give a vent to her grief. Here she cried 
 most lamentably ; and soon repented of her quarrel- 
 ling with William, who constantly, whenever she 
 happened to get into disgrace with her mamma^ 
 would not only weep with her, but endeavour to 
 bring about a reconciliation, which he never failed 
 to accomplish. 
 
 Though William continued at table, he could 
 not help feeling for the disgrace of Amelia. He 
 had fixed his eye on two peaches, and endeavour- 
 ed to contrive means of getting them into his pock- 
 et in order to convey them to Amelia, whom he 
 knew he should find some where in the garden, and 
 'he could easily make an excuse to go thither; yet 
 he was fearful of having his intentions discovered. 
 He pushed back his chair, then brought it forwards 
 several times, and was continually looking down, as 
 if for something on the carpet. «' Pretty little 
 Caesar! sweet Pompey l" cried he speaking to two 
 dogs then in the room. At this time, he heid a 
 peach in his hand, which he meant to slip into his 
 pocket, as soon as he could discover the eves of my 
 
180 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 lord and lady attracted by any other object. "On-- 
 ly see, papa and mamma, continued he, how prettily 
 ihey are playing!'* 
 
 His lordship replied, that they would not eat one 
 another, he would answer for it ; and having just 
 looked at them, put himself into his former posi- 
 fion. Thus poor William, who thought he wjis 
 then sure of pocketing the peach, was sadly disap- 
 pointed, and obliged to replace it on the table. 
 
 These motions, however, were observed by lady 
 Russel, who conjectured what were his intentions. 
 She therefore for some time enjoyed the poor fel- 
 low's embarrassments, and made his lordship ac- 
 quainted with it by looks and dumb motions. 
 
 William, who had no idea that his scheme was 
 suspected, being fearful of trying the same strata- 
 gem twice, instantly thought of another expedient. 
 He took a peach, and placed it in the hollow of 
 his hands, both put together, after which he con- 
 ducted it to his mouth, and made believe as though 
 he was really eating it. Then while with his left 
 hand he found means to clap his peach' into a cav- 
 ity he had previously hollowed in the napkin on 'his 
 knees, he put his right hand out to reach the other, 
 which he disposed of in the same manner. 
 
 In a few minutes, my lord and lady forgot to 
 
THE LOOKIVG-GLASS. 181 
 
 watch the motiq^ of William, nnd entered into 
 conversation on " various subjects. He therefore 
 thought this a proper opportunity to get away, 
 rose up from table, with both peaches in the nap- 
 kin, and began to imitate the mewing of a cat, which 
 a young shepherd's boy had lately taught him. 
 His views in this was to engage the attention of 
 Caesar and Pompey,,in which he succeeded, as they 
 both got up, and jumped about the room. 
 
 Lady Russel was a little angry with him for 
 making such a noise, and told liim, if he wanted 
 to make such a mfewing as that, the garden was 
 the most proper place. William pretended to be 
 very much confused at this reproof, though the 
 consequence of it was the very thing he wanted. 
 He then instantly ran up to Coesar, "See mamma, 
 said William, he wants to bite Pompey !" and as 
 he turned, he dexterously slipped the napkin i'^to 
 his pocket, and pretended to run after Caesar to 
 punish him. The dog ran towards the door Ame- 
 lia had left open when she weht into the garden, 
 and away went William in pursuit of her 
 
 Lady Russel called William back, and asked him 
 
 where he was going. *< My dear mamma, said he, 
 
 if you please, I will take a turn in the garden, and 
 
 I hope you will not refuse me that favour^" As 
 
 Q2 
 
182 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 lady Riissel did not immediately answer him, he 
 lowered his voice, and spoke in a more suppliant 
 manner. At last, having obtained her permission 
 away he ran with so much haste, that his foot slip- 
 ped, and down he fell ; but luckily, neither he nor 
 the peaches were hurt. 
 
 After searching round the garden for his sister, 
 he at last found her in the arbour, sitting in an at- 
 titude of sorrow. She was exceedingly unhappy 
 to think she had grieved the three best friends she 
 liad, her worthy parents and her dear William. 
 « My sweetest Amelia, said the little fellow, falling 
 on his knees at the same time, let us be h-iends. I 
 would freely ask forgiveness for my fault, had I 
 really intended to displease yon. If you will ask 
 my pardon, I will ask yours also. My pretty Ame- 
 lia let us be friends. Here are two nice peaches 
 which I could not think of eating while you were 
 not present to partake of them." 
 
 «< Ah my dearest Billy ! said Amelia, squeezing 
 his hand while she spoke, and weeping on his 
 shoulder, what a sweet good-tempered little fellow 
 you are ? Certainly, continued she, sobbing while 
 she spoke, those that are friends to us in our mis- 
 fortunes are truly valuable. It was very wrong in 
 me to be so vexed as I was this morning, about the 
 loss of a few apples. It was the insulting look that 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 18^ 
 
 Miss Charlotte gave me that was the cause of it ; 
 but I will think^ her no more. Will you forgive 
 me ? added she, wiping off the tears she had let fall 
 on William's hand, I confess that I sometimes love 
 to plague you ; but keep your peaches, for I can- 
 not tliink of eating them." 
 
 " As to plaguing me, sister, answered William, 
 you may do that as often as you like ; but, I as- 
 sure you nobody shall do so but yourself ; as to 
 the peaches, I most certainly will not eat them ; 
 I have already told you so, and my word is like 
 the law of the Medes and Persians, which altereth 
 not. 
 
 '< For the very same reason, said Amelia, I shall 
 not eat them," and immediately threw them both 
 over the garden wall j for, besides her having said 
 she would not eat them, she could not bear the 
 thought of receiving a bribe to reconcile a quarrel. 
 Amelia's next consideration was how to make it up 
 with her mamma, and she said she should be hap- 
 py indeed, if she would but permit her to appear 
 before her and ask her pardon. 
 
 The generous little William no sooner heard 
 these words, than he promised to settle that busi- 
 ness, and away he instantly ran ^ but before he had 
 taken many steps, he stopped short, and turning 
 
184 THE LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 round, said, «^I will tell mamma, that it was I who 
 made you anger her, by having^iijexed you in the 
 morning,'" 
 
 Little William succeeded beyond his expecta- 
 tions, and all parties were soon reconciled to each 
 other. A friendship so affectionate and generous, 
 is highly worthy the imitation of all my juvenile 
 readers. 
 
 O happy they! the happiest of their kind! 
 Whom gentle stars unite, and in one fate 
 Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 
 'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws, 
 Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind. 
 That binds their peace, but harmony itself, 
 Attuning all their passions into love; 
 Where friendship full exerts her softest power, 
 Perfect esteem enliven'd by desire 
 Ineffable and sympathy of soul ; 
 Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will 
 With boundless confidence, for naught but love 
 Can answer love, and render bliss secure- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 THE RIVAL DOGS. 
 
 A GENTLEMAN, whose name was Howard, 
 had brought up two pretty dogs from puppies. The 
 one he called Castor, and the other Pollux, hoping 
 they would live in such friendship together, as did 
 the two illustrious heroes, after whom they were 
 named. Though they both came from the same 
 mother, and at the same time •, had been both fed 
 together, and equally treated; yet it was sodn seen, 
 that there was a great difference in their tempers 
 and dispositions. 
 
186 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Castor was of a meek and tractable nature ! but 
 Pollux was fierce and quarrelsome. When any 
 person took notice of the generous Castor, he would 
 wag his tail, and jump about for joy, nor was he 
 ever jealous on seeing more notice taken of his 
 brother than of himself. The surly Pollux, on the 
 contrary, whenever Mr. Howard had him on his 
 lap, would growl and grumble at Castor, if he at- 
 tempted to come near him, or if any one took no- 
 tice of him. 
 
 When any of Mr. Howard's friends happened to 
 come on a visit to his house, and bring their dogs 
 along with them, the good natured Castor would 
 immediately mix among them, and in his way en- 
 deavour to amuse them. As he was by nature ex- 
 tremely pliant and engaging, they were all peace 
 and harmony whenever it fell to his lot to entertain 
 them. They would jump and play about the house, 
 as boys do in school when they are left to them- 
 selves. 
 
 The surly Pollux acted a very diuerent part. 
 He would sneak into a corner, and bark all day at 
 the strangers. If any of them happened to pass too 
 near him, he would then be sure to snarl and grin, 
 ^^^^d would often start up, and bite their ears or tails. 
 If his master happened to take any notice of 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 187 
 
 either of the strange dogs, on account of their 
 good-nature or handsomeness, Pollux would howl 
 as loud as if thieves were actually breaking into the 
 house. 
 
 This odious disposition of Pollux did not escape 
 tlie notice of Mr. Howard, who gradually began to 
 ncGjlect him; while Castor, on the contrary, was 
 f every day increasing in his master's favour. 
 
 As Mr. Howard was one day sitting at table, it 
 suddenly entered his mind to make a more par- 
 ticular trial of the temper of those two dogs than 
 he had hitherto done. Both happened to be at- 
 tending at table, but Pollux was nearest his mas- 
 tv^r ; for the good natured Castor, in order to avoid 
 strife and contention, always let him choose his 
 place. 
 
 Mr. Howard threw a nice piece of meat to Pol- 
 lux, which he devoured v^ith much greediness, 
 * Castor shewed no signs of uneasiness at this, but 
 patiently waited till his master should think it was 
 his turn. Soon afterwards Mr. Howard threw 
 Castor a bone with hardly any meat on it ; but he 
 took it without showing the least mark of discon- 
 tent. ; 3^e surly Pollux, however, no sooner saw 
 his brother engaged on his meatless bone, though 
 he had feasted on his own delicious morsel, than 
 lie fell upon him, and took it from him. The good 
 
188 THE LOOKIKG-GLASS. 
 
 natured Castor made no opposition, but gave up 
 the bone without a murmur. 
 
 My readers must not from hence imagine, that, 
 Castor was a coward, or was in the least afraid of 
 the strength of his brother-, for he had lately giv- 
 en sufficient proof of his courage and resolution, in 
 a battle he had been drawn into by Pollux, whose 
 intolerable moroseness had brought on him the 
 vengeance of a neighbouring dog. Pollux, after 
 engaging his antagonist only a few minutes, though 
 he had provoked the dog to try his strength, ran 
 away like a coward j but Castor, in order to cover 
 the retreat of his brother, and without any one to 
 take his part, fought him Uke a hero, and at last 
 forced him to run away likewise. 
 
 Mr. Howard was well acquainted with this cir- 
 cumstance, and as he had before established his 
 credit, in point of courage, so was his master now 
 fully convinced of his good temper, and the surly 
 and cowardly disposition of his brother. <* My 
 good fellow, said Mr. Howard to Castor, it is but 
 just that you should fare as well as your brother, 
 who does not deserve so much as you." So saying, 
 he cut off a large piece of nice meat, and gs^ve it to ^ 
 Castor. 
 
 Pollux seeing so nice a morsel given to his bro- 
 ther, accompanied with such cutting words from 
 
r^ 
 
 THE LOOKlNG-CiLASjS. J 8l> 
 
 his master, began to growl and snarl. « Since 
 you have shewn so much complaisance and gen- 
 erosity to your brothe% continued Mr. Howard, 
 still speaking to Castor, who in return treats you 
 with ill manners, jealousy and envy, you shall in 
 future be my own dog, and be at liberty to range 
 about the house at your pleasure j but your brother 
 shall be conllned in the yard. Here, (cried he) 
 bring a chain for Pollux, and order the carpenter 
 to make him a little house !" The order was in- 
 stantly obeyed, and Pollux was led to his kennel, 
 while his brother rambled about at liberty. 
 
 Had Pollux received so singular a mark of fa- 
 vour, he would undoubtedly have supported it with 
 insolence j but Castor was of a difierent disposi- 
 tion, and appeared very unhappy at his brother* 
 disgrace. Whenever any nice bit was given to 
 Castor, he would run away with It to Pollux, wag 
 his tail for joy, and invite him to partake of it. In 
 short he visited him every night in his house, and 
 did every thing he could to a^nuse him under his 
 sufferings. 
 
 Notwithstanding all these marks of tenderness,- 
 Pollux always received his brother in the most sur- 
 ly manner, Iiowling as though he were come to 
 devour him, and treating hun with every mark of 
 disrespect. At length rage and disappointment in- 
 R 
 
190 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 flamed his blood, he pined away by degrees, and aC 
 last died a miserable spectacle. 
 
