W$t Hibrarp of ti)c Umbergitp of J^ortf) Carolina Cnfcotoeb bp Wbz Btalecttc anb Pfjtlantfjropic iborieties: JU UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 111)1111 III 00022230550 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hi http://www.archive.org/details/childrensfriend02berq THE LITTLE FIDDLER. Jonas. I had tied up all my money in the handkerchief, and was going to undo the knot, when he snatched at it. 1 guessed his roguery. So he palled one way and I another, when all at once seeing where my fiddle lay on the ground, he on it with both his feet. V THE CHILDREN'S FRIEND, TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH M. BERQUIN. A NEW AND REVISED EDITION. l T 0l X*. BOSTON. PUBLISHED BY MUNROE AND FRANCIS. AND BY CHARLES S. FRANCIS, NEW-YORK. 1833. Entered, according to act of congress, in the year 1833, By Monroe & Frawcis, in the Clerk's office of the district court of Massachusetts. CHILDREN'S FRIEND, THE LITTLE FIDDLER: A DRAMA IN ONE ACT. characters. Mr. Melfort. Charles, his So?i. Sophia, his Daughter. Godfrey, his Nephew. Amelia Richmond, Charlotte Richmond, . . . Friends of Sophia. Jonas, • the Little Fiddler. Scene, Mr. Melfort 3 s House. SCENE I. Charles and Godfrey. Charles. Hark ye, cousin. You must do me a favour. Godf. Come, let us see what it is ? You have always something or other to ask of me. ^ Charles. It is because you are the cleverer of J the two. You know the translation of that fable fr» of Phaedrus, that our tutor has given me for a task. -** 1* O LITTLE FIDDLER. Godf. What, have you not finished it yet ? Charles. How do you think I should have fin- ished it when I have not begun it 1 Godf. You have not had time then to do it from twelve o'clock till four ! Charles. You shall see now whether that was possible. At eleven o'clock I could not help taking a turn or two in the garden, in order to get an appe- tite for my dinner. We were at table an hour. Then to sit down and study immediately after one's meals, you know how dangerous papa's doc- tor says that is. So, as I had made a hearty dinner, I had occasion for a good deal of exercise to digest it, you know. Godf. Well, now at least you have had exercise enough ; and before dark there is more time than you want, to finish your task. Charles. You do not consider that just now I must go to my writing. Godf. But since your writing-master is not come Charles. I shall wait for him. It would be spoiling every thing, to confound my hours of busi- ness. Godf. Well then, after your writing, you have still some of the afternoon and the whole evening. Charles. I shall not have a minute. My sister expects the two Misses Richmond to come to see her. Godf. It is not on your account that they come. p Charles. No. But then I must help my sister to X entertain them. •>••• LITTLE FIDDLER. 7 Godf. What will hinder you when the young ladies go away ? — Charles. O yes, indeed ! to work by candle- light, and spoil my eyes ! Yet my translation must be ready by to-morrow morning. Godf. Well ! whether it is or not, what is that to me ? Charles. And would you see me, then, repri- manded by my tutor and my papa ? Godf. You always know how to get the better of me. Come, let me see, where is this task ? Charles. Above stairs in my room, on the table. I will go for it ; or rather come along with me. Godf. Do you go first. I shall follow immedi- ately. I see your sister coming this way. She wanted to speak with me. Charles. But don't you tell her any thing of this ; you understand me. SCENE II. Sophia and Godfrey. Soph. Well, cousin, what have you and my brother been conversing about. He has certainly been playing you one of his old tricks. Godf No, but he has been making me one of his old requests. He wants me as usual to perform his task for him against to-morrow. Soph. And is my papa never to be informed of his idleness ? Godf I shall not undertake that office. You know that ever since your mamma's death, my un- cle's health has been so precarious, that the least emotion makes him ill for some days. Besides, his 8 LITTLE FIDDLER. generosity supports me ; and he might think that I wished to hurt your brother in his esteem. Soph. Well then, I shall talk to my brother the first opportunity — But do you know what I had to say to you ? The Miss Richmonds are coming to see me to-day, and you must assist us in our amuse- ments. Godf. O, I shall certainly do my best, cousin- Soph. Ah, here they are ! Enter Amelia and Charlotte Richmond. Soph. How do you do, my dear friends ? ( They salute each other, and curtsy to Godfrey „ ivho botes to them.) Char. It seems an age since I saw you last. Amelia. Indeed it is a long time. Soph. I believe it is more than three weeks. (Godfrey draws out the table andgives themchairs.) Char. Do not give yourself so much trouble, Master Godfrey. Godf. Miss, I only do my duty. Soph. Oh ! I am very sure Godfrey does it with pleasure, (gives him her hand) I wish my brother had a little of his complaisance. Enter Charles. Charles (without taking notice of the Miss Rich- monds.) This is very pretty of you, Godfrey, to let me wait so long while you are playing the fine gentleman. Godf. I thought I should be the last person in LITTLE FIDDLER. y the company to whom you would direct your com- pliments. Charles. O do not be angry, ladies ; I shall be at your service presently. Amelia. O pray do not hurry yourself, Mr. Charles. {Charles takes Godfrey aside, and ichile the young ladies converse together, draws a paper from his pocket, which he gives him.) Charles. There it is ; you understand me. Godf Six lines ! a great task indeed ! are you not ashamed 1 Charles. Hist ! hold your tongue. Godf. Ladies, if you give me leave, I will just step out for a few minutes. Char. We shall expect your return with impa- tience. Soph. Since you are going out, cousin, pray bid Jenny bring in tea. SCENE III. Charles, Sophia, Amelia, Charlotte. Charles (throwing himself into an arm-chair.) Soh ! I shall take possession of this. Soph. I think it would have been civil to ask leave. Charles. Your leave, perhaps ? Soph. I am not the only person here. Char. I see your brother counts us as nothing. Amelia. He thinks certainly that he does us a great deal of honour in keeping uafrcompany. Charles. O, I know you could do without my company ; but I could not so easily deprive myself of yours. 10 LITTLE FIDDLER. Soph. There is at least the appearance of a compliment. Though, I believe, to say the truth, the tea should come in for the greatest part of it. Charles. You are very right, my dear sister, in not thinking that I stay, at least, on your account. Soph. O as to that, I have too humble an opin- ion of my own merit. All that I should take pride in, is, that I am sister to so polite a young gentle- man. [Jenny brings the tea and sets it before So- phia.) Charles. Let me pour it out, pray do. Soph. No, no, that is my business ; you are a little too awkward. If you want to do something, hand these ladies their cups. Amelia, Not so much sugar for me. Soph. Help yourself, my dear, to your liking. {Hands her a cup [and the sugar basin. Charles takes a cup for himself, arid gets hold of the sugar.) Charles, you have got three great lumps already. Charles. Why, that is not too much. I like it pretty sweet. ( Takes several bits one after an- other, till his sister gets the basin out of his hand.) Sopk. Are you not ashamed, brother 1 You see there will be none left for us. Charles. Well, don't you know the way to the sugar-canister ? Soph. My brother would think he had done wrong, if he saved his sister any trouble. Charles. No;^but if you went for it, I should have the pleasure of being alone with these ladies. Amelia. Do you hear that, Sophia? Now will you say that your brother is not perfectly polite ? 5 j * LITTLE FIDDLER. 