 The moral of this story i^so obvious, that there 
 hardly appears a necessity to tell my young readers, 
 that such a disposition as Pollux's must render its 
 possessor an object of contempt and abhorrence, 
 while that of Castor will ever be beloved and re* 
 spected. 
 
 Nor think, in Nature* s state they blindly trod ; 
 The state of Nature was the reign of Go(f^.: 
 Self-love and social at her birth began, 
 Union the bond of all things, and of mafi. 
 Pride then was not ; nor arts that pride to aid ; 
 Man walk'd with beast joint tenant of the shade j 
 The same his table, and the same his bed \ 
 No murder cloth'd him, and no murder fed. 
 In the same temple the resounding wood, 
 All vocal beings hymn'd their equal God : 
 Heav'n's attribute was universal care, 
 And man's prerogative to rule, but spare. 
 Ah ! how unlike the than of times to come ! 
 Of half that live the butcher and the tomb, 
 Who, foe to nature hear the genVal groan, 
 Murders their species, and betrays his own. 
 But just disease to luxury succeeds, 
 And every death its own avenger breeds ; 
 The fury passions from that blood began, 
 And turn'd on man, a fiercer savage man. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLAS£. 
 
 lt>l 
 
 CLEOPATRA; OR, THE RKFORMtD LITTLE TYRANT. 
 
 A PERT little vixen, whose name was Cleopa- 
 tra, was continually teazing and commanding her 
 poor brother. <« So, you will not do what I bid you, 
 3Mr. Obstinacy ! (she would often say to him.) Come 
 come, sir. obey, or it shall be the worse for you." 
 
 If Cleopatra's word might be taken for it, her 
 brother did every thing^w^^rong ; but on the contfa- 
 iry, whatever she thought ©f doing, was the master-^ 
 piece of reason and sound sense. If he proposed any 
 
J9*2 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 kind of diversion she was sure to consider it as dull 
 and insipid j but it often happened that she would 
 herself the next day recommend the same thing, 
 and having forgotten what she had said of it before, 
 consider it as the most lively and entertaining. 
 
 Her brother was obliged to submit to her unac- 
 countable whims and fancies, or else endure the 
 most disagreeable lectures a little female tongue 
 could utter. If ever he presumed to be so hardy 
 as to reason with her on her strange conduct, in- 
 stant destruction to his play-things were the. inevi- 
 table consequence of it. 
 
 Her parents with regret saw this strange and 
 tyranical disposition of their daughter, and in vain 
 did everything they could think of to break her 
 of it. Her mother in particular, continually enforc- 
 ed on her mind, that such children never procured 
 the esteem of others ; and that a girl, who set up 
 her own opinion against that of every one else, 
 would soon become intolerable and insupportable 
 to all her acquaintance. This prudent advice, 
 however, made no impression on her stubborn 
 heart j and her brother, wearied out by her caprice 
 and tyranny, began to have very little afiection 
 for her. It one day happened, that a gentleman 
 of a free and open temper dined at their house. 
 
' 
 
 THE LOOKIN'G-GLASS. I9f> 
 
 He could not help observing with what a haughty 
 air she treated her poor brother, and indeed, every 
 other person in the room. At first the rules of 
 politeness kept him from saying anything *, but at 
 last, tired out with her impertinence, he began, ad- 
 dressing his discourse to her mamma in the follow- 
 ing manner : 
 
 « I was lately in France *, and as I was fond of 
 being present at the soldiers' exercise, I used to go 
 as ofjen as I could to see their manoeuvres on the 
 parade, nearly in the same manner as they do 
 here on the field days. Among the soldiers there 
 were many I observed with whiskers, which gave 
 them a very fierce soldier-like look. Now had I a 
 child like your Cleopatra, I would instantly give 
 her a soldier's uniform, and put on her a pair of 
 whiskers, when she might with rather more pro- 
 priety than at present, act the part of a command- 
 er." 
 
 Cleopatra heard this, and stood covered with 
 confusion ! she could not help blushing, and was 
 unable to conceal her tears. However, this re« 
 proach perfectly reformed her, and she became 
 sensible how unbecoming was a tyranizing temper. 
 It has been observed, that to be sensible of our er- 
 rors is half the work of reformation. So k hap- 
 pened with Cleopatra, who with the asslstaaee o€ 
 R2 
 
194 THE LOOK.USG-GLASS. 
 
 her mother's prudent counsels, became an amiable 
 girl. 
 
 Her reformation was a credit to her ; and it is 
 much to be wished that all young ladies, who take 
 no pains to conquer their passions, would at least 
 imitate Cleopatra, and wish to avoid being told, 
 that a soldier's dress and a pair of whiskers would 
 better become them than nice cambrick frocks and 
 silk slips. Had Cleopatra attended to the advice 
 of her parents, and not have imagined that great- 
 ness consists in impertinence, she would have been 
 happy much sooner than she was. 
 
 There was a little stubborn dame, 
 Whom no authority could tame *, 
 Restive by long indulgence grown-, 
 iVio will she mind<?d but her own ; 
 At trifles oft sheM scold and fret. 
 Then in a corner take a seat. 
 And surly moping all the day, 
 Disdain alike to work or play, 
 
 Papa all softer arts had try'd, 
 And sharper remedies apply 'd ; 
 But both were vain, for every course 
 He took still made her worse and v/orse. 
 Mamma observed the rising lass 
 By stealth retiring to the glass ; 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 195 
 
 On this a deep design she laid 
 
 To tame the humour of the maid. 
 
 Contriving, like a prudent mother, 
 
 'J'o make one folly cure another : 
 
 Upon the wall, against the seat 
 
 Which Cleo' us*d for her retreat, 
 
 AVhene'er by accident offended, 
 
 A looking-glass was straight suspended, 
 
 That she might shew her how deform'd ; 
 
 She look'd, and frightful, when she stornVd 
 
 And warn her, as she priz'd her beauty. 
 
 To bend her humour to her duty. 
 
 All this the looking-glass achiev'd, 
 
 Its threats were minded and believed. 
 
 The maid, who spurn'd at all advice> 
 
 Grew tame and gentle in a trice ; 
 
 So when all other means had f aiPd, 
 
 The silent monitor prevail'd. 
 
19(i 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 jJC^'^lnS^^S^^^'^^^^^^^ 
 
 THE PASSIONATE BOY, 
 
 YOUNG Frederick had naturally a noble soul, 
 elevated thoughts, and generous notions. His turn 
 of mind was lively, his imagination strong and 
 quick, and his temper cheerful and pleasing. In- 
 deed, the elegance of his person, and his behaviour 
 and accomplishments, gained him the respect of 
 every one ; but notwithstanding all these amiable 
 quvilities, he had one unhappy defect, which was 
 that of giving way too readily to the most violent 
 emotions of passion. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 197 
 
 It would frequently happen, that while he was 
 amusing himself in the circle of his playmates, the 
 most trifling contradiction would ruffle his temper 
 and fill him with the highest degree of rage and 
 fury, little short of madness. 
 
 As he happened to be one day walking about 
 his chamber, and meditating on the necessary 
 preparations for a treat his father had permitted 
 him to give his sister, his dear friend and favourite, 
 Marcus, came to him to advise with him on that 
 business. Frederick being lost in thought, saw not 
 his friend, who, therefore, having spoken to him 
 in vain, drew nearer to him, and began to pull 
 him by the sleeve. Frederick, angry and out of 
 patience with these interruptions, suddenly turned 
 around, and gave Marcus such a push, that he sent 
 him reeling across the room, and he at last fell 
 against the wainscot. 
 
 Marcus lay motionless on the floor, without the 
 least appearance of life -, for in his fall, he had 
 struck his head against something which had given 
 him a deep and terrible wound, from which issued 
 a great quantity of blood. How shall we describe 
 the situation of poor Frederick, who loved his 
 friend tenderly, and for whom he would, on occa- 
 sion, have sacrificed his life ! 
 
1S8 THE L00KING-GLA5S. 
 
 Frederick fell down beside him, crying out most 
 lamentably, *< He is dead ! he is dead ! I have kil- 
 led my dear friend Marcus !" So great were his 
 fright and consternation, that he had no idea of cal- 
 ling for assistance, but lay by his side uttering the 
 most^ismal groans. Happily, however, his father 
 heard him, and instantly running in, took up Mar- 
 cus in his arms. He called for some sugar to stop 
 the bleeding of the . wound, and having applied 
 some salts to his nose, and some water to his tem- 
 ples, they brought Ihim a little to himself. 
 
 Frederick was transported with joy when he per- 
 ceived symptoms of life in his friend \ but the fear 
 of relapse kept him in the greatest anxiety. They 
 immediately sent for a surgeon, who as soon as he 
 arrived, searched the wound. He found it was not 
 in the temple, but so very close to it, that the tenth 
 part of an inch nearer would probably have made 
 the wound dangerous indeed, if not mortal. 
 
 Marcus being carried home, soon became deliri- 
 ous, and Frederick could not be persuaded to leave 
 him. He sat down by the side of his poor friend, 
 wholly absorbed in silence. Marcus while he re- 
 mained in that delirious state, frequently pronounc- 
 ed the name of Frederick. "My dear Frederick, 
 he would sometimes say, what could I have done 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 199 
 
 to deserve being treated in this manner ? Yet I am 
 sure, you cannot be less unhappy than myself, 
 when you reflect you wounded me without a cause. 
 However, I would not wish your generous nature 
 should be grieved. Let us forgive each other, I 
 for vexing you, and you for wounding me." 
 
 In this manner did Marcus talk, without being 
 sensible that Frederick was near him, though he 
 held him by the hand at the same time. Every 
 word thus pronounced, in which there could be 
 neither flattery nor deceit, went to the heart of the 
 afflicted Frederick, and rendered his grief almost 
 insupportable. 
 
 la ten days time, however, It pleased God to 
 abate the fever, and he was enabled to get up, to 
 the great joy of his parents ; but how can we ex- 
 press the feelings of Frederick on this happy oc- 
 casion ! That task must be left for those who may 
 have unfortunately been in a similar situation : his 
 joy now was undoubtedly as great as his sorrows 
 had been. 
 
 Marcus at last got perfectly well, and Frederick 
 in consequence recovered his former cheerfulness 
 and good humour. He now stood in need of no 
 other lesson than the sorrowful event that had late- 
 ly taken place, to break himself of that violence of 
 temper, to which he had been so long a slave. In 
 a little time, no appearance of the wound remain- 
 
 / 
 
200 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ed, excepting a small scar near his temple, which 
 Frederick could never look at without some emo- 
 tion, even after they were both grown up to man- 
 hood. Indeed, it ever afterwards was considered 
 as a seal of that friendship, which they never lost 
 sight of. 
 
 And therefore wert thou bred to virtuous know- 
 ledge, ^ 
 
 And wisdom early planted in thy soul, i^ 
 
 That thou might'st know to rule thy fiery passions; 
 To bind their rage, an^ stay their headlong course ; 
 To bear with accidents, and every change 
 Of various life ; to struggle with adversity ; 
 To wait the leisure of the righteous God, 
 Till he in his own good appointed hour, 
 Shall bid thy better days come forth at once, 
 A long and shining -rain ; till thou, well pleas'd 
 Shalt bow, and bless thy fate, and say that God is 
 just. 
 
TH£ LOOXING-GLASS. 
 
 2di 
 
 CAROLII^E, OR A LESSON TO CURE VANITY. 
 
 A PLAIN white frock had hitherto been the 
 only dress of Caroline. Silver buckles in her red 
 Morocco shoes 5 and her ebon hair, which had ne- 
 ver felt the torturing iron, flowed upon her should- 
 ers in graceful ringlets, now and then disturbed by 
 the gentle winds. " '^ 
 
 Being one day in company vfith. some little girls, 
 who, though no older than herself, were dressed iri 
 
 all the empty parade oi fashion, the glare and glit- 
 S 
 
JOii THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ter of those fine clothes raised in her heart a desire 
 she had never before felt. 
 