11 Soph, (having collected all the cups before her, and filled them again.) Charles, hand Amelia this cup. (Charles takes the cap, and in handing it to Amelia, spills the tea upon her slip. They all rise hastily.) Soph. There's an instance of his politeness, (Aside to Charles.) I dare say, you ill-natured creature, that was done on purpose. Amelia. O dear! what will mamma say, and what shall we do. Char. This is only the second time she has worn this slip. Make haste, a glass of clean water. Soph. No ; I have heard that it is better to rub it with a dry linen cloth. Here is a handkerchief quite clean. (They go to assist Amelia, Charlotte holds her slip, and Sophia rubs it. Meantime Charles remains at table, quite unconcerned, drink- ing his tea.) Char. There, it begins to disappear, you must let it dry. Amelia. By good luck, it is in a fold, where one will not think of looking. Charles (aside.) That's not my fault. Soph. There, look now, Charlotte, I do not think it will be observed. C ar. If I had not seen the spot before — Amelia. Very true. How r ever, Mr. Charles, another time I shall beg you to spare yourself the trouble of waiting on me. Soph. Come, ladies, let us take rur places again. (Going to pour out the tea, she finds the teapot empty, looks angrily at Charles.) Well, this is a 12 LITTLE FIDDLER. piece of ill manners that I could not have imagined. Would you believe it, ladies 1 while we were so much concerned, he has taken all the tea. How- ever, stop a moment, I will go and order more. Char. No, there has been quite enough; I could not drink another drop. Amelia. The misfortune to my dress has taken away my thirst. Charles. But I beg you will make no ceremony. They can soon bring us more. Amelia. Really I think you should have known beforehand that your brother was to be one of the company. Soph. Those who are not invited should at least wait until it were their turn. Char. Let us say no more about it. It does not give me the least concern. Soph. Well, what shall we do now ? Ah, here is our friend Godfrey. He will help us to fix on some amusement. Charles (mimics her.) Our friend Godfrey ! But, ladies, I must speak to him before you. (Goes to meet Godfrey, while the young ladies converse together.) Enter Godfrey. Charles, (to Godfrey.) Well, have you done it ? Godf There, take it, and blush for your idle- ness. — Well, ladies, have you fixed upon any amusement? Amelia. No, we waited for you to determine us. Godf. I have got a little musician below stairs LITTLE FIDDLER- — 13 at your service. If you give me leave, I will call him up to sing you a song, or to play, if you choose to dance. Soph. A little musician ! where is he 1 where is he ? Char. We must own that master Godfrey knows how to amuse his company. Godf. At the same time that we amuse ourselves, we shall do an act of charity ; for the poor little fellow has no livelihood but his violin. Charles. And who will pay him, master God- frey ? He talks and acts as if the king were his cousin, and he has not a farthing all the while. Soph. Are not you ashamed, brother ? Godf. Let him go on, cousin, he does not offend me. It is no crime to be poor. I am the liker my little musician, who is, for all that, a very good boy. I will give him sixpence that I have remaining in my purse ; and he has promised to play for that all the evening. Char. We will make a collection to pay him. Amelia. Yes, yes ; we shall club. Godf. Shall I go for him ? he waits below at the door. Soph. By all means, my dear cousin, and make haste. (Godfrey goes out, mean time Jenny brings in a cake upon a plate.) SCENE. Amelia, Charlotte, Sophia, Charles. Charles, (going to take the plate from Jenny, Sophia prevents him.) I was only going to cut it up. 14 LITTLE FIDDLER. Soph. I shall save you the trouble ; you would cut it up so well, I suppose, that we should have no more of the cake than we had of the tea. (She di- vides it and hands it round.) Charles, (after taking his share.) Who is to have the piece that is left 1 Soph. What ! is ray cousin to have none 1 Amelia. I would rather give him ray part. Char. And I mine. Charles, (with a sneer.) He is exceedingly happy. Soph. Can you see nothing but his cake to envy him ? Enter Godfrey, leading in Jonas by the hand, who has his violin under his arm. Godf. Give me leave to present you ray young performer. Charlotte 8f Amelia. He is a smart little fellow. Soph. Where do you come from, my man ? Jonas. I come from the wolds of Yorkshire, ma'am. Amelia. La ! what has made you come thus far 1 Jonas. Because my poor father is blind and an- not work. So we travel the country, and I support him with my fiddle. Soph. Well, will you give us a ^specimen of your performance ? Jonas, That I will, with all my heart; but my skill is not very great. Godf. Play your best ; at any rate it will be well enough for me, and these ladies will be so good LITTLE FIDDLER. 23 Soph. No ; it is not mine now. Char. If you ever pass our way, I will do some- thing for you. Amelia. 'Tis in Green Square ; any body will show you Mr. Richmond's. Jonas. Oh ! great folks seldom ask me into their houses. I am sometimes, perhaps, taken down into the kitchen. Soph. Well, enough of this. Your father, prob- ably is uneasy on your account, and ours may return very soon. Jonas. How, miss ! your papa 1 Do you expect him soon ? Soph. Yes, go your ways, else the rogue who took your handkerchief and money may take this from you too. Jonas. But I hope you are very sure not to be scolded. Godf. No, no, never fear. Good by. Jonas, (as he goes out.) The good natured little souls. SCENE V. Sophia, Charlotte, Amelia, Godfrey. Char. I am very sorry you have deprived your- self of your buckles, master Godfrey. Amelia. You have set us a good example. Godf. I only followed that of Sophia. I should be happy in the opportunity of doing a good action, if it had not been furnished by the mean behaviour of Charles. With what pleasure I shall now look at my pinchbeck buckles ! 24 LITTLE FIDDLER. SCENE VI. Mr. Melforl, Sophia, Amelia, Charlotte, God- frey, Jonas. ( The children get close together. Sophia and Godfrey cast a side look at Jonas, and whisper each other.) Mr. M. {to the Misses Richmond.) Your ser- vant, ladies ! I thank you for the honour you have done my daughter. But give me leave to hear, in your presence, what this boy has to say. He was waiting for me upon the stairs, and cannot leave me, he says, until he has spoken to me before you. — ( To Jonas.) Come, what have you to say ? Jonas, (to Sophia and Godfrey.) My good young master and miss, I beg you not to be angry with me : but I cannot help speaking, and it would be ill done of me to keep what you have made me take, without the consent of your papa. I know very well that children have nothing of their own to give away. Mr. M. What is all this 1 Jonas. I am going to tell you, sir. This young master called me from his window to come in and play upon my violin for these ladies. There was another little gentleman too along with them, very handsome, but a very ill-natured rogue. Mr. M. What ! my son 1 Jonas. I beg pardon. That word escaped me. Well ; I played my best, what tunes I knew, and this good little company were so kind as to give me a piece of cake with a handkerchief to wrap it LITTLE FIDDLER. 25 up, and almost a handful of money besides. I do not know how much. Mr. M. Well ? Jonas. Weil, that ill-natured little gentleman took away the cake which I was intending to carry to my poor father, who is blind. That I should not have minded ; but he slips out of the room, and when I was going away, quite overjoyed with my little bundle, he watches me in the passage, takes the handkerchief with all the money from me by force, and breaks my violin in pieces. Look, there it is, (crying*) — All my riches, that supported me and my father. Mr. M. Is it possible ? Such a malicious ill-na- tured action ! — What! my son? — Char. His behaviour in every thing else makes this very probable. Ask Sophia herself. Mr. M. Go, my man ; do not let it afflict you ; I will indemnify you. But is this all? Jonas. No, Sir ; only hear me. Being in such trouble, I returned to tell these good little gentle- folks the whole affair. They had not money enough to pay for the damage : so this pretty miss gives me her gold thimble, and this young gentle- man his silver buckles. I could not possibly keep them : my father would have thought that I had stolen them. I knew you were coming home, so I waited to return them to you, and here they are. — But I have no fiddle now. O my fiddle ! O my poor father ! Mr. M. What an account you have given me ! vol. 2. 3 26 LITTLE FIDDLER. Is it you, or you, my generous children, whom I should most admire ? Excellent boy ! in extreme indigence, to lose all ; and yet, from the fear of c'o- ing wrong, to run the risk of letting a father whom you love, perish with hunger. Jonas. Is it so great a matter not to be a rogue ? No, no ; one never thrives on ill gotten bread. It is what my father and mother have often told me. If you would only please to buy me another fiddle, that would make amends for all. Whatever more the thimble and buckle would have brought, God will repay me. Mr. M. Your father and you must be endowed with extraordinary uprightness of heart not even to suspect the depravity of others ! God will make use of me as an instrument to impart his blessings to you. You shall stay here, and for the first you shall wait upon Godfrey. Afterwards we will see what we can do better for you. Jonas. What! wait upon this little angel of a gentleman ! O, I should be delighted (boivs to God- frey.) But, no [sorrowfully) I cannGt leave my father all alone. Without me, how would he do to live 1 What ! should I be in abundance, and he die for want? O no. Mr. J/. Excellent child ! and who is your father 1 Jonas. An old blind laborer, whom I supported by playing on the fiddle. It is true, he seldom eats, nor I neither, any thing else but a piece of bread with some milk. But God always gives us enough for the day, and we take no care for the morrow : he provides for that also. LITTLE FIDDLER. 27 Mr. 31. Well, I will take care of your father, and, if he chooses, I will get him into an alms- house; where old and infirm people are well main- tained. You may go and see him there whenever you please. — [Jonas, after an exclamation of joy, runs about the room quite transported.) Jonas. O goodness! What, my dear father! No ; that will make him die with joy. I cannot stop any longer, but must go for him, and bring him here. — (Runs out. Sophia and Godfrey take Mr. Melforfs hands.) SCENE VI. Mr. Melfort, Sophia, Amelia, Charlotte and Godfrey. Mr. M. O my dear children ! how happy would this day have been to me, if, while I admire the generosity of your sentiments, the idea of my son's unworthiness did not intervene to poison my happi- ness ! But no, it should not affect it. God has given me another son in you, my dear Godfrey. If you are not so by birth, you are by the ties of blood, and by congenial worthiness of heart. Yes, you shall be my son. — But where is Charles 1 Go, seek him, and bring him hitherto me immediately. (God- frey goes out.) Soph. It is almost an hour since we saw him. While the little boy was playing a minuet to us, he disappeared with his piece of cake. Godf. (returning.) He w r as seen going into a confectioner's not far off. I have told John to go forbim. 28 LITTLE FIDDLER. Mr. M. Children, step into my study. I wish to know what answer he will have the assurance to make me. When I want your testimony, I shall call you. Char, and Amelia. Then we shall take our leave. Mr. M. No, my dears ! I will send word to your papa and mamma, that you will spend the rest of the evening with us. Probably the generous little Jonas and his old father will be our guests also. I have occasion for something to assuage the cruel wound that Charles has given my heart, and 1 know of nothing more salutary than the conversation of such amiable children as you. Soph, [listening.) I think I hear Charles com- ing. — {Mr Melfort opens his study-door. The children icithdraw.) SCENE VII. Mr. Melfort. I have long dreaded a discovery of this disagree- able nature, but could never have suspected him of any thing so horrid. It is, perhaps, still not too late to correct his vices. Alas ! why am I obliged to try a desperate remedy. Enter Charles. Charles. What are your commands, papa ? Mr. 31. Where have you been ? Were you not in your chamber ? Charles. Our tutor is gone out. Godfrey was below stairs. So, after having studied all the after- noon, I grew tired of being alone. Mr. M. Why did you not go, as well as Godfrey, LITTLE FIDDLER. 29 and join the little company that I found with your sister? Charles. And so I did : but those misses treated me so ill — Mr. Mi How 1 You astonish me. Charles. At first they drank tea, but without asking me to have a drop. On the contrary, they showed me all the spite in the world. Then God- frey picked up a little beggar brat in the street, and brought him to play the fiddle to them. He gave him some of the cake that was brought up to them, and me not a bit. They danced, but not one of the ladies would dance with me, though there were three of them, and no gentleman but Godfrey. What could I do here, I went down to the door to look at the people passing by. Mr. M. Only to the door ? What was it then that passed at the corner of the street, between a lit- tle fiddler and you 1 I have been told that you beat him, and broke his violin, and that he went away crying. Charles. Yes, that is true, papa, and if I had not been very good-natured, I should have got a constable to put him in bridewell. You shall hear, Sir. When I saw him go out, I said to myself, I must give this poor creature something too for his trouble, for I knew that Godfrey had nothing of his own, and a beggar is but ill paid with only a morsel of cake. So I took some money out of my purse, which I gave him, and he drew out a handkerchief to put it in. I perceived that it was one of my sis- 30 LITTLE FIDDLER. ter's handkerchiefs ; you may see the mark. I begged him, very civilly, to return it, which he would not. So I took him by the collar, and we struggled together, and by accident I put my foot upon his fiddle. Mr. 31. (with indignation.) Eold your tongue, base liar ! I cannot bear to hear you. Charles, (drawing near him and going to take him by the hand.) Why, my dear papa, what makes you angry ? Mr. M. Begone, wicked creature, out of my sight ! you shock me. (He calls the children from the study.) Enter Sophia, Amelia, Charlotte, Godfrey. Mr. 31. Come hither, my children, I will see none but those who merit my affection. As for you, quit my presence for ever. But no, stop. You shall receive your sentence first. (To Sophia and Godfrey.) You have heard his charges against you. Soph. Yes, papa ; and if it were not necessary for our own justification, I would say not a word against him, for fear of increasing your anger. Charles. Do not believe any thing that she will tell you. Mr. 31. Be silent. I have already had a proof of your detestable falsehood. Lying is the high road to theft and murder. You have already com- mitted the first crime, and perhaps want only strength to attempt the other. Go on, Sophia. Soph. In the first place he has done no business LITTLE FIDDLER. 31 at all this afternoon. It was Godfrey who wrote his translation for him. Mr. M. Is this true 1 Godf. I cannot deny it. Soph. Then he spilt a dish of tea upon Amelia's dress ; and while we were busy in wiping it, he re- mained at table, and emptied the tea-pot. There was not a drop left for us. These young ladies are witnesses (pointing to the Misses Richmond.) As to the cake Mr. M. That is enough. All your baseness is discovered. Go up to your chamber for this day : to-morrow morning I will put you out of the house. I will give you time enough to amend before you return, and if that experiment does not succeed, there are not wanting methods to dispose of incorri- gible reprobates who disturb society by their mis- deeds. Godfrey, tell John to see that he keeps his room. You will give orders in the mean time, that your tutor be sent to me as soon as he returns. Soph, and Godf. {interceding for him.) Dear papa ! — Dear uncle ! Mr. M. I will not hear a word in his favour. He who is capable of taking from the poor, by force, the earnings of his industry, of breaking the instru- ment of his livelihood, and of seeking to justify such actions by falsehood and calumny, should be turned out of the society of men. I thank God that he has left me still two such excellent children as you.. You shall be my consolation henceforward, and with you, I will endeavour to make myself as happy this evening as the father of so unprincipled a son can be. MAURICE. MY DEAR SON, Do not let the news, which I am going to communicate, afflict you too much : I wish I could conceal it from you ; but I cannot. Your father is dangerously ill ; and, without a miracle in his favour, we must lose him. O heavens ! my heart is ready to burst when I think of his situation. For these six days I have not closed my eyes, and L t n now so weak that I can scarcely hold my pen. You must come home instantly. The servant who delivers you this letter will re- turn with you. Your father desires earnestly to see you. " Maurice, my dear Maurice, if I could embrace him before I die ; " he has repeateed a hundred times in the day. Would to heaven that you were here now ! However, do not lose a mo- ment in packing up your clothes ; and I have or- dered the man to make all possible expedition. Every moment will be an age of anxiety to me, un- til I clasp you in my arms. Adieu, my dear child, may the Lord protect you from all dangers on your journey ! I wait your return with the great- est impatience, and am Your ever affectionate mother, Cecilia Lavington. Oxford. Dear Cousin, I have now no other friend but you, to apply to, and from you alone I can hope for comfort in a MAURICE. 