 As soon as she got home, " My dear mamma, 
 said she, I have this afternoon seen miss Flippant 
 and her two sisters, whom you very well know. 
 The eldest is not older than myself, and yet they 
 were all dressed in the most elegant manner. Their 
 parents must certainly have great pleasure in see- 
 ing them so finely dressed; and, as they are not 
 richer than you, do, my dear mamma, let me have 
 a fine silk slip, embroided shoes like theirs, and let 
 my liair be dressed by Mr Frizzle, who is said to 
 be a very capital man in his profession!" 
 
 Her mother replied, that she should have no ob- 
 iection to gratify her wishes, provided it would add 
 to her happiness ; but she was rather fearful it 
 might have a contrary effect. As miss Caroline 
 could not give into this mode of thinking, she re- 
 quested her mamma to explain her reasons for what 
 she had said. 
 
 '< Because, said her mother, you will be in con- 
 tinual fear of spotting your silk slip, and even 
 rumpling it whenever you wear it. A dress hke 
 that of miss Flippant will require the utmost care 
 and attention to preserve it from accidents; for a 
 single spot will spoil its beauty, and you very well 
 know there is no washing of silks. However ex- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, 203 
 
 tensive my fortune may be, I assure you, it is not 
 sufficient to purchase you silk gowns so often as 
 you would wish to have them." 
 
 Miss Caroline considered these arguments as ve- 
 ry trifling, and promised to give her mamma no 
 uneasiness as to her carelessness in wearing her 
 fme clothes. Though her mam.ma consented to 
 let her be dressed in the manner she requested, 
 yet she desired her to remember the hints she had 
 given her of the vexations to which her vanity 
 would expose her. 
 
 Miss Caroline, on whom this good advice had no 
 effect, lost not a moment in destroying all the 
 pleasure and enjoyment of her infancy. Her hair, 
 which before hung down in careless ringlets, was 
 now twisted up in paper, and squeezed betv/een a 
 burning pair of tongs; that fine jet, which had 
 hitherto so happily set oft the whiteness of her 
 forehead, was lost under a clod of powder and po- 
 matum. 
 
 In a few days the mantua-maker arrived with a 
 fine slip of pea green taffata, with fine pink trim- 
 mings, and a pair of shoes, elegantly worked to 
 answer the slip. The sight of them gave infinite 
 pleasure to Caroline ; but it was easily to be per- 
 ceived, when she had them on, that her limbs 
 were under great restraint, and her motions, had 
 
"^04f THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Jest their accustomed ease and freedom. That in- 
 nocence and candour, which used to adorn hey 
 lovely countenance, began to be lost amidst the 
 profusion of flowers, silks, gauzes, and ribbands. 
 
 The novelty, however, of her appearance, quite 
 enchanted her. Her eyes, with uncommon eager- 
 ness, wandered over every part of her dress, and 
 were seldom removed, unless to take a general 
 survey of the whole in a pier-glass. She prevailed 
 On her mamma, to let her send cards of invitation 
 to all her acquaintances, in order to enjoy the in- 
 expressible pleasure of being gazed at. As soon 
 as they were met, she would walk backwards and 
 forwards before them, like a peacock, and seem to 
 consider herself, as the empress of the world, and 
 they as her vassals. 
 
 All this triumph and consequence, however, 
 met with many mortifying circumstances. The 
 children who lived near her, were one day permit- 
 ted to ramble about the fields, when Caroline ac- 
 companied theni and led the way. What first at- 
 tracted their attention, was a beautiful meadow, 
 enamelled with a variety of charming flowers ; and 
 butterflies, whose wings were of various colours, 
 hovered over its surface. The little ladies amused 
 themr>elves with hunting these butterflies, which 
 'hey dexterously caught without hurting them j 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 205 
 
 and, as soon as they bad examined their beauties 
 let them fly again. Of the flowers that sprung 
 beneath their feet, they made nosegays, formed in 
 the prettiest taste. 
 
 Though pride would not at first permit miss Ca- 
 roline to partake of these mean amusements, yet 
 she at last wanted to share in the diversion; but they 
 told her, that the ground might be damp which 
 would Infallibly stain lier shoes, and hurt her silk 
 slip. They had discovered her intention in thus 
 bringing .them together, which was only to shew 
 her fine clothes, and they were therefore resolved 
 to mortify her vanity. 
 
 Miss Caroline was of course under the necessity 
 of being solitary and inactive, while her companions 
 sported on the grass without fear of incommoding 
 themselves. The pleasure she had lately taken in 
 viewing her fine slip and shoes was, at this moment, 
 but a poor compensation for the mirth and meijri- 
 ment she thereby lost. 
 
 On one side of the meadov/ grev/ a fine grove 
 of trees, which resounded with the various notes 
 of innumerable birds, and which seemed to invite 
 every one that passed that way to retire thither, and 
 partake of the indulgences of the shade. The lit- 
 tle maidens entered this grove, jumping and' sport*. 
 
2j06 the looking-glass. 
 
 ing, without fearing any injury to their clothes. 
 Miss Caroline would have followed them, but they 
 advised her not, telling her, that the bushes would 
 certainly tear her fine trimmings. She plainly saw 
 that her friends who were joyously sporting among 
 the trees, were making themselves merry at her 
 expense, and therefore grew peevish and ill-hu- 
 moured. 
 
 The youngest of the visitors, however, had some 
 sort of compassion on her. She had just discovered 
 a corner where a quantity of fine wild strawberries 
 grew, when she called to miss Caroline, and invi- 
 ted her to eat part of them. This she readily at- 
 tempted ; but no sooner had she entered the grove, 
 than she was obhged to call out for help. Hereup- 
 on the children all gathered to the spot, and found 
 poor Caroline fastened by the gauze of her hat to a 
 branch of white-thorn, from which she could not 
 disengage herself. They immediately took out the 
 pins that fastened her hat •, but to add to her mis- 
 fortune, as her hair, which had been frizzled witk 
 so much labour, was also entangled with the 
 branch of white-thorn, it cost her almost a whole 
 lock before she could be set at liberty. Thus, ii^ 
 an instant, was all the boasted superstructure of her 
 head dress put into a state of confusion. 
 
 After what had passed, it cannot be difficult to 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 207 
 
 suppose in what manner her playmates viewed this 
 accident. Instead of consolation, of which Caro- 
 line stood in much need, they could not refrain 
 laughing at the odd figure she made, and did actu- 
 ally torment her with, an hundred witty jokes. 
 Alter having put her a little into order, they quit- 
 ted her in search of new amusements, and were 
 soon seen on the top of a neighbouring hill. 
 
 Miss Caroline found it very difficult to reach 
 this hill 5 for her fine shoes, that were made very 
 tight, in order to set off her feet the better, great- 
 ly retarded her speed. Nor was this the only in- 
 convenience •, for her stays were drawn so close 
 that she could not properly breathe. She would 
 very willingly have gone home to change her dress, 
 in order to be more at ease ; but she well knew that 
 her friends would not givje up their amusements 
 to please her caprice. 
 
 Her playmates having reached the summit of 
 the hill, enjoyed the beautiful prospect that sur- 
 rounded them on all sides. On one hand were seen 
 verdant meadows ; on the other the riches of the 
 harvest, with meandering streams that intersected 
 the fields, and country seats and cottages scattered 
 here and there. So grand a prospect could not 
 fail ot delighting them, and they danced about with 
 }oy •, while poor Caroline found herself obliged to 
 
208 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 remain below, overwhelmed with sorrow, not be- 
 ing able to get up the hill. 
 
 In such a situation she had leisure enough to 
 make the most serious reflections. " To what pur- 
 pose said she to herself, am I dressed in these fine 
 clothes ? Of what a deal of pleasure do they debar 
 me, and do not all my present sufferings arise 
 merely from the possession of them ?" She was 
 giving up her mind to these distressing thoughts, 
 when she suddenly saw her friends come running 
 down the hill, and all crying out together as they 
 passed her, " run, run, Caroline 1 there is a terri- 
 ble storm behind the hill, and it is coming to- 
 wards us ! If you do not make haste, your fine 
 silk slip will be nicely soused !" 
 
 The fear of having her slip spoiled recalled her 
 strength -, she forgot hen weariness, pinched feet, 
 and tight laced waist, and made all the haste she 
 could to get under cover. In spite of all her efforts, 
 however, she could not run so fast as her compa- 
 nions, who were not incommoded by their dresses. 
 Every moment produced some obstacle to her 
 speed ; at one time, by her boon and flounces in 
 the narrow paths she had to pass through ; at ano*^ 
 ther, by her train, of which the furzes frequently 
 took hold j and at others, by mons. Pomatum and 
 Powder's fine scafi:bld work about her head, on 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, 209 
 
 which the wind beat down the branches of such 
 trees as she was obHged, in her progress home to 
 pass under. 
 
 At last, down came the storm with great fury, 
 and hail and rain mixed fell in torrents. All her 
 companions were safe at home before it began, and 
 none were exposed to its rage but poor Caroline, 
 who indeed, got home at last, but in a most disas- 
 terous condition. She had left one of her fine shoes 
 behind her in a large muddy hole, which, in her 
 precipitate flight, she had hurried over without ob- 
 serving -, and to fill up the measure of her misfor- 
 tunes, just as she had got over the meadow, a sud- 
 den gust of wind made free with her hat, and blew 
 it into a pond of stagnated and filthy water. 
 
 So completely soaked was every thing she had 
 on, and the heat and rain had so glued her Unen 
 to her, that it was with difficulty they got her un- 
 dressed ; as to her silk slip, it indeed afforded a 
 miserable spectacle of fallen pride and vanity. 
 
 Her mother seeing her in tears, jocosely said to 
 her, « My dear, shall I have another slip made up 
 for you against to-morrow" ?" — « Oh, no, mamma, 
 answered Caroline, kissing her, I am perfectly con- 
 vinced from experience, that fine clothes cannot 
 add to the happiness of the wearer. Let me again 
 have my nice white frock, and no more powder 
 
ilO THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 and pomatum till I am at least ten years older ? tor 
 I am ashamed of my folly and vanity." 
 
 Caroline soon appeared in her former dress, and 
 with it she recovered her usual ease and freedom, 
 looking more modest and pleasing than she over 
 did in her gaudy finery. Her mamma did not re- 
 gret the loss she had sustained in the wreck of the 
 silk slip, fine shoes, and hat, since it produced the 
 means of bringing her daughter back to reason 
 and prudence. 
 
 What is the sex's earliest, latest care, 
 The heart's supreme. ambition ? To be fair : 
 For this the toilet every thought employs. 
 Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys : 
 For this, hands, lips and eyes, are put to school, 
 And each instructed feature has its rule ; 
 And yet how few have learnt, when this is giv'n 
 Not to disgrace the partial boon of heav'n ? 
 Do you, my fair endeavour to possess 
 An elegance of mind as well as dress •, 
 Be that your ornament, and know to please 
 By graceful nature's unaffected ease. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS* 
 
 211 
 
 ARTHUR AND ADRIAN ; OR, TWO HEADS BETTER 
 THAN ONE. 
 
 ADRIAN ha J frequently heard his father 
 say, that children had but little knowledge with 
 respect to what was most proper for them ; and 
 that the greatest proof they could give of their 
 wisdom, consisted in following the advice of peo- 
 ple, who had more age and experience. This 
 was a kind of doctrine Adrian did not understand, 
 or at least would not, therefore it is no wonder he 
 forgot it. 
 
212 i'HE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 This wise and good father had allotted him and 
 his brother Arthur a convenient piece of ground, 
 in order that each might be possessed of a little 
 garden, and display his knowledge and industry in 
 the cultivation of it. They had also leave to sow 
 whatever seed they should think proper, and to 
 transplant any tree they liked out of their father's 
 garden into their own. 
 
 Arthur remembered those words of his father, 
 which his brother Adrian had forgotten, and there- 
 fore went to consult their gardener Rufus. ** Pray 
 tell me, said he, what is now in season to sow in 
 my garden, and in what manner I am to set about 
 my business ?'* The gardener hereupon gave him 
 several roots and seeds, such as were most proper 
 for the season. Arthur instantly ran and put 
 them in the ground, and Rufus, very kindly, not 
 only assisted him in the work, but made him ac- 
 quainted with many things necessary to be 
 known. 
 