33 misfortune too weighty for me to bear. Heaven has deprived me of what was dearest to me on earth, my beloved husband. You know how sin- cere and tender an affection I bore him. This day se'night he desired me to send for our son from school. When Maurice was brought up to his bed, he stretched out his hand to him, and had scarcely given him his blessing, before he expired. With him is gone all the satisfaction and happi- ness of my life. You now see me in a situation the most distressful and afflicting to a woman, and a mother. Yet, if I suffered alone, I could bear it ; but my poor son sighs by my side. He is not yet sensible of the misfortune of being an orphan. It wounds my heart to see him look up to me with tears in his eyes, while he presses my hand, and speaks of his father. None but a mother can have an idea of so afflicting a sight. I think at those times that I read in his looks these mel- ancholy words : " It is you alone, my dear moth- er, that must maintain me now." Wherever I go, he is at my side, and wipes the tears from his little eye, with my gown. Sorrow stops my voice when I would comfort him, for the very sight of my child renews all my affliction. How shall I maintain him ? My poor husband has left me nothing, and my hands are too feeble to work. To whom then shall I look for assistance, but to you ? On you alone I rest all my hopes. Heaven, I doubt not, will dispose your heart to relieve a destitute and forlorn widow, and to prove that the ties of blood, which unite us, are sacred. I give 34 MAURICE. up my son to your care. Whatever kindness you show to him, I shall receive as performed for my sake and for the memory of a man who loved you. All the strength and spirits that I have left, I will exert, to gain myself a livelihood by working : but to bring up my son properly, is beyond my power. I give him up therefore to you entirely. However severe it may be to part with my child, I must yield to necessity. In the mean time I comfort myself in the reflection, that I rely on the favour of a merciful God, and the kindness of a worthy relation. Be to him as a father, and ena- ble him one day to soften my afflictions. I am unable to proceed. My tears, which wet my pa- per, show sufficiently what my heart feels. You have it in your power to determine my happiness, and the well-being of my son. God will forever bless your liberality ; he will reward you, even in this world, for your kindness to two unfortunate re- lations. I am, dear cousin, Your disconsolate kinswoman, &,c. Cecilia Lavington. Oxford. Madam, Yours of the 7th inst. in which you inform me of your huband's death, has given me the sincer- est affliction. You may be assured, I partake of your grief, and feel still more for your loss than for ray own. Yet I must confess, I cannot help being a good deal surprised that you think of ap- MAURICE. 35 plying to me alone for assistance. Is it absolutely necessary that your son should have the educa- tion of a scholar, and add another to the number of half-learned smatterers that are already in the world ? Are there not many other professions in which he may render as great services to socie- ty, and labour to more advantage for his own in- terest ? Consider with yourself, how will he be a- ble to advance himself, without fortune or friends? You know the world too well, to make it necessary for me to show that such an attempt would be im- practicable. On the other hand, it would be un- pleasing to yourself to see him chargeable to stran- gers. You speak of the ties of blood ; but my own family, which is very numerous, puts me more forcibly in mind of them ; and I beg you to believe that it is with great difficulty I can main- tain them in a suitable manner. To load myself with an additional burden, is absolutely out of my power : and I am convinced, that upon more mature reflection, you will dispense with my doing so. All that I can do, is, to put your son appren- tice to a mercer at Rochester, a Mr. Durant, with whom I have concerns in business. I promise you, he shall be well treated there. You may send him upon trial for some time ; and if ap- proved, he will take him without a fee. Consider maturely of my offer, and let me know your deter- mination and your son's. If he resolves to go to the university, it is absolutely out of my power to maintain him there. I request you to accept the enclosed order for four guineas, as a proof of my 36 MAURICE. concern for your present distressed situation, and to believe me, Madam, &c. London. • • • • Dear Sir, I cannot forget the care that you and Mrs. Mas- ters took of me while at your academy, though I have at present scarcely strength to write you these lines of acknowledgment. But my mother who sits by me crying, is unable through grief, to take pen in hand, and has laid that task on me who am so unfit for it. However, from remember- ing your constant kindness to me, I find some sat- isfaction in writing to you, though I may succeed but indifferently. You are already informed, I suppose, of my father's death. Ah Sir, what you foretold me, is not come to pass. You bid me not be uneasy; that I should, perhaps, when I came home, find my father out of danger. But, alas ! he is dead. My mother is now a poor widow, and I an orphan. I dreaded no less, as I came near our house. I had fallen asleep in the chaise, and dreamed that my father was in hea- ven ; and that he took me by the hand, and spoke to me. At this I awoke, and in waking, seemed to hear the passing-bell toll. Yet we were not near the house, and had more than three miles to go. At last, when I arrived, my mother was at our door waiting for me, all in tears. She kissed me, and took me up stairs to my father, who was in bed, and almost speechless. When I kissed him, oh dear ! how I cried and sobbed. At this he MAURICE. 37 opened his eyes, and seeing me, laid his hand up- on my head, and gave me his blessing; but in so faint a voice, as scarcely to be heard. Ah ! you cannot imagine how my mother and I cried. All his neighbours and acquaintance were in tears too at his funeral; but mother and I more than any body. I begin to eat and drink a little, but my mother has absolutely taken no nourishment, so that she is as pale as death ; and I beg of her con- tinually not to die, for then I do not know what would become of me in this world. Ah ! dear Sir, you may imagine how great a trouble it is to mother and me, that I am not able to continue my education. But it cannot be otherwise, and I must be content. My mother has written to her cousin in London, who is a rich merchant, to re- quest him to maintain me at school ; but he will not, and he says that I shall be no better than a half-learned smatterer. For my part, I think, I might have learning enough, if my mother had the tenth pait of his money. But no ; 1 must go apprentice to Mr. Durant, the mercer, at Roch- ester. I cannot tell you how much that grieves me. Mother strives to comfort me, and tells me that it is a reputable line of business, and that I may make a fortune, by following it with applica- tion. But what does all this signify, when one dis- likes it? You know, dear sir, that learning was all to me ; I wished to be as good a scholar and di- vine, as my father. Before, I had always a book in my hand ; now I shall be employed measur- vol. 2. 4 38 MAURICE. ing silks with a yard. But I must hold my tongue, since it cannot be otherwise. Dear Sir, I wish you happiness, and shall always think of you. I hope, too that you will not forget me ; and thank you again for your kind treatment of me. I sup- pose MrDurant will sometimes take me to London, so that as I pass there in my way to Rochester, I shall go and see you and Mrs. Masters ; and if ev- er I get into great business, you shall take what- ever you please in my shop, without paying me a farthing. Only try. You shall see. Mean time I am, and ever shall be, Dear Sir, (as you used to call me) your little friend, Maurice Lavington. SCENE I. Oxford. Maurice, Mrs. Lavington. Mau. Ah, mother ! the stage is ready to set off. Mrs.L. (in tears) My dear child, are you going then to leave me ? Mau. Pray, mother, do not cry so, I shall be dull all the journey. Where are my gloves ? O, they are on my hands. I do not know what I am doing. Mrs. L. What pain it is to part with you ! I will accompany you, at least a little way out of town. Mau. Nay, dear mother, you are already so ill, and so weak ! Mrs. L. It is but half a mile, my dear. Mau. But you know, the doctor says that you must take care of yourself. If you were to come home worse, and be obliged, like my father, to MAURICE. 39 take to your bed, and die, I should be the cause of it. No, you must not stir out, or else I'll not go. Mrs. L. Well, my dear child, then I will stay. Mau. Yes, mother, do not move out, and when I am gone, lie down and try to sleep. 31rs. L. O, I wish I could. Mau. Good by, good by, mother. Mrs. L. God bless you, and watch over you, my dear child. Be good, honest and industrious, and make your mother happy. Mau. You shall see, mother; you shall see I will make you happy. Mrs. L. Write to me regularly, at least once a fortnight. Mau. Yes, every week, mother ; and will you write to me too 1 Mrs. L. Can you ask that ? I shall now have no other pleasure upon earth. But shall we ever see each other again in this world 1 Mau. O, yes; we shall see each other again. I will take care to behave so well that I will get leave to come and see you in six months. But, mother, the stage is going off. I must leave you. Mrs. L. One kiss more, my dear child, Faie- well. ( They wave their hands until out of sight.) SCENE II. Rochester. Mr. Durant, Maurice. Mr. D. What do you bring me there, my little gentleman 1 Mau. A letter, Sir. My name is Lavington. I suppose you know what it concerns. 