 Adrian, on the other hand, shrugged up hi^ 
 shoulders at his brother's industry, thinking he was 
 taking much more pains than was necessary. Ru- 
 fus not observing this contemptuous treatment, of- 
 fered him likewise his assistance and instruction ; 
 but he refused it in a manner that sufficiently be- 
 trayed his vanity and ignorance. He then went 
 
THE LOOKING-GLA^. 213 
 
 into his father's garden and took from thence a 
 quantity of flowers which he immediately trans- 
 planted into his own. The gardener took notice 
 of him but left him to do as he liked. 
 
 When Adrian visited his garden the next morn- 
 ing, all the flowers he had planted hung down their 
 heads like so many mourners at a funeral, and, as 
 he plainly saw, were in a dying state. He replaced 
 them with others from his father's garden j but, 
 on visiting them the next morning, he found them 
 perishing like the former. 
 
 This was a matter of great vexation to Adrian, 
 who consequently became soon disgusted with this 
 kind of business. He had no idea of taking so 
 much pains for the possession of a few flowers, and 
 therefore gave it up as an unprofitable game. 
 Hence his piece of ground soon became a wilder- 
 ness of weeds and thistles. 
 
 As he was looking into his brother's garden, 
 about the beginning of summer, he saw something 
 of a red colour hanging near the ground, which, 
 on examination he found to be strawberries of a 
 delicious flavour. " Ah ! (said he) I should have 
 planted strawberries in my garden. 
 
 Some time afterwards, walking again in his 
 brother's garden, he saw little berries of a milk • 
 T 
 
il i THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 white colour, which hung down in clusters from 
 the branches of a bush Upon examination, he 
 found they were currants, which even the sight of 
 was a feast. Ah ! (said hej I should have planted 
 currants in my garden," 
 
 The gardener then observed to him, that it was 
 his own fault that his garden was not as productive 
 as his brother's. " Never for the future, (said Ru- 
 fus) despise the instruction and assistance of a-ny 
 one, since you will find by experience, that iivo 
 heads are better than c/.r." 
 
 What self-sufficiency and false content 
 Benumb the senses of the indolent ! 
 Dead to all purposes of good or ill, 
 Alive alone in an unactive will. 
 His only vice in no good action lies. 
 And his sole virtue is his want of vice. 
 Business he deems too hard, trifles too easy, 
 And doing nothing finds himself too busy. 
 Wealth is procur'd with toil, and kept with fear 
 Knowledge by labour purchased costs too dear*, 
 Honour a bubble, subject to a breath, 
 And all engagements vain since nulPd by death \ 
 Thus all the wise esteem, he can despise, 
 And caring not, 'tis he alone is wise : 
 Yet all his wish possessing, finds no rest, 
 And only lives to know, he never can be blest. 
 
THE LOOICING-GLASS. 
 
 515 
 
 MADAM D*ALLONE AND HER FOUR PUPILS. 
 
 .MADAM D'Allone was tlie governess of four 
 young lac^s, Emilia, Harriet, Lucy and Sophia> 
 whom she loved with the tenderness of a mother. 
 Her principal wish was that her pupils might be 
 virtuous and happy, and that they might enjoy all 
 die comforts of life with tranquillity. They each, 
 experienced an equal share of her indulgence, and 
 each received the same treatment, either as to par- 
 don for errors, or rewards, or punishments. 
 
 Her endeavours were crowned with the happiest 
 success, and her four little girls became the swe^ 
 
ii^ltJ THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 €st children upon earth. They told each other of 
 their faults, and as readily forgave offences ; they 
 shared in each other's joys, nor were they ever hap^ 
 py when separated. 
 
 An unforeseen event, however, disturbed this 
 happy tranquillity, just at the very moment they 
 began to taste its charms, which served to convince 
 ihem how necessary it was to be guided by their 
 prudent governess. 
 
 Madame D^AUone was obliged to leave her pu- 
 pils for a little time, a family affair having made 
 it necessary for her to visit France. She left them 
 with much reluctance, even sacrificed her interest 
 in some measure, to the desire of speedily settling 
 her affairs, and, in the course of a month, return- 
 ed in safety to her little flock, who received her 
 with the warmest expressions of joy ; but the alter- 
 ation she perceived in her children veUf much sur- 
 prised and alarmed her. 
 
 She saw it frequently happen, that if one asked 
 the slightest favour of another, it was ill-naturedly 
 refused, and from thence arose tumults and quar- 
 rels. That gaiety and cheerfulness, which had 
 use 1 to accompany all their sports and pastimes, 
 were now changed to a gloomy perverseness ; and, 
 instead of those tender expressions of love and 
 ftiendship, which had constantly dwelt in all their 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 217 
 
 conversations, nothing was now heard but perpe- 
 tual jarrings and wranglings. If one proposed a 
 walk in the garden, another would give some rea- 
 son why she wished to remain in her chamber •, 
 and, in short, their only study seemed to be to 
 thwart each other. 
 
 It happened one day, that not contented with 
 shewing each other how much they delighted in 
 perverseness, they mutually distressed themselves 
 with reciprocal reproaches. 
 
 Madam D'Allone beheld this scene with the 
 greatest uneasiness, and could not help shedding 
 tears on the occasion. She did not think it pru- 
 dent to say any thing to them, but retired to her 
 chamber, in order there to think of the properest 
 means of restoring peace and harmony among her 
 unhappy pupils. 
 
 While she was turning these afflicting thoughts 
 in her miil^, all the four young ladies entered her 
 apartment, with a peevish and uneasy look, each 
 complaining of the ill temper of the rest. There 
 was not one but what charged the other three with 
 being the cause of it, and altogether begged their 
 governess would, if possible, restore to them that 
 happiness they once possessed. 
 
 Their governess put on a very serious counte- 
 T 2 
 
 % 
 
-^ 1 8 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 nance, and said, « I have observed, my pupils, 
 ihat you endeavour to thwart each other, and 
 thereby destroy your pleasures. In order, there- 
 fore, that no such thing may happen again, let 
 each take up her corner in this room, if she choose 
 it, and divert herself in what manner she pleases, 
 provided she does not interfere with either of her 
 sisters. You may immediately have recourse to 
 ihis mode of recreation, as you have leave to play 
 till night -, but remember that neither of you stir 
 from the corner in which I shall place you. 
 
 The little maidens, who were no way displeased 
 with this proposal, hastened to their different quar- 
 ters, and began to amuse themselves each in her 
 own way. Sophia commenced a conversation with 
 her doll, or rather told her many pretty little sto- 
 ries ; but her doll had not the gift of speech, and 
 consequently was no companion. She could not 
 expect any entertainment from her sisters, as they 
 were playing each asunder, in their respective 
 corners. 
 
 Lucy took her battledoor and shuttlecock, but 
 there were none to admire her dexterity *, besides, 
 she was not allowed to strike it across the ioom,-as 
 ihat would have been an invasion on one of her sis- 
 ter's territories. She could not expect, that either 
 of them would quit their amusements to oblige her 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 219 
 
 Harriet was very fond of her old game of hunt 
 the slipper ; but what was she to do with the slipper 
 by herself -, she could only shove it from hand to 
 hand. It was in vain to hope for such service from 
 her sisters, as each was amusing herself in her as- 
 signed corner. 
 
 Emilia, who was a very skilful pretty housewife, 
 was thinking how she might give her friends an 
 entertainment, and of course sent out for many 
 things to market j but there was at present nobody 
 ■near with whom she might conbult on the occasion, 
 for her sisters were amusing themselves each in 
 her corner. 
 
 Every attempt they made to find some new 
 amusement failed, and all supposed that a compro- 
 n[^ise would be most agreeable 5 but as matters 
 were carried so far, who was first to propose it ? 
 This each would have considered as a humiliating 
 circumstance ; they therefore kept their distance, 
 and disdainfully continued in their solitude. The 
 day at last closing, they returned to madam D'Al- 
 ione, and begged her to think of some other 
 amusement for them, than the ineffectual one they 
 had tried. 
 
 « I am sorry, my children, (said their governess) 
 to see you all so discontented. I know but one way 
 to make you happy, with which you yourselves were 
 
220 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 formerly acquainted, but which, it seems, you have 
 forgotten. Yet, if you wish once more to put it 
 into practice, lean easily bring it to your recollec- 
 tions." They all answered together, as though 
 with one voice, that they heartily wished to recol- 
 lect it, and stood attentive, while their governess 
 was looking at them, in eager expectation to hear 
 what she had to say. 
 
 " What you have lost, or at least forgotten, (re- 
 plied madam D'AUone, is that mutual love and 
 friendship, which you once had for each other, and 
 which every sister ought cheerfully to cherish. O I 
 my dearest little friends, how have yon contrived 
 to forget this, and thereby make me and yourselves 
 miserable.'* 
 
 Having uttered these few words, which were In- 
 terrupted by sighs, she stopped short, while tears 
 of tenderness stole down her cheeks. The young 
 ladies appeared much disconcerted, '^nd struck 
 dumb with sorrow and confusion. Their gover- 
 ness held out her arms, and they all at once in- 
 stantly rushed towards her. They sincerely pro- 
 mised that they would tenderly love each other for 
 the future, and perfectly agree, as they formerly 
 had done. 
 
 From this time no idle peevishness troubled their 
 harmonious intercourse ; and instead of bickerings 
 
THE LOOKlxVG-GLASS. 221 
 
 and discontents among them, nothing was seen but 
 mutual condescension, which delighted all who 
 had the opportunity of being in their company. 
 May this serve as a useful lesson to my youthful 
 readers, how easy it is for them to promote or dis- 
 turb their own happiness. 
 
 Peruse, young ladies, madam D' Allone's page, 
 And let its precepts your whole heart engage : 
 Then shall each charm and virtue of the fair. 
 The smile of kindness and the modest air ; 
 The brow by wisdom polished and serene. 
 The glow of health and the decorous mein ; 
 The eye, « that speaking sense distinct and clear,'* 
 Tells in its rays, what pleasure 'tis to her ; 
 The tear of pity, that, like glistening dew, 
 Jmpearls the opening rose's crimson hue ; 
 The robe embraced by heav'nly Venus* zone^ 
 The flowing tresses that each art disown ; 
 Each charm of body, and each gift of mind, 
 Which nature gave, or culture has refin'd. 
 
22^ 
 
 THE L00KING-GLAS§» 
 
 THE bird's egg. 
 
 MASTER Gregory was fond of walking in a 
 wood which stood at a short distance from his fa- 
 ther's house. The wood being young, the trees 
 were consequently small, and placed very near to 
 each other, widi two or three paths between them. 
 As he was one day walking up and down, in or- 
 der to rest himself a little, he placed his back 
 against a tree whose stem was quite slender, and 
 therefore all its branches shook as soon as it was 
 touched. This rustling happened to frighten a lit- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. S23 
 
 lie bird which sprung from a neighbouring bush, 
 and flew into another part of the wood. 
 
 Gregory was vexed to think he had disturbed 
 the bird, and fixed his eyes upon the bush, in hopes 
 of seeing it return. While he was thus attentively 
 on the watch, he imagined he saw among the twist- 
 ed branches something like a tuft of hay. As his 
 curiosity was raised to know what it was, he went 
 up close to the hedge, and found this tuft of hay 
 was hollow, like a bowl. On putting aside the 
 branches, he saw something like little balls within 
 it, which were spotted, and of an oval shape. They 
 lay close to each other, on something very soft. 
 «' Bless me, (said Gregory) this must be certainly 
 what I have heard some people call a bird's nest, 
 and the balls must be eggs. They are indeed less 
 than our eggs, but then our hens are larger than 
 these birds." 
 
 He had some thoughts, at first, of taking away 
 the whole nest -, but upon second consideration, 
 he contented himself with taking only one of the 
 eggs, with which he instantly ran home. In the 
 midst of his haste, he met his sister. " See this 
 little egg, (said he to her) I have just now found it 
 in a nest in which were five others." 
 
 She desired to have it in her hand, examined it 
 .attentively, and then returned it to her brother. 
 
224- THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 At last they began rolling It up and down a table, 
 just as they would a ball. One pushed it one way 
 and the other a different way, till at last they push- 
 ed it off* the table, when it fell on the floor and 
 broke. This set them a crying, and each mutu- 
 ally accused the other of being the cause of this 
 sad disaster. 
 
 Their mamma happening to hear them cry, 
 came to enquire into the cause of it, when both 
 began at once telling their sorrows, and having 
 heard their different stories, she took them affec- 
 tionately by the hand and led them to a tree, 
 whose stately bows afforded a pleasant shade to a 
 verdant bank, on which they all sat down toge- 
 ther. 
 