40 MAURICE. Mr. D. O, you are little Lavington. I am glad to see you. I like your face very well. Have you a taste for business ? Mau. (sighing.) Why yes, sir. Mr. D. You have been some time at school ; can you read 1 Mau. Yes, sir, I could read when I was only five years old ; and now I am ten. Mr. D. Then your father must have begun pretty early with you. Can you write, too, and cast accounts 1 How much is six times 8 1 Mau. 48; and six times 48 make 288; and 6 times 288 make — stop a moment — make 1728: and add 103 to that, it makes 1833, exactly the present year of our Lord. Mr. D. How 1 why you cast accounts like a banker. 1 shall be glad to have so clever a little boy behind my counter. Mau. I hope, sir, I shall give you satisfaction. Mr. D. According as you behave yourself. Mau. Sir, I ask no better. Mr. D. I have no doubt but we shall be good friends. Mau. O sir ! you shall never have reason to find fault with me. 1 love my mother too well to run the risk of grieving her. Mr. D. Come then, I will introduce you to my wife and children. I have two, much about your age. Mau. I hope, sir, to gain the regard of all your family. MAURICE. SCENE III. 41 Lady Abberville, Maurice. Mau. {carrying a piece of satin rolled vp.) Your servant, madam. Mr. Durant gives his re- spects to your ladyship, and sends the twelve yards of satin, of the pattern that you showed him. You know the price, madam 1 Lady A. He asked me thirteen shillings at the first word. That is something dear. Mau. Have you a measure in the house, madam 1 Lady A. Mr. Durant is an honest man. I never measure after him. How much does it come to? Mau. 11. 16s. madam. Lady A. That is a good deal of money. Has he ordered you to receive it? Mau. That is as your ladyship pleases. Lady A. Well, there are 71. 16s. 1 shall call on him for a receipt ; but if I was disposed to cheapen, cannot you abate me something ? Mau. Yes, madam. Mr. Durant told me that I should abate a shilling a yard. Lady A. Well, my little boy, that is very hon- est. I am perfectly v/ell pleased with your sincer- ity. Let me see; that makes twelve shillings. Mau. Yes, madam ; I have twelve shillings to return you. Lady A. Keep them yourself, my little friend. This is my birth-day, and I will make you a pres- ent of them. 4* 42 MAURICE. Mau. Madam, I beg pardon, I cannot take them. Lady A. You must, it is my property, and I give it you. Mau. Perhaps Mr. Durant would take it amiss. Lady A. That is my concern. I shall make that up. Mau. Madam, I return you a thousand thanks. This money shnll not stay long in my pocket. I will send it off directly to my mother, and mention your ladyship to her in my letter. I shall go and write it immediately. Lady A. No, no ; I must not let you go so fast. I see that we have a good deal to say to each other. Tell me in the first place who is your mother, and where does she live? Mau. Ah ! my poor mother is widow to a cler- gyman of Oxford. My father has been dead these two months. He was too charitable to the poor to leave much money behind him. He kept me at school for three years near London ; but I was sent home a little before he died, because he wished to see me once more. And as it was not in my mother's power to continue my education, her kinsman sent me to be apprentice to Mr. Durant the mercer. I am with him upon trial. But if my relation, who is so rich, had thought proper, I should have gone to the university and taken my degrees. I should have been happy to follow my studies, and to become one day a great scholar. I was always the foremost in my class, and my mas- ters were very fond of me. The next time that your ladyship shall have occasion for any thing MAURICE. 43 from us, I will show you a letter from our head- master, that I received a week ago. You will see by it how fond he was of me. -Aye, and he says he will be fond of me as long as he lives. Lady A. I do not doubt it, my good child. You have already made me very fond of you, though this is the first time that I ever have seen you. But tell me ; would you be glad to go from behind the co'jnter, and return to school ? Mau. Would it were possible. But my mother can- not do it ; she has not money enough, and school- ing is expensive. Lady A. Yes : but if your mother has not, there are many people in the world that have more than enough. What would you say if I were to send you to a geotleman who should examine you, to see if you have made good use of the time that you have spent at school, and are likely to make a pro- gress, if you should return thither ? Mau. O madam, how happy should I be ! pray send me to the gentleman directly. You shall see what he will say of me. And then I may learn what I have not yet had time to know. Lady A. Do you know the principal academy of this town 1 Mau. O, yes, madam. I have often sighed as 1 passed by the door. Lady A. Well ; stay a moment. (She sits be- fore the bureau, writes a letter, and gives it to Mau- rice.) There, run to the academy, and ask for the master. You must speak to himself. You will 44 MAURICE. give my compliments to him, and request him to send a line in answer to my note. Man. But, madam, I am in a hurry to send these twelve shillings to my mother. Lady A, You can wait till to-morrow. Perhaps you may have still better news to send her. Mau. I will first, madam, carry your letter, and then hasten to Mr. Durant, who waits for me. Lady A. Take care not to go astray. Mau. O, I shall find my way. I wish your lady- ship good morning. In less than half an hour the master of the academy shall have your letter. I shall fly to him like a bird. SCENE IV. Rochester. The Master of the Academy , Maurice. Mau. Sir, I have a note for you from Lady dear, I have forgot her name. But I will run back to her to know it. Master. There is no occasion for that, child. 1 suppose the lady's name is to the note. (He opens , and looks at the bottom.) Lady Abberville ! O, it is a hand that I know very well. (Reads.) " Sir, The child that I send to you is a poor or- phan. His father is lately dead, and his mother has been under the necessity of taking him from school, in order to put him apprentice. He seems, however to have a strong desire for learning:; therefore I beg, as a favour, that you will have the goodness to examine him, and if you form any hopes of him, I shall charge myself with his educa- MAURICE. 4o tion. This being my birth-day, puts me in mind of the duty to which we are born, that of doing good to our fellow creatures ; and this child seems to have been sent by heaven to be the object of it. I re- quest you to give me your opinion of him, and am, sir, &,c." Take a seat, my little man. I shall be at leisure in a minute. I am in haste to finish a letter. Mau. O sir, what fine books you have there ! it is a long time since I have looked into any. Will you please let me open one while you write? Mas. With all my heart, my dear. Mau. Ha ! this is Homer. But it is in Greek. It is too hard for me. I never read it, but in En- glish. Mas. What, have you read Homer ! And what do you think of him 1 Mau. He is full of fine passages, and especially of beautiful similes. Only I wish that Achilles had not been so passionate and stubborn. Mas. What instances of passion and stubborn- ness do you find in him 1 Mau. Was it well done of him to leave the Greeks in distress 1 Was it their fault, if he quar- relled with Agamemnon ? They had done him no wrong. Should not he have suffered himself to be persuaded, when the deputies came to make sub- mission to him in his tent 1 But no, he remains immoveable as a rock. I should not have let them entreat me so long. I should have followed them at the first wora. Mas. Then you are very good-natured. 46 MAURICE. Mau. We should be so towards all men, and es- pecially to our countrymen. O you have a Sopho- cles too. The tragedy of Philoctetes, I believe, is by him. I have read it in English. It is a very moving play. But I'll tell you, sir, what I liked best in it. Mas. I should be glad to know. Mau. It is a young Grecian — What is his name ? Mas. Neoptolemus. Mau. Yes, yes; Neoptolemus. It is when he comes back and brings Philoctetes his bow and arrows. I think that I should have done the same. But I beg pardon, sir ; perhaps my talk grows tire- some to you. Mas. Not at all. I listen to you with pleasure. Besides, my letter is finished. Mau. Then, sir, I beg you will tell me what fine book of prints that is, that lies open on your desk 1 Mas. It is a collection of engravings from the finest paintings in the gallery at Florence. Mau. That is Jupiter ; I know him. Mas. How do you like him 1 Mau. I like his picture very well, but not Mr. Jupiter. Mas. Why not ? Mau. Because he was an odious character. I do not know how the Greeks and Romans could be such fools as to worship him. He was quite a lib- ertine, and always quarrelling with Juno. Is that acting like a god 1 Mas. You are right. He was an improper and contemptible object of worship. However, noth- MAURICE. 