 « My dear children, (said their mamma) make, 
 yourselves easy. You have broken the egg between 
 you, and that, to be sure is a misfortune ; but it is 
 of too trifling a nature to suffer it to make you un- 
 happy. After all, Gregory, there is some room 
 for complaint against you, as it was an act of in- 
 justice to rob the poor bird of its egg. You must 
 have seen how the hen places her eggs in a nest, 
 on which she sits to warm and animate them. In 
 about three weeks, from the eggs proceed chick- 
 ens, which pierce the shell, and in a few days 
 come and feed out of your hand. This eg^ 
 
THE LOOKlNC-GLASSi 225 
 
 which you have just now broken, had you left 
 it in the nest, would have become a sort of chick. 
 The bird you saw fly out of the bush, was pro- 
 bably the mother, who will, very likely, return 
 again, to see what mischief you have done her, and 
 perhaps she will forsake it altogether, which they 
 frequently do when disturbed; '" 
 
 <' Though the lo<is is only a single egg, yet that 
 perhaps will inform them that their habitation is 
 discovered, when they have every thing to be 
 afraid of from our violence. They guess, that when 
 their little ones shall be hatched, those that rob- 
 bed them of an egg^ will return and seize upon 
 their infant family. If this nest you have been 
 robbing, for I cannot call it any thing less than a 
 robbery, should be on that account forsaken, I 
 think you will be very sorry for it." 
 
 Gregory replied, that it would indeed give him 
 much uneasiness, and seemed very sorry that he 
 had meddled with the egg. « But, said he to his 
 mamma, I had not the least thought of what you 
 have been telling me, nor did I suppose there 
 could be any harm in bringing it to my sister, for 
 it was principally on that account I took it. 
 
 His mamma replied, that she readily believed 
 him ; for she told him she was sensible, that he had 
 too good a heart to wish to do mischief merely for 
 U 
 
^26 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 the sake of tormenting others. Gregory was, in- 
 deed, a very good boy, and was as remarkable for 
 his duty to his parents, his tender attachment to 
 his sister, and his universalbenevolence to every one. 
 The little girl observed to her mamma, that the 
 nest which her brother had shewn her, did not, in 
 any degree, resemble the swallow's nests that were 
 seen about the corners of the windows of some 
 houses. <* My dear, replied her mamma, every 
 nest is not alike, any more than every bird, some 
 beiftg great, and others little ; some are never 
 seen to perch on trees, while others are hardly 
 ever out of them ; some are bulky and inactive, 
 others slim, and full of cunning and industry; the 
 plumage of some are beautiful beyond descrip- 
 tion, with an amazing variety of colours, and 
 others have a plain and homely^pearance; some 
 subsist on fruits, some feed upon insects, and many 
 live by making a prey of, and devouring the small- 
 er birds. 
 
 Here her little daughter exclaimed, «< Oh, what 
 wicked creatures ! I am sure I should think it no 
 crime to destroy the nests of such unnatural birds!" 
 
 «« Very true,'replied her mamma, and there are 
 
 many more of your way of thinking ; and therefore 
 these great birds, who live upon the smaller class, 
 
TJM tOOKlNG-GLASS. 227 
 
 build their nests in places where they cannot be 
 easily disturbed, such as in woods, in crevices of 
 rocks, and in other places most unfrequented by 
 men, or at heights beyond our reach. 
 
 " Since, therefore my dear children, these birds 
 are greatly different from each other, as well in 
 size as in the mode of iivmg, and in variety of 
 their plumage, it will naturally foUov/, that their 
 nests must also differ. The lark never perches 
 on a tree, and sings only when mounting in the 
 air, and builds her nest 6n the ground. The swal- 
 low builds about the roofs of houses, under what 
 we call the eaves, and sometimes in the corners 
 of windows. The owl, which flies abroad only in 
 the night, seeks out deserted habitations, or some 
 hollow tree, wherein to deposit her eggs j and the 
 eagles, who soar above the clouds till absolutely 
 out of sight, bring forth their young in the cliffs of 
 craggy rocks. Those birds, which so prettily sport 
 round our houses, and hop from branch to branch, 
 make their nests in trees and hedges. Those who 
 sport on the water, and find their living therein, 
 build their nests among the rushes that grow on 
 the banks. 
 
 « We will, one fine day, take a walk into the 
 little valley that terminates our large meadow, 
 ahd you will there see a number of these pretty 
 
228 THE LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 creatiires busy in selecting the materials ©f whick 
 they compose their nests. You will observe one 
 employed in carrying oflf a wheaten straw, another 
 with wool or feathers in its beak, another with a 
 'Iried leaf, and perhaps with a little moss. You 
 may frequently notice the swallow, on the borders 
 of a limpid stream, moistening in the water a little 
 bit of earth which he holds in his beak and with 
 this he builds his habitation ; and, though the out- 
 side of its nest is formed of hard and durable ma- 
 terials, the inside is lined with the softest and 
 warmest. There are even some birds, who pull ofif 
 ilieir own feathers to make up a comfortable bed, 
 wherein to secure their young from every inclem- 
 enty of the elements. 
 
 " Their nests are made large or small, in pro- 
 portion to the number of eggs they are to contain. 
 Some birds hang up their nests by a kind of thread, 
 which they have the skill to form of flax, of differ- 
 ent sorts of weeds, and of the webs of spiders. 
 Others place it int he middle of a soft and gluey 
 substance, to which they carefully stick many fea- 
 thers. All birds seek retired and solitary places, 
 and use every endeavour to make their nests strong 
 and solid, to secure them from the attacks of ene- 
 mies of various species. 
 
 <* It is in this kind of habitation they lay their 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 229^ 
 
 eggs, where the mother, and at times the father, 
 sits upon them, puts every thing within them into 
 motion, and at last produces little creatures, who 
 break through their shell, and come forth. 
 
 « I doubt not but you have often seen a fly in- 
 winter, which appeared to have no life in it ; yet, 
 upon taking it into your hand, the warmth pro» 
 ceeding from it has brought it to life. It is nearly 
 the same thing with birds, the perseverance of 
 whose parents, in brooding upon their eggs con- 
 verts them into living- creatures. 
 
 « While the mother is sitting, the cock is her 
 constant attendant, and amuses her with his mu- 
 sic. When the young birds are hatched, the old 
 ones endeavour, to release them from the confine- 
 ment of the egg. At this period, their diligence 
 is redoubled, they do every thing to nourish and 
 defend them, and are constantly employed in that 
 interesting pursuit. No distance deters them from 
 seeking their food, of which they make an equal 
 distribution, every one receiving in his turn what 
 they have been enabled to procure. So long as 
 they continue young and helpless, they contrive 
 to procure such food as is adapted to their delica- 
 cy ; but as soon as they are grown stronger by>^ 
 age, they provide for them food of a more solid 
 nature. 
 
 U 2 
 
230 THELOOKINGm.La:^. 
 
 The pelican, which is a very large bird, is 
 obHged to go to a great distance for food for its 
 young, and therefore nature has provided it with 
 a sort of bag, which she fills with such food as she 
 knows is most agreeable to the palate of her young 
 ones. She warms what she procures, and by such 
 means makes it fitter for their tender stomachs. 
 
 <« While they are thus acting the parental part, 
 they seem to be forgetful of themselves, and atten- 
 tive only to their little family. On the approach of 
 either rain or tempests, they hasten to their nests, 
 and cover it as well as they can with expanded 
 wings, thereby keeping out the wind and watet 
 from hurting their infant brood. All their nights 
 are employed in nourishing and keeping them 
 warm. The most timorous among the feathered 
 race, who will fly away on the least noise that ap- 
 proaches them, and tremble at the most trifling 
 apprehensions of danger, become strangers to fear 
 as soon as they have a young family to take care of, 
 and are inspired with courage and intrepidity. We 
 see an instance of this in the common hen, who, 
 though in general a coward, no sooner becomes a 
 parent, than she gives proofs of courage, and boldly 
 stands forth in defence of her young. She will face 
 the largest dog, and will not even run from a man, 
 wlio shall attempt to rob her of her young. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 231 
 
 '*In nearly a similar manner, the little birds en- 
 deavour to protect their infant family. When an 
 enemy approaches, they will flutter round the 
 nest, will seem to call out for assistance, will attack 
 the invader, and pursue him. The mother will 
 frequently prefer confining herself with them to 
 the pleasure of rambling through the woods, and 
 will not qtlit her little progeny." 
 
 Here their mamma ended, and her two children 
 promised they never would any more disturb those 
 pretty feathered animals. They promised only to 
 look at their nests, without being so cruel as to do 
 them any harm. They said they would be satisfi- 
 ed with gazing on them, while employed in the de- 
 lightful task of attending on their young, and com- 
 forting and caressing their unprotected offspring. 
 
 *« My dear children said their mamma, this is 
 the conduct you ought to pursue. Keep your re- 
 solutions, and I shall love you the more tenderly 
 for it. Do no injury to any creature, for he who 
 made you, made them also. Take no delight in 
 giving pain to the most inf^ignificant part of the 
 creation j but endeavour, on all occasions, to con- 
 tribute to their happines^." 
 
 Ill customs by degrees to habits rise, ^^ 
 
 111 habits soon become exalted vice 5 ^T^ 
 
232 TH£ LOOKING'GLASS. 
 
 What more advance can mortals make in sin 
 So near perfection, who with blood begin ? 
 
 Let plough thy steers *, that when they lose their 
 
 breath, 
 To nature, not to thee, they may impute their 
 
 death. 
 Let goats for food their loaded udders lend, 
 And sheep from winter cold thy sides defend ; 
 But neither springs, nets, nor snares employ, 
 And be no more ingenious to destroy. 
 Free as in air, let birds on earth remain, 
 Nor let insidious glue their wings constrain ; 
 Nor opening hounds the trembling stag affright. 
 Nor purple feathers intercept his flight : 
 Nor hooks conceal'd in baits for fish prepare, 
 Nor lines to heav'em twinkling up in air. 
 
 Take not away the life you cannot give ; 
 For all things have an equal right to live. 
 Kill noxious creatures, where 'tis sin to save ; 
 This only just prerogative we have : 
 But nourish life with vegetable food 
 And shun the sacrilegious raste ot blood. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 233 
 
 IHE COVETOUS BOY. 
 
 YOUNG Samuel was the only son of a capi- 
 tal merchant, and was tenderly beloved by hisirfa- 
 ther. He had by no means a bad heart, his coun- 
 tenance was pleasing, and his friends would all have 
 been very fond of him, had he not shewn, in every 
 part of his conduct, a covetous propensity that 
 eclipsed all his accomplishments. 
 
 His covetous disposition made him wish for every 
 
2S4 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 thing he saw others possessed of, and even can-icd 
 him to so great a length, that he would not share 
 among his playmates any thing he had, or even let 
 them see it. 
 
 It was with little Samuel as it generally is with 
 every body else, that he lost more than he gained 
 by his avarice. If any body gave him any sweet- 
 meats, he would get into some private corner of 
 the house, and there swallow them, for fear any of 
 his acquaintances should want part of them. His 
 father, in order to cure him of this greedy disposi- 
 tion, used, while he was feasting in private, to give 
 a double portion to his companions. He perceiv- 
 ed this, and therefore left off hidingjtumself ; but 
 he no sooner fixed his eyes on any nicety, than he 
 appeared ready to devour it at once, and pursued 
 the hand of those that held it, as a vulture does its 
 prey. 
 
 From what has been already said, his father may 
 be supposed to be much hurt at his conduct ; and, 
 in order to save himself as much vexation as possi- 
 ble, he ceased to give him any more niceties, or 
 even have them within his house, so that they 
 might not, at any rate, be within the reach of his 
 voracious son. 
 
 If Samuel had a pleasing toy of any kind, he 
 trouid never shew it, but concealed himself in the 
 
p^ 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 235 
 
 enjoyment of it, without ever being happy. If he 
 had any sort of fruit, he would not «hare it with 
 his playmates, but devour it in private, even re- 
 fusing any to those he happened to love most. 
 Consequently, none of his . playmates would ever 
 give him a part of what they had, and seemed al- 
 ways desirous of shunning his company. When 
 he chanced to be engaged in a quarrel with any 
 one, none appeared ready to take his part not 
 even when they knew him in the right ; and, 
 when he was in the wrong, every one joined against 
 him. ,^ 
 
 It oae day happened, that a little boy observed 
 him with an ,^pple in his hand, and gave him by 
 surprise a knock on the elbow, which made him 
 let the apple fall. However, he picked it up hasti- 
 ly, and in order to revenge himself on the boy, 
 set off to catch him j but in running fell into a hog 
 pond, and had like to have been suffocated in the 
 soil. He exerted all his power to get out, but to 
 no effect 5 he endeavoured, but without succeed- 
 ing, to prevail on his playmates to take hold of his 
 hand and help him out. 
 
 Instead of assisting him, they laughed at his dis- 
 tress, and joyously danced about the pond, from 
 which he could not relieve himself. They a11 told 
 him to ask the assistance of those, to whom he had 
 
236 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 done the least kindness ; but among all his play- 
 mates, there was not one, whose help he could de- 
 mand on that score. At last, one of the boys, who 
 took pity on him, came forward, and gave him his 
 hand, when he safely -got out, 
 
 Samuel shook off the mud as well as he could, 
 and then, to shew his gratitude to the little boy 
 who had assisted him, he bit ofF about a quarter of 
 the apple which had caused this disaster, and which 
 he never let go, and desired him to accept of it. 
 But the boy, disgusted with so pitiful a gift, took 
 the morsel, and then flung it in his face ; a%d this 
 served as a signal for all the boys to sccfht himr 
 They pursued Samuel quite hcme^J^ooting all the 
 way he went. 
 
 This was the first time he had ever been hoot- 
 ed, and, as he did not want for feeling, it threw 
 him into a depth of thought. He kept out of his 
 father's presence, and confined himself to his room 
 for some days. There he reasoned with himself 
 on the cause that could produce such treatment 
 from his playfellows. ** For what reason, said he 
 to himself, could my little neighbour, who even 
 lent me his hand to get out of the pond, throw the 
 apple in my face, and set the boys to hoot me ? 
 Why has he so many good friends, while I have 
 not a single one ?*' 
 
T«E LOOKING-GLASS.' 237 
 
 On comparing the good boy's behaviour with 
 his own, he soon discovered the reason. To be- 
 come sensible of our errors is half the work of 
 reformation. He recollected, that he had observed 
 his friend was always ready to help every one ; 
 that whenever he had any fruit, confectionary, or 
 thelike, he seemed to feel more pleasure in sharing 
 it with his companions, than in eating it himself, 
 and had no kind of amusement in which he did not 
 wish every one to bear a part. On this short review 
 of circumstances he plainly perceived, wherein lay 
 the difference between himself and this little good 
 boy. He at last resolved to imitate him, and the next 
 day, filling his pocket with fruit, he ran up to 
 every boy he met, and gave him a part of it, but 
 he could not, on a sudden, give up selfy having left 
 a little in his pocket to eat at home in private. 
 
 Though it is evident, that he had not yet com- 
 pletely conquered his avarice, yet he was not a little 
 pleased with the advances he had made, since his 
 companions were now, on their part, more gene- 
 rous to him ; they shewed themselves much more 
 satisfied with his company, and admitted him a 
 partner in all their little pastimes ; they divided 
 with him whatever they happened to have, and he 
 always went home pleased and satisfied. 
 X 
 
238 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 feoon after he made a still greater progress in 
 conquering his selfish disposition-, for he pulled out 
 of his pocket every thing he had, and divided it 
 into as many shares as there were mouths to eat 
 it, without reserving any more than an equal part 
 for himself. Indeed, it was the general opinion 
 of the boys, that his own share was the least. 
 This day he was much more satisfied than before, 
 and went home gay and cheerful. 
 
 By pursuing this conduct, he soon acquired a 
 generous habit, and became liberal even to those 
 who had nothing to give him in return. He conse- 
 quently acquired the love and esteem of his com- 
 panions, who no sooner saw him than they ran to 
 meet him with joyful countenances, and made 
 bis pleasure their own. Thus, instead of being 
 miserable and wretched through avarice, he be- 
 came completely happy in the practice of gene- 
 rosity. 
 
 His father was undoubtedly highly pleased with 
 this change, and tenderly embracing him, promis- 
 ed to refuse him nothing in future that might add 
 to his pleasure and delight. Samuel hereby learn- 
 ed in what true happiness consists. 
 
 Happy the man, and happy he alone, 
 He, who can call the day his own : 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS^ 239 
 
 He, who secure within, can say, 
 To morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to day ; 
 
 Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, 
 The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate are mine. 
 
 Not Heav'n itself upon the past has pow'r \ 
 But what has been, has been, and I have had my 
 hour. 
 
 Fortune, that, with malicious joy. 
 
 Does man her slave oppress. 
 Pro id of her office to destroy, 
 
 Is seldom pleas'd to bless : 
 Still'various and unconstant still. 
 But with an inclination to be ill. 
 
 Promotes, degrades, delights In strife, 
 And makes a lottery of life. 
 I can enjoy her while she's kind; 
 But when she dances in the wind. 
 
 And shakes her wings and will not stay, 
 I pufF the fluttering thing away : 
 The little or the much she gave, is quietly resigned ^ 
 Content with poverty, my soul I arm: 
 And virtue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm. 
 
 What is't to me. 
 Who never sail in her unfaitiiful sea. 
 If storms arise, and clouds grow black ^ 
 If the mast split, and threaten wreck ? 
 
240 
 
 THE LOOKlNG-GLASb. 
 
 Then let the greedy merchant fear 
 
 For his ill-gotten gain ; 
 And pray to Gods that will not hear, 
 While the debating winds and billows bear, 
 His wealth into the main. 
 For me, secure, from fortune's blow& 
 Secure of what I cannot lose, 
 In my small pinnace I can sail, 
 Contemning all the blustering roar ; 
 And running with a merry gale, 
 With friendly stars my safety seek 
 Within some little winding creek j 
 And see the storm ashore. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS, 
 
 241 
 
 DISSIPATION, THE CERTAIN ROAD TO E.UIN. 
 
 A YOUNG man whose name was Humphries, 
 was a dull companion, but an excellent workman. 
 Nothing ran in his head so much as the wish to 
 berome a master, but he had not money to gratify 
 that wish. A merchant, however, who was well 
 acquainted with his industry, lent him an hun- 
 dred pounds in order that he might open shop in 
 a proper style. 
 
 ' X 2 
 
5J42 THE LOOKING-GLASS. ' 
 
 It will from hence naturally follow, that Hum- 
 phries thought himself one of the happiest men in 
 the world. He supposed his warehouse already 
 filled with goods, he reckoned how many custom- 
 ers would croud to buy them, and what would be 
 his profits thereon. 
 
 In the midst of these extravagant flights of fan- 
 cy, he perceived an alehouse. " Come said he, 
 on entering it, I will indulge myself with spend- 
 ing one sixpence of this money." He hesitated, 
 however some few moments, about calling for 
 punch, which was his favourite liquor, as his con- 
 science loudly told him, that his time fof enjoy- 
 ment ought to be at some distance, and not till 
 he had paid his friend the money he had borrow- 
 ed j that it would not be honest in him, at present, 
 to expend a farthing of that money but in absolute 
 necessaries. With these right ideas he was near- 
 ly leaving the alehouse *, but bethinking himself, 
 on the other hand, that if he spent a sixpence of 
 nis morey, he should still have an hundred pounds 
 all but that sixpence, that such a sum was fully 
 suiHcient to set him up in trade, and that a sin- 
 gle half hour's industry would amply make 
 aii>e»ias for such a trifling pleasure as he wished 
 then to enjoy. 
 
 Hq called for his punchj and the first glass ban- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 24fS 
 
 ished all his former qualms, little thinking that 
 such conduct would, by insensible degrees, open 
 a way to his ruin. The next day he recollected 
 the pleasures of the former glass, and found it ea- 
 sy to reconcile his conscience to the spending of 
 another sixpence. He knew he should still have 
 an hundred pounds left all but one shilling. 
 
 The love of Hquor had at last completely con- 
 quered him, and every succeeding day he constant- 
 ly returned to his favourite alehouse, and gradu- 
 ally increased his quantity, till he spent two shil- 
 lings and sixpence at each sitting. Here he 
 seemed to make a stand, and every time he went 
 he consoled himself by saying, that he was spend- 
 ing only half a crown, and that he need not 
 fear but he should have enough to carry on his 
 trade. 
 
 By this delusive way of reasoning, he silenced 
 the prudent whispers of conscience, which would 
 sometimes, in spite even of liquor, break in upon 
 him, and remind him, that the proper use of mo- 
 ney consisted in prudently applying every part of 
 it to advantageous purposes. 
 
 Thus you see how the human mind is led into 
 destructive extravagancies by insensible degrees. 
 Industry had no longer any charms to allure .rm, 
 being bhndly persuaded, that the money he had 
 
X44> THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 borrowed would prove an inexhaustible resource 
 for all his extravagancies. He was at last con- 
 vinced, and his conviction suddenly fell on him 
 like a clap of thunder, that he could not recover 
 the effects of his preceding dissipation, and that 
 his generous benefactor would have little inclina- 
 tion to lend another hundred pounds to a man who 
 had so shamefully abused his kindness in the first 
 instance. 
 
 Entirely overcome with shame and confusion, 
 his recourse to hard drinking, merely to q\net his 
 conscience and reflections, served only to bring on 
 his ruin the sooner. At last, the fatal moment ar- 
 rived, when quite disgusted at the thought of indus- 
 try, and becoming an object of horror even to him- 
 self, life became insupportable, and nothing present- 
 ed themselves to him but scenes of poverty, deso- 
 lation and remorse. 
 
 Overtaken by despair, he fled from his country, 
 and joined a gang of smugglers, whose ravages 
 were dreaded through every town and village on 
 the coast. Heaven, however, did not permit these 
 iniquities to have a long reign •, for a disgraceful 
 death soon put a period to the existence of this 
 unhappy wretch. 
 
 Alas ! had he listened to the first dictates of rea- 
 son and been wrought upon by the reproaches of 
 
THE LOOKING-CLASS, 
 
 245 
 
 his conscience, he might have been easy and hap- 
 py in his situation, and have comfortably enjoyed 
 the repose of a reputable old age, instead oi com- 
 ing to that deplorable end, which is the certain re- 
 ward of vice and folly. 
 
 Unhappy man, whom sorrow thus, and rage I 
 So different ill alternately engage ! 
 Who drinks, alas ! but to forget ; nor sees 
 That melancholy sloth, severe disease, 
 Mem'ry confus'd, and interrupted thought. 
 Death's harbingers, lie latent in the draught ; 
 * And in the flow'rs chat wreathe the sparkling bowl, 
 Fell adders hiss, and poisonous serpents roll. 
 
246 
 
 THE L00KING-GLAS9.' 
 
 CALUMNY AND SCANDAL GREAT ENEMIES TO 
 SOCIETY, 
 
 THOUGH Maria was of a tolerable good tem- 
 per, yet she had contracted a most mischievous 
 yice, that was calumny. Whenever she fancied 
 she saw any thing amiss in others, though they 
 were her most intimate friends, she seemed to take 
 pleasure in publishing it to the world. 
 
 The inexperience of her age frequently led her 
 
I 
 
 THE LOOKlNG-GI.ASSi ^i1 
 
 to ascribe indifferent actions to improper motives, 
 and a single word, or volatility of disposition, was 
 sufficient to raise in her breast the worst suspicions, 
 with which as soon as she had formed them, she 
 would run into company, and there publish them 
 as indubitable facts. 
 
 As she was never at a loss for embellishments 
 from her own fancy in order to make her tales ap- 
 pear the more plausible, it may easily be suppos- 
 ed what mischief such a conduct was capable of 
 producing. In a little time, all the families in 
 her neighbourhood were set together by the ears, 
 and the seeds of discord soon after sprung up 
 among individuals j husbands and wives, brothers 
 and sisters, masters and servants commenced per- 
 petual variance between each other. All on a sud- 
 den, mutual confidence seemed to be lost in every 
 place where Maria visited. 
 