47 ing has been handed down to us concerning him, but the imaginations of the vulgar ; and you know that the people have always been blind and super- stitious. Mau. Why our peasants now-a-days have more sense. Only imagine, sir, the clergyman of a par- ish going into the pulpit, and preaching that God has a wife, whom he deceives and scolds every day. His parishioners would not believe a word of it. Mas. How comes it that the vulgar are now more sensible than in former times 1 Mau. From the light of the gospel. There every thing shows a just and good God. If I had lived in Greece, and had possessed such a book, they would never have worshipped any other than the God we worship. Mas. Give me your hand, my boy ; what is your name 1 Mau. Maurice Lavington. Mas. Indeed, my dear Maurice, it would be a pity that you should pass your life behind a coun- ter. You must apply yourself to learning again. Mau. I should like that very well, if it was in my power. Mas. 1 will give you my answer to Lady Ab- berville. Mau. Sir, I shall take it with pleasure. But she requests you, sir, I believe, to have the kindness to examine me. Mas. I have done that already. I can judge of your understanding, and your heart. Perhaps I 48 MAURICE. may have the pleasure of contributing to procure you a more happy lot. Amuse yourself in looking over these prints, while I write my answer. Mau. Or rather, sir, oblige me with a pen and some paper. I will write too. Mas. To your benefactress? Mau. No, sir ; to another person. Mas. May not I know to whom ? Mau. When my letter is finished, sir, you shall see it. Mas. I long to have a view of it. ( They both sit down. Maurice writes the following letter.) " Dear sir, I thank you a thousand times for your kindness in taking notice of me, and in writing to Lady Abberville. I should be very happy to return to my former school, where every body loves me ; but since you will be the occasion of my happiness, I shall be glad to enjoy it under your eye. If I am so lucky as to be admitted into your academy, 1 will love you with all my heart. I hope I shall be diligent and well behaved, and learn every thing that you will be kind enough to teach me. I hard- ly dare hope that it will be so. That depends on the will of Providence, and yours. But if J re- main with Mr. Durant, you will not refuse me the pleasure of coming to see you now and then, and of conversing a little with you, and reading your fine books ; otherwise I shall soon forget all that I have learned at school, and I should be sorry for that, though it is not much. I hope, dear sir, you will have the goodness to oblige me, and I will let my mother know it, to comfort her sorrows ; for she is MAURICE. 49 very fond of me, and I too of her. Perhaps one day or other " Mas. Well, Maurice, is your letter finished 1 Mau. No, sir, not quite. I have more to say than you have. But there, sir, read it, such as it is. Mas. How is this ? Why it is addressed to me! Well, this is charming. No, my good little Mau- rice, you shall not remain at Mr. Durant's, but shall come to me, if you like it better. You will go now to Lady Abberville. Give her this note, with my respects, and let me know what she says. Mau. O dear ! shall I be so happy ! Mas. Go, and heaven befriend you ! Mau. O, I shall run, and be back again direct- ly ! (Bowing to the master.) Your servant, Sir. SCENE V. Rochester. Lady Abberville, Maurice. Lady A. Well, Maurice, do you bring me an answer ? Mau. Yes, madam ; here it is. Lady A. I am curious to know what it says ; nothing very favourable, I am afraid. Mau. O, nothing unfavourable to me, madam, I am sure. Lady A. (Reads to herself.) " Madam, you could not give me more sensible pleasure than I felt in the conversation of this amiable child. His looks, full of ingenuous inno- cence ; the lively spirit that appears in his eyes, and vol. 2. 5 50 MAURICE. animates his discourse, have warmly attached me to him. To shine as a man of letters, is more suit- able to his genius, than to pursue the line to which his father's death and the poverty of his family had destined him. I congratulate you, madam, that you chose, for the object of your generosity, a child of so fair hopes. Heaven seems to have thrown him in your way for that purpose. I am strongly persuaded that his behaviour and sentiments will never give you cause to repent, and shall esteem myself very happy, if, by my cares, I can promote your generous intentions. I have the honour to 'be, &c." Lady A. The master seems to be only half sat- isfied with you. Mau. O, madam, he is quite satisfied. He told me so, and I can see it in your eyes. Lady A. Aye 1 can you see it there, my little cunning man 1 But to speak seriously, if there was a person that would take the charge of your maintenance and education, what would you do for that person 1 Mau. What would I do 1 I hardly know. I can do nothing of myself, but I would pray for that person from the bottom of my heart, both day and night. Lady A. Then you shall pray for me, my dear child, as for your second mother. Mau. Will you be my mother ? Lady A. Yes, I will. Your father is dead .1 will fill his place, and do every thing for you that MAURICE. 51 he would. You shall go to your learning again, and nothing shall be wanting to your education. Mau. O dear, my good mother, I can hardly speak for joy. Lady A. If you love me, you will never call me any thing but mother, remember. Mau. O, yes, mother. I am as happy as a king. Lady A. Come, be composed, and let us take a walk in the garden. I have something to say to you of your mother. SCENE VI. Rochester. Mr. Durant, Maurice. Mr. D. Where have you been, so long ? Mau. O, Mr. Durant, if you knew — Mr. D. Knew ! I know that you should not be so long on an errand. Don't let this be the case another time. What ! could not you find Lady Ab- berville at home 1 Mau. Yes, sir,'I found her, and I found her a second mother to me. Mr. D. What stuff is this 1 Are you mad ? Mau. No, sir, but I am going to my learning again. I shall be put to an academy in a few days, and my mother, Lady Abberville, will come to-mor- row, and speak to y6u about it. Mr. D. What, do you not choose to stay with me, then 1 Mau. Why, sir, I like learning and study better than business. Mr. D. So, then, you are only come hither, to go away again. You have deceived me. 52 MAURICE. Mau. No, sir, I should be very sorry. I had not a thought of going, and could have staid here contentedly. But suppose yourself in my place for a moment. If my father had not died, I should not have quitted school to live here. A worthy lady acts to me like a parent, and offers to put me to school again : is it a fault in me to accept her ladyship's offer 1 Mr. D. Well, you are only upon trial here, it is true, and your choice is free. You are very right. However, I wish I had never seen you, for I began to be fond of you, and now I shall grieve to part with you. (Goes out.) Mau. Mr. Durant is something blunt, but a very worthy man. I shall be sorry to leave him. But I must write to mother. O, how happy will she be on reading my letter ! I wish that she had it now in her hands, and that I were by her side the next moment. (He begins to write.) " Dear mother, Joy ! joy ! you are now free from all trouble, and I too. Do not, however, let tears of joy hinder you from reading my letter. This is the story of my happiness. Mr, Durant sent me this morning to carry some satin to Lady Abber- ville. Oh ! an excellent lady ! Ah ! if you were here now ! but you do know, mother, that you are to be here before a week? she will give you an apartment in her house, and you will live with her and I shall go to school, and shall come to see you whenever you choose. Oh ! that will be a happi- ness ! You remember for all that, how you cried MAURICE. 