 Matters at last were carried so far, that every 
 one shut their doors against her, as they would 
 have done against any one tainted with the plague ; 
 but neither hatred nor humiliation could reform 
 a vice, which custom and prejudice had so deep- 
 ly rivited in her heart. This glorious work of 
 reformation was reserved for Angelica, her cou- 
 sin, who was the only one left that would keep 
 
2<t8 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 her company, and who lived in hopes that she 
 should in the end be able to convince her ol her 
 ruinous conduct. 
 
 Maria went one day to see her cousin, and en- 
 tertained her as usual with a long recital of scandal 
 against their common friends, though she well 
 knew that such tales were disagreeable to Angeli- 
 ca. «« And now, my dear, said Maria, having stop- 
 ped for want of breath, your turn is come to tell 
 me something. You see such a variety of compa- 
 ny, that you surely must be acquainted with a 
 number of anecdotes." 
 
 «' My dear Maria, answered Angelica, whenever 
 1 visit my friends, it is for the sake of enjoying 
 their company ; and I am too sensible of my own 
 interest to forfeit their esteem by exposing their 
 defects. Indeed, I am sensible of so many errors 
 in myself, and find it so difficult to correct them, 
 that I have no leisure to contemplate the imper- 
 fections of others. Having every reason to wish 
 for their candour and indulgence, I readily grant 
 them mine ; and my attention is constantly turned 
 to discover what is commendable in them, in or- 
 der that I may make such perfections my own. 
 Before we presume to censure others, we ought to 
 be certain that we have no faults ourselves. I can- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASSi 249 
 
 not, therefore, but congratulate you on that fault- 
 • less state which I am so unhappy as to want. Con- 
 tinue my dear Maria, this employment of a chari- 
 table censor, who would lead the world to virtue 
 by exposing the deformity of vice, and you cannot 
 fail of meeting your deserts." 
 
 Maria well knew how much she was the public 
 object of aversion and disgust, and therefore could 
 not help feeling the irony of Angelica. From that 
 day, she began very seriously to reflect on the dan- 
 ger of her indiscretion, and trembling at the re- 
 collection of those mischiefs she had caused, deter- 
 mined to prevent their progress. 
 ^ She found it difficult to throw off the custom 
 she had long indulged of viewing things on the 
 ^ worst side of the question. At last, however, she 
 ■ became so perfectly reformed, that she studied on- 
 H ly the pleasing parts of characters, and was never 
 ^ heard to speak ill of any one. 
 
 Maria became more and more convinced of the 
 pernicious consequences that arise from exposing 
 the faults of others, and began to feel the pleasing 
 satisfaction of universal charity. My dear chil- 
 dren shun the voice of scandal, and still more, be- 
 ing the authors of it, as you would plague^ pesti- 
 1 lence, and famine. 
 
 Y 
 
250 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 What is that vice which still prevails, 
 When almost ev'ry passion fails ; 
 Which with our very dawn begun, 
 Nor ends but with our setting sun; 
 Which, like a noxious weed, can spoil 
 The fairest flow'rs and choke the soil ? 
 'Tis Calumny — ^With shame I own. 
 The vice of human kind alone. 
 
 Th' insidious sland'ring thief is worse 
 Than the poor rogue who steals your purse. 
 Say, he purloins your glitt'ring store 5 
 Who takes youif gold, takes trash — no more ; 
 
 Perhaps he pilfers — to be fed 
 
 Ah, guiltless wretch who steals for bread ! 
 But the dark villain who shall aim 
 To blast thy fair thy spotless name, 
 He'd steal a precious gem away. 
 Steals what both Indies can't repay! 
 
 Be good yourself, nor think another's shame 
 Can raise you merit or adorn your fame j 
 Virtue is amiable, mild, serene. 
 Without, all beauty, and all peace within. 
 
THE LOOKlNGrGLASS. 
 
 251 
 
 CLARISSA J OR THE GRATEFUL ORPHAN. 
 
 THE amiable Dorinda soon after the mislor- 
 tune of losing her husband, was so unhappy as to 
 have a law-suit determined to her disadvantage, and 
 thereby lost great part of her possessions, which 
 Were taken from her with the most unrelenting 
 hand. This reduced her to the necessity of selling 
 all; her furniture, and the greater part of her jew» 
 els. The produce of these were placed in the hands 
 ©fa banker, and she retired to a village, where she 
 
252 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 could live much cheaper than in the metropohb, 
 and with tolerable decency. 
 
 She had not passed more than two months in 
 this manner when information was brought her, 
 that her banker had failed in trade, and conse- 
 quently all her money was lost. Judge what must 
 be the horrors of her situation ? Sickness and grief 
 had so debihtated her constitution, that she was 
 unable to do any kind of work, whereby to procure 
 a subsistence : and after having passed her youth 
 in ease and pleasure, she had no resources left in 
 the evening of her life, but that of a workhouse or 
 common beggary. 
 
 Not one of her acquaintance would see her, nor 
 condescend to take the least interest in her suffer- 
 ings. Being brought by her husband from a fo- 
 reign country, she had no friends to fly to for as- 
 sistance, except a distant relation, whom she had 
 brought with her to England, and who, by her 
 husband's credit gained great riches; but this man's 
 avarice was greater than his wealth, and there was 
 little charity to be expected from a man, who de- 
 nied himself the common necessaries of life. 
 
 Afflicted virtue, however, always finds resource 
 in the bounteous hands of Providence, and she 
 found the means of subsistence where she little ex- 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 252^ 
 
 pected it; In the former days of her prosperity, 
 she had adopted a female orphan, whose name was 
 Clarissa, who now became her guardian and protec- 
 tor Clarissa had a grateful heart ; she wept for 
 the misfortunes of her friend, but she rejoiced at 
 the thoughts of having an opportunity to shew her 
 gratitude. 
 
 When Dorinda mentioned her design of seek- 
 ing refuge in a parish workhouse, "No, (said Cla- 
 rissa) you shall never leave me. From your ten- 
 derness I formerly received the indulgences of a 
 beloved child; and, if in your prosperity I thought 
 myself happy in the idea of being so nearly re- 
 lated to you, by adoption ; I still think it more so 
 now I see you in adversity Thank heaven and 
 your adoption for my comfortable situation ! your 
 maternal conduct was amply displayed in teaching 
 me all the necessary female arts ; and I am happy 
 in the reflection, that I can make use of my know- 
 ledge for your sake. With health and courage, 
 I fear not being able to procure for us both a com- 
 fortable living." 
 
 This generous offer exceedingly affected the 
 
 unhappy widow, who embraced Clarissa, and with 
 
 joy accepted of her proposal. This amiable girl, 
 
 in her turn, became the mother, by adoption, of 
 
 Y 2 
 
254; THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 her former benefactress. Not contented wich feed 
 ing her with the produce of an unremitted labour,, 
 she consoled her in affliction, attended her in sick- 
 ness, and endeavoured, by the tenderest methods, 
 to soften the iron hand of fortune. 
 
 For two years did the constancy and ardour of 
 Clarissa continue with unwearied attention-, and 
 her only happiness seemed to consist its promoting 
 that of her friend. At the end of that period, 
 when death relieved the unhappy Dorinda from the 
 cares and troubles oi this life, she sincerely la- 
 mented her death, and bewailed it as a grievous 
 misfortune. 
 
 A short time after died also the relation of Do- 
 rinda, of whom we have lately spoken, and who 
 had shewn himself so shamefully insensible to every 
 claim of gratitude and kindred. As he could not 
 carry his riches with him, he supposed it would 
 be making some atonement for his ungenerous 
 conduct, by leaving the injured Dorinda every 
 thing he possessed. Alas! it came too late, for 
 sl:e was no more ! 
 
 The amiable Dorinda had not, before her death, 
 the consolation of knowing that such a change 
 l>ad happened in her fortune, as in that case she 
 might easily have turned it to the advantage of the 
 generous Clarissa. This large fortune^ therefore^ 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 255 
 
 for want of an heir, fell to the king ; but Provi- 
 dence so directed it, that the generous conduct of 
 the orphan to her benefactress reached the ears 
 of the prince. '« Ah! then (said he) she merits 
 this inheritance ! I renounce my right in her fa- 
 vour, and shall be happy in being her father and 
 friend." 
 
 This generous act of the king was applauded 
 by the whole nation ! and Clarissa, having thus re- 
 ceived so glorious a reward for her gratitude, em- 
 ployed it in the maintenance of orphans, such as 
 she herself had been. It was the summit of her 
 delight, to inspire them with sentiments similar to 
 those she herself possessed. ^ 
 
 I read God*s awful name emblazon'd high 
 With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky ; 
 Nor less the mystic characters I see 
 Wrought in each flow'r, inscribed on every tree ; 
 In evVy leaf that trembles to the breeze, 
 I hear the voice of God among the trees. 
 With thee in shady solitudes I walk, 
 With thee in busy crowded cities talk ; 
 In every creature own thy forming pow'r. 
 In each event thy providence adore. 
 
 Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul. 
 Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control'. 
 
256 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Thus shall I rest unmoved by all alarms, 
 Secure within the temple of thine arms, 
 From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free^ 
 And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 
 
 Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, 
 And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
 When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate 
 I stand, and stretch my view to either state j 
 Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
 With decent triumph and a look serene ; 
 Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 
 And, having liv'd to thee, in thee to die. 
 
 -^I#«^ 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 2^7 
 
 RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL, THE NOBLEST 
 REVENGE. 
 
 I WILL be revenged of him, that I will, and 
 make him heartily repent it,'* said little Philip to 
 himself, with a countenance quite red with anger. 
 His mind was so engaged, that as he walked along, 
 he did not see his dear friend, Stephen, who hap- 
 pened as that instant to meet him, and consequent- 
 ly heard what he had said. 
 
 «' Who is that, (said Stephen) that you intend to 
 
258 THE LOOlftNG-GLASS; 
 
 be revenged on ?" Philip as though awaked from 
 a dream, stopped short, and looking at his friend, 
 soon resumed the smile that was natural to his 
 countenance. Ah! (said he) come -with me, my 
 friend, and you shall see whom I will be revenged 
 on. I believe you remember my supple jack, a 
 very pretty little cane, which my father gave me. 
 You see it is now all in pieces. It was farmer Ro- 
 binson's son, who lives in yonder thatched cottage, 
 that reduced it to this worthless state. 
 
 Stephen very f oolly asked him what induced 
 the farmer's son to break it *< I was walking very 
 peaceably along, (replied Philip) and was playing 
 #ith my cane by twi«<ting it round my body. By 
 some accident or other one of the two. ends got out 
 of my hand when I was opposite the gate, just by 
 the wooden bridge, and where the little miscreant 
 had put down a pitcher full of water, which he 
 was carrying home from the well. It so happen- 
 ed, that my cane, in springing, overset the pitcher, 
 but did not break it. He came up close to me, and 
 began to call me names, when I assured h^m I did 
 not intend any harm, what I had done was by acci- 
 dent, and I was very sorry for it Without paying 
 aay regard to what I said he instantly seized my 
 supple jack, and twisted it as vou here see ^ but I 
 will make him heartily repent it,*' 
 
tHE LOOKING-GTLASS* 25^ 
 
 <* To be sure, (said Stephen) he Is a very wicked 
 boy, and is already very properly punished for it» 
 since nobody likes him, nor will do any thing for 
 him. He finds it very difficult to get any com- 
 panion to play with him, and if he attempts to in- 
 trude himself into their company, they will all in- 
 stantly leave him. To consider this properly, I 
 think, should be sufficient revenge to you." 
 
 « All this is true, (replied Philip) but he has 
 broken my cane. It was a present from my papa, 
 and a very pretty cane you know it was. My fa- 
 jther will perhaps ask me what is become of it ; and 
 as he will suppose I have carelessly lost his present, 
 he will probably be angry with me, of which this 
 little saucy fellow will be the cause. I offered to 
 fill his pitcher again, having knocked it down by 
 accident — I will be revenged," 
 
 « My dear friend (said Stephen) I think you will 
 act better in not minding him, as your contempt 
 will be the best punishment you can inflict on him. 
 He is not upon a level with you, and you may be 
 assured that he will always be able to do more mis- 
 chief to you than you would choose to do him. 
 And now I think of it, I will tell you what hap- 
 pened to him, not long since. 
 
 « Very unluckily for him, he chanced to see a 
 bee hoveripg about a flower, ^hich he caught ; 
 
260 THE LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 and was going to pull off its wings out of sport, 
 when the animal found means to sting him, and 
 then flew away in safety to the hive. The pain put 
 him in a most furious passion, and, like you, he 
 vowed to take a severe revenge. He accordingly 
 procured a little hazel stick, and thrust it through 
 the hole into the bee-hive, twisting it about there- 
 in. By these means, he killed several of the little 
 animals; but in an instant, all the swarm issued out, 
 and falling upon him, stung him in a thousand dif- 
 ferent places. You will naturally suppose that he 
 littered the most piercing cries and rolled upon 
 the ground in the excess of his agony. His fa- 
 ther ran to him but could not without the great- 
 est difficulty, put the bees to flight after having 
 stung him so severely, that he was confined several 
 days to his bed. 
 
 « Thus you see, he was not very successful in 
 his pursuit of revenge. I would advise you, there- 
 fore to pass over his insult, and leave others to 
 punish him without your taking any part in it. 
 Besides, he is a wicked boy, and much stronger 
 than you are *, so that your ability to obtain re- 
 venge may be doubtful." '< I must own, replied 
 Philip, that your advice seems very good. So come 
 along with me, and I will go and tell my father 
 the whole matter and I think he will not be angry 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS* 261 
 
 jfflth me. It is not the cane that I value on any- 
 other consideration than that it was my father's 
 present, and I would wish to convince him that I 
 take care of every thing he gives me." He and his 
 friend then went together, and PhiHp told his fa- 
 ther what had happened, who thanked Stephen 
 for the good advice he had given his son, and gave 
 Philip another cane exactly like the first. 
 
 A few days afterwards Philip saw this ill-na- 
 tured boy fall as he was carrying home a very 
 heavy log of wood, which he could not get up 
 again. Philip ran to him, and replaced it on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 Young Robinsoiv was quite ashamed at the 
 thought of having received this kind assistance 
 from a youth he had treated so badly, and heart- 
 ily repented of his behaviour. Philip went home 
 quite satisfied, to think he had assisted one he did 
 not love, and from pure motives of tenderness 
 and humanity. " This, said he is the noblest 
 vengeance I could take, in returning good for 
 evii." 
 
 The man, whose mind, on virtue bentjr 
 Pursues some greatly good intent. 
 With undivided aim. 
 Serene beholds the angry crowd; 
 Z 
 
262 
 
 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Nor can their clamours, fierce and loud, 
 
 His stubborn honours tame. 
 Not the proud tyrant's fiercest threat 
 Nor storms, that from their dark retreat 
 
 The lawless surges wake. 
 Not Jove*s dread bolt that shakes the pole, 
 The firmer purpose of his soul 
 
 With all its power can shake. 
 Should nature's frame in ruins fall, 
 And chaos o'er the sinking ball 
 
 Resume primaeval sway, 
 His courage chance and fate defies, 
 Nor feels the wreck of earth and skies 
 
 Obstruct its destined way. 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 2^S 
 
 f^^^^^^^:^S^tl 
 
 GREY HAIRS MADE HAPPY. 
 
 M^ 
 
 OPPOSITE to the house in which Charlotte's 
 parents lived, was a little opening, ornamented 
 with a grass plot, and overshaded by a venerable 
 tree, commanding an extensive view before it. 
 On this delightful spot, Charlotte used frequently 
 to sit in her little chair, while employed ip. knit- 
 ting stockings for her mamma. 
 
264 THE L0(3KIN0-GLASS. 
 
 As she was one day thus employed, she saw 
 a poor old nian advancing very slowly towards 
 her. His hair was as white as silver, and his 
 back bent with age ; he supported himself by ia 
 stick, and seemed to walk with great difficulty. 
 <* Poor man, said Charlotte, looking at him most 
 tenderly, he seems to be very much in pain, 
 and perhaps is very poor, which are two dreadful 
 evils !" 
 
 She also saw a number of boys who were fol- 
 lowing close behind this poor old man. They 
 passed jokes upon his threadbare coat, which had 
 very long skirts and short sleeves, contrary to the 
 fashion of those days. His hat, which was quite 
 rusty, did not escape their notice ; his cheeks were 
 hollow and his body thin. These wicked boys no 
 sooner saw him, than they all burst out a laugh- 
 mg. A stone lay in his way> which he did not 
 perceive, and over it he stumbled, and had like 
 to have fallen. This afforded them sport, and they 
 laughed loudly ; but it gave great pain to the old 
 man, who uttered a deep sigh. 
 
 <* I once was as young as you are, said he to the 
 boys, but did not laugh at the infirmities of age as 
 you do. The day will come in which you will be 
 old yourselves, and every day is bringing you for- 
 
 ^^■i^ 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 265 
 
 ward to that period. You will then be sensible oi 
 the impropriety of your present conduct." Having 
 thus spoken, he endeavoured to hobble on again, 
 and made a second stumble, when, in struggling 
 to save himself from falling, he dropped his cane, 
 and down he fell. On this the wicked boys renew- 
 ed their laugh, and highly enjoyed his misfortune. 
 
 Charlotte, who had seen every thing that had 
 passed, could not help pitying the old man's situa- 
 tion, and therefore putting down her stocking on 
 the chair, ran towards him, picked up the cane and 
 gave it him, and then taking hold of his other arm, 
 as if she had been as strong as a woman, advised 
 him to lean upon her, and not mind any thing^the 
 boys might say to him. 
 
 The poor old man looking at her very earnest- 
 ly, « Sweet child, said he, how good you are ! This 
 kindness makes me in a moment forget all the ill 
 behaviour of those naughty boys. May you ever 
 be happy." They then walked on together j but the 
 boys being probably made ashamed of their con- 
 duct by the behaviour of Charlotte, followed the 
 old man no further. 
 
 While the boys were turning about, one of them 
 fell down also, and all the rest began laughing as 
 they had before done at the old man. He was ve- 
 ry angry with them on that accoant^ and as soon: 
 Z 2 
 
 
 .^ 
 
26G THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 as he got up ran after his companions, pelting them 
 with stones. He instantly became convinced, how 
 unjust it was to laugh at the distresses of another, 
 and formed a resolution for the future, never to 
 laugh at any person's pain. He followed the old 
 man he had bc^en laughing at, though at some dis- 
 tance, wishing for an opportunity to do him some 
 favour, by way of atonement, for what he had done. 
 
 The good old man, in the mean time, by the 
 kind assistance of Charlotte, proceeded with slow 
 but sure steps. She asked him to stop and rest him- 
 self a little, and told him, that her house was that 
 before him. " Pray stay, said she, and sit a little 
 under that large tree. My parents, indeed, are not 
 at home, and therefore you will not be quite so 
 well treated -, yet it will be a little rest to you," 
 
 The old man, accepted Charlotte's offer. She 
 brought him out a chair, and then fetched some 
 bread and cheese and good small beer, which was 
 all the pretty maid could get at. He thanked her 
 very kindly, and then entered into conversation 
 with her. " I find, my dear, said he, you have pa- 
 rents. 1 doubt not but you love them, and they 
 love you. They must be very happy, and may 
 they always continue to be so !'* 
 
 <« And pray, goof^ old man, said Charlotte, I 
 doubt not but you have childrefti"-*-« I had a sda 
 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 26% 
 
 replied he who lived in Boston, loved me tenderly, 
 and frequently came to see me*, but alas ! he is now 
 dead, and I am left disconsolate. His widow indeed, 
 is rich ; but she assumes the character of the lady 
 and thinks it beneath her to enquire whether I be 
 dead or living, as she does not wish it to be known^ 
 that her husband's father is a peasant." 
 
 Charlotte was much affected, and could hardly 
 believe that such cruel people existed. <^ Ah ! cer- 
 tain I am, said she, that my dear mother would not 
 behave so cruel/' He then rose and thanked Char- 
 lotte with a blessing ; but she was determined not to 
 leave him, till she had accompanied him a little 
 way further. 
 
 As they walked on, they saw the little boy who 
 had been following them ; for he ran on some way 
 before, and was then sitting on the grass. When 
 ihey looked upon him he cast his eyes downwards, 
 got up after they had passed, and followed them 
 again Charlotte observed him, but said nothing. 
 She asked the old man if he lived alone. " No, 
 little lady answered he, I have a cottage on the 
 other side of that meadow, seated in the middle of 
 a little garden, with an orchard and a small field. 
 An old neighbour whose cottage fell down through 
 age, lives with me and cultivates my ground He 
 is an honest man, and I am perfectly easy in his so- 
 
'268 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 ciety ; but the loss of my son still bears hard upon 
 me, nor have I the happiness to see any of his chil- 
 dren, who must by this time have forgotten me.'* 
 
 These complaints touched the heart of Charlotte, 
 who told him, that she and her mother would come 
 and see him. The sensibility and kindness of this 
 little girl served only to aggravate his grief, by 
 bringing to his mind the loss he had sustained in 
 his son. Tears came in his eyes when he pulled 
 out his handkerchief to wipe them ; and, instead 
 of again putting it into his pocket, in the agitation 
 of his mind, it slipped aside, and fell unnoticed by 
 him or Charlotte. 
 
 The httle boy who followed them, saw the 
 handkerchief fall, ran to pick it up and gave it the 
 old man, saying <"'Here good old man, you dropped 
 your handkerchief, and here it is." — <» Thank you 
 heartily, my little friend said the old man. Here 
 is a good natured lad, who does not ridicule old 
 age nor laugh at the afflictions that attend it." You 
 wHl certainly become an honest man. Come both 
 of you to my habitation, and I will give you some 
 milk." They had no sooner reached the old man's 
 cottage than he brought out some milk, and the 
 best bread he had, which though coarse, was good. 
 They all sat down upon the grass, and made a com- 
 fortable repast. However, Charlotte began to be 
 
THE LOOKING-GLASS. 269 
 
 afraid her parents rnight come home, and be unea* 
 sy at her absence -, and the little boy wa<^ sorry to 
 go, but was sadly afraid, should he stay, oi being 
 scolded by his mother. 
 
 <* This mother of your's said the old man, must 
 be very cross to scold you" — " She is not always 
 so, replied the boy, but though she Ipves rne, she 
 makes me fear her." — " And your father ? « Oh, 
 I scarcely knew him, he having been dead these 
 four years." — <* Dead these four years! interrupted 
 the old man, and lix^ing his eyes attentively on the 
 boy. Is it possible that I have some recolUction 
 
 of your features? Can it \ be little X'*"'^^^^ """^ 
 " Yes, yes, Francis is my name." 
 
 For a few moments the old man stood motion- 
 less, and with an altered voice, his eyes swimming 
 with tears, cried out, " my dear Francis, you do 
 not recollect your grandfather ! Embrace me ! You 
 have got the very features of my son ! My dearest 
 child, you was not thinking of me ! My son affec- 
 tionately loved me, and his son will love me also. 
 My old age will not be so miserable as I expected, 
 and the evening of my life will not pass away with- 
 out some joy. I shall depart in peace ! -But 
 
 I forget, that by detaining you, I may expose you 
 to your mother's anger. Go, my dear child, for 
 I do not wish that my joy should cost you tears. 
 
^70 THE LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Go, love your mother, and obey her commands, 
 fven though you should not come and see me. 
 Come and see me if you can, but do not disobey or 
 tell a story on any account. 
 
 He then turned to Charlotte, and said, though he 
 then did not wish her to stay, for fear of offending 
 her parents, yet he hoped she would come again. 
 He then dismissed them giving them a hearty bless- 
 ing, and the two children walked away hand in 
 hand. Charlotte got home safe before her parents, 
 who were not long after her, when she told them 
 every thing that had passed, which furnished an 
 agreeable conversation for the evening. 
 
 1 The next day, they all went to see the good old 
 man, and afterwards frequently repeated their vi- 
 sits. Francis also came to see his grandfattier, who 
 
 ** was rejoiced to hear him speak and to receive his 
 affectionate caresses. Francis on his side was 
 equally rejoiced, excepting when he did not meet 
 with Charlotte -, for then he went home sorrowful 
 and sad. 
 
 The nearer Francis arrived to manhood, the 
 more his affections for Charlotte increased 5 and 
 accordingly, when he was old enough to marry, he 
 would think of no other woman, though she was 
 not rich. The old man lived to see them marri- 
 
t^ 
 
 ■•mv, 
 
 % 
 
#f 
 
 
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