53 when I was leaving you ? You said that you kiss- ed me, perhaps for the last time. I hope now, you will never have that to fear again. My mother is to send you money for the journey, for she is as much my mother as you are, and I am very sure that you will not be angry at that. All the money, however, that you receive in this parcel, is not from her, there are twelve shillings from me. She gave them to me, and I send them to you. Make haste to get every thing in readiness for your jour- ney hither; the sooner you come, the happier we shall be. I have spoken so well of you to the lady, that she wishes to see you almost as much as I do. Set out, set out ; I shall watch the coming of every stage, to tell you the whole story, before you see her, though I suppose she tells it to you herself in the letter that she writes to you to-day. I have not time to add more, for I should be afraid that my let- ter would be too late, if I wrote all that I have to say. I am, dear mother, &,c." " Madam, how shall I find words to express to you my joy and gratitude ! Gracious heaven ! my misfortunes are then at an end, I am happy, and my child also, and to you we owe that we are so. How shall I be able to bear so sudden an elevation from an abyss of misery to the summit of joy ! I have only tears to express what I feel, and am sorry that I cannot give you even this testimony of my gratitude, personally, at this moment. You 5* 54 THE PARRICIDE. have wished to be a mother, therefore you may, perhaps, form an idea of my happiness ; as for me, I want words to express it, and I shall want them perhaps, still more when I for the first time see my son placed between us both, and our arms inter- mingled in embracing him. But you will under- stand my silence, which the ardor and sincerity of my attachment to you shall perfectly explain every moment of my life. Oxford. I have the honour to be, &c." THE PARRICIDE. What dreadful weather ! I perish with cold, and have no shelter against the bitter winds; no bed to warm my benumbed limbs. I am old, and my strength is exhausted by labour. Unnatural son ! I gave you life ; I nourished you, and took care of your weak and sickly infancy. When I saw you suffer through illness, my tears fell upon your cheeks. You loved me at that time, and would say, while you caressed me, " Papa, what makes you cry 1 lam not sick now. Do not be troubled. See, I am quite well." You raised yourself up in your bed ; your little hands would play in my hair, and you would say again, '* Do not grieve any more, I am cured." And as you spoke the words, you would fall down again through weakness. You would strive to speak but could not. THE PARRICIDE. 55 At last, however, your body grew strong ; you became hale and robust, and you should have been the prop of my old age. I laboured all my life for you, and now you shut me out of your house in the midst of wind and snow. " We cannot live together any longer, father," said you to me in your fury. And why not, my son 1 What have I done to you? I have exhorted you to virtue, that is all my crime. When I saw you spend in intem- perance the earnings of sixty years' labour, the for- tune of which 1 willingly stripped myself to en- rich you, I pointed out your danger to you.' God is my witness, that I was more anxious on your ac- count than on my own. Was I not silent long e- nough, for fear of troubling you 1 But my silence and my sorrow, which I strove to hide, made no impression on you. I was then obliged to speak. I thought it my duty then to resume the preroga- tive of a father : yet my authority was tempered with mildness. My discourse was tender as it was earnest. I spoke to you of your mother, who died through grief on account of your disorderly life ; I spoke to you of myself, whom the same cause would probably send to my grave. I show- ed you my aged cheek, furrowed with the tears that you have made me shed. I showed you my grey hairs, made so through anguish and sorrow. I opened rny arms to invite you to my bosom. I should have fallen on my knees to you, if your fa- ther even in that humble posture, could have sof- tened you. And you, my son — I can scarcely be- lieve it yet — you came towards me with a threat- 56 THE PARRICIDE. ening air ; your arm was stretched out, and your gate shut against me. You my son 1 You are no longer so. Why do my bowels still feel the yearnings of a father to- wards you 1 I am tempted to wish that I could curse you : but no, I dare not breathe even my complaints aloud. I fear lest heaven should hear them, and lest this house, which you have shut a- gainst me, should fall upon your head. I will lay myself on the stone before your door. To-mor- row you cannot come out without seeing me, and I hardly think that your heart will not soften when you see what I shall have suffered during this dreadful night. But if the severity of the season, if my exhausted old age, and still more, the sor- rows that wound my heart, should occasion my death, then shudder at your crime ; weep for me, and for yourself still more. Ah ! I should think my death a fortunate circumstance, if it could pro- duce your reformation. Such were the complaints of this old man. But the north wind all the live-long night carried a- way his sighs unheard. The tempest filled the air with dreadful whistlings; the shattered trees of the forest were bent down ; and all nature seemed to shudder with horror at the crime of his son. The next morning the old man was found dead upon the stone. He had his hands clasped togeth- er, and his face turned towards heaven. The name of his son was the last word he had pro- nounced. He had prayed to the very last moment for the parricide. VANITY PUNISHED. Mich. Well, I'll show you that I know more than all your Tcll}-mack3. Crack ! there's a fire already ! ■ 59 VANITY PUNISHED. A DRAMA IN ONE ACT. characters. Mr. Waller. Mils. Waller. Valentine, their Son. Mr. Ray, Mr. Nash, Friends to Mr. Waller. Michael, a Country Boy. Martin, a Gardener. SCENE I. A Garden. 3Ir. Waller, Mrs. Waller. Mr. W. Yonder is our Valentine walking in the garden, with a book in his hand. I am very much afraid that it is rather through vanity, than from a real desire of improving himself, that he al- ways appears to be busy reading. 3Irs. W. What makes you think so, my dear I Mr. W. Don't you remark that he casts a side- look now and then, to see if any body takes notice of him? Mrs. W. And yet his masters give a very flat- tering account of his diligence, and they all agree that he is very far advanced, for his age. Mr. W. That's true. But if my suspicions are right, and if the little he can know has made him .60 VANITY PUNISHED. vain, I would rather a hundred times that he knew nothing, and were modest. Mrs. W. That he knew nothing? Mr. W. Yes, my dear. A man without any great extent of knowledge, but upright, modest, in- dustrious, is a much more estimable member of so- ciety, than a learned man, whose studies have turn- ed his head, and puffed up his heart. Mrs. W. I cannot think my son is of that de- scription. Mr. W. Heaven forbid. But while we are here in the country; I shall have more opportunities of observing him ; and I am resolved to take advan- tage of the first that shall offer, to clear up my doubts. I see him coming towards us. Leave me alone with him a moment. SCENE II. Mr. Waller, Valentine. Val. (to Michael, whom he pushes back.) No ; leave me. Father, 'tis that little fool of a country boy, that comes always to interrupt me in my read- ing. Mr. W. Why do you call that good-natured child a little fool ! Val. Why, he knows nothing. Mr. TV. Of what you have learnt, I grant you ; but then he knows many things that you do not, and you may both inform each other a good deal, if you will communicate what you know to each other. VANITY PUNISHED. 61 Val. He may learn a good deal of me, but what can I learn from him 1 Mr. W. If ever you should have a farm, do you think that it would be of no service to you to have an early notion of the labors of the country, to learn to distinguish trees and plants, to know the times of sowing and harvest, and to study the wonders of vegetation ? Michael possesses these different parts of knowledge, and desires no better than to share them with you. They will, perhaps, be here- after of the greatest use to you. Those, on the con- trary, that you could communicate, would be of no service to him. So that you see, in this inter- course, all the advantage is on your side. Val. Well, but papa, would it become me to learn any thing from a little country boy ? Mr. W. Why not, if he is capable of instructing you 1 I know no real distinction among men, ex- cept that of useful talents and good manners ; and you must own that, in both these points, he has equally the advantage over you. Val. What, in good manners too? Mr. TV. In every station, they consist in treating all persons as our duty prescribes to us. He does so, in showing a particular attachment and complai- sance to you. Do you do the same ! Do you make a return of mildness and good will 1 And yet he seems to merit them. He is active and intelligent, I believe him to be possessed of good-nature, spirit, and good sense. You ought to think yourself very happy in having so amiable a companion, with vol. 2. 6 68 VANITY PUNISHED. whom you may at once amuse and improve your- self. His father is my foster-brother, and has al- ways had a remarkable affection for me. I am pretty sure that Michael has the same for you. See how the poor little fellow lingers about the ter- race-walk, to meet you. Take care to use him with civility. There is more honour and integrity in his father's cottage, than in many palaces. His family too have been our tenants for some genera- tions, and I should be glad to see the connexion continued between our children. (He goes out.) , Valentine, (alone.) Yes, a fine connexion in- deed ! I think father is joking. This little coun- try boy teach me any thing ! No, I will surprise him now so much with my learning, that he will not think of talking to me of his own, I'll warrant him. Enter Michael. Mich. You won't have my little nosegay, then, Master Valentine 1 Val. Nosegay 1 Pshaw ! neither ranunculus nor tulip! Mich. Why, it is true, they are only field-flowers, but they are pretty, and I thought you might like to know them by their names. Val. A great matter, indeed, to know the names of your herbs. You may 'carry them where you found them. Mich. Well now, if I had known that, I would not have taken the trouble to gather them. I was resolved not to go home yesterday evening, without bringing you something, and as I came back from VANITY PUNISHED. 63 work, though it was rather late, and I had a great appetite for my supper, I stopped in our fields, to gather them by moonlight. Veil. You talk of the moon ! do you know how big it is 1 Mich. Heh ! Fegs ! as big as a cheese. Val. Ignorant little clown ! (struts with an air of importance, while Michael stands staring at him.) Look here, (showing him his book.) This is Tel- emaque. Have you ever read it ? Mich. That is not in the Catechism : our school- master never talked to me about that. Val. No, it is none of your country books. Mich. Nay, how should I have read it then ? But, let us see it. Val. Do not think of touching it with your dirty hands! (holding one of them up .) Where did you buy these tanned leather gloves 1 Mich. Gloves! it is my hand, master Valentine. Val. The skin is so hard, one may cut it into shoe-soles. Mich. It is not with idleness that they are grown so hard. You know how to talk very well, I dare say, and yet I would not change conditions with you. To work honestly, and offend nobody is all that I know, and it would be no harm if you knew as much. Good by, sir. SCENE III. Valentine, alone. I think the little clown had a mind to make game of me. But I see company coming on the terrace- 64 VANITY PUNISHED. walk. I must put on a studious air before them. (He sits down seeming to read in his book with great attention.) Enter Mr. and Mrs. Waller, Mr. Ray, Mr. Nash. Mr. W. What a fine evening ! Would you choose, gentlemen, to take a walk up this slope, to see the sun setting ? Mr. R. I was going to mention it. The weath- er is delicious, and the sky perfectly without a cloud in the west. Mr. N. I shall be sorry to go far from the night- ingale. Do you hear her charming melody, madam ? Mrs. W. I was absorbed in thinking. My heart was filled with pleasure. Mr. R. How can any person live in town during this charming weather ? Mr. W. Valentine, will you wall^ up the slope with us to see the sun setting ? Val. No, I thank you, father. I am reading something here that gives me more pleasure. Mr. W. If you speak truth, I pity you, and if you do not Come, gentlemen, there is not a moment to lose. Let us continue our walk. (They continue their walk up the hill.) SCENE IV. Val. (seeing them at a good distance.) There, they are almost out of sight: I need not be under any constraint now. (Puts the book in his pocket.) What an opinion these gentlemen will have of my VANITY PUNISHED. 65 diligence! I should like to be a bird and fly after them, to hear the praises that they are giving me. (Saunters about, yawning and listless, for near a quarter of an hour.) I am tired, after all, of being here alone. I can do better ! The sun is set now, and I hear the company returning. I will slip into the wood, and hide myself, so that they shall scarce- ly find me. Mother will send all the servants to look for me with lights. They will talk of nothing but me all the evening, and will compare me with those great philosophers that have been known to go astray in their learned meditations, and to lose themselves in woods. My adventure will make a fine noise ! Now for it. (He goes into the wood.) SCENE V. Mr. and 3Irs. Waller, Mr. Ray, 3Ir. Nash. Mr. R. I never saw weather more pleasing, nor a more charming scene. Mr. W. Gentlemen, my pleasure has been doubled, by enjoying it in your company. Mr. N. The nightingale too still continues her song. Her voice seems even to grow more tender as night comes on. 1 am sorry that Mrs. Waller does not seem to listen to it with as much pleasure as before. Mrs. W. It is because I 'am anxious about my son. I do not see him in the garden. (She calls him.) Valentine ! — He does not answer. (Per- ceiving the gardener, she calls him.) Martin, have you seen my son ? 6* 66 VANITY PUNISHED. Mar. Yes, madam, about ten minutes ago I saw him turn towards the grove. Mrs. W. Towards the grove ! Bless me ; if he should lose himself! Pray run after him and bring him in. Mar. Yes, madam. (Goes out.) Mrs. W. Mr. Waller, won't you go with him ? Mr. W. No, my dear, I am not uneasy, for my part. Martin will be able to find him. Mrs!' W. But if he should take a different way 1 I am much frightened ! Mr. IV. Make yourself easy, madam. Mr. Ray and I will take the two sides of the wood, while the gardener will take the middle. We cannot fail of finding him. Mrs. W. Ah, gentlemen, I did not dare to ask it of you, but you know the feelings of a mother. Mr. W. Gentlemen, do not give "yourselves so much trouble, I'd rather you would not. Mr. R. Do not take it amiss that we comply with Mrs. Waller's request, rather than yours. Mr. W. I must confess it is against my inclina- tion. Mr. N. We will receive your reproaches at our return. (Mr. R. and Mr. N. walk towards the grove.) SCENE VI. Mr. and. Mrs. Waller. Mrs. W. Why, my dear, whence comes this in- difference about your son 1 Mr. W. Do you think, my dear, that I love him VANITY PUNISHED. 67 less than you do ? No, but I know better how to love him. Mrs. W. And what if he could not be found ? Mr. TV. I should be very glad of it. Mrs. W. What, that he should pass the night in a gloomy wood ? What would become of the poor child ? and what would become of me? Mr. W. You would both be cured. He of his vanity, and you of your injudicious fondness, that upholds him in it. Mrs. W. What do you mean, my dear ? Mr. TV. I am just now convinced of what I only suspected in the morning. The boy's head is filled with excessive vanity, and all his reading is but ostentation. He has only lost himself on purpose to make us look for him, and to appear absent and forgetful through intense study. It gives me more pain that his mind should wander from a right way of thinking, than if his steps really went astray. He will be unhappy all his life, if he is not cured of it in time, and there is nothing but a wholesome humiliation that can save him. Mrs. W. But do you consider— Mr. W. Yes, every thing. He is eleven years old. If he can profit at all by his natural sense, or his learning, the light of the moon and the di- rection of the wind, may guide him sufficiently to clear the wood. Mrs. W. But if he has not that thought? Mr. W. He will then better see the necessity of profiting by the lessons that I have given him* upon this subject, Besides, we intend him for the army, 68 VANITY PUNISHED. and in that profession he will have many nights to pass without shelter. He will know now what it is, and not go to a camp quite raw, to be laughed at by his companions. Then the air is not very cold at this season of the year, and, for one night, he will not die of hunger. Since by his folly he has brought himself into trouble, let him get out of it again, or suffer the disagreeable consequences of it. Mrs. W. No ; I cannot agree to it ; and if you don't send people after him, 1 will go myself. Mr. W. Well, my dear, I will make you easy, though I am sorry that you will not let me follow my plan, as I intended. I shall tell little Michael to join him as it were by chance. Colin too shall be at a small distance, to run to them in case of any accident. For any thing more, do not ask it ; I have taken my resolution, and do not choose, by a blind weakness, to deprive my son of a lesson that may be of service to him. Here are our friends coming back with Martin. Mrs. W. O heavens I I see, and they have not found him. Mr. W. I am glad of it. Enter Mr. Ray, and Mr. Nash. Mr. N. Our search has been in vain ; but if Mr. Waller will let us have some lights and some servants — Mr. W. No, gentlemen ; you have complied with'my wife's request, you will now listen to mine. I am a father, and know my duty as one. Let us VANITY PUNISHED. 69 go into the parlour, and I will give you an account of my design. SCENE VII. (The middle of the wood.) Valentine. What have I done, fool that Iaml It is dark night, and I don't know which way to turn, (calls.) Father ! father ! Nobody answers. I am undone ; what will become of me ? (mes.) O mother ! where are you ? Answer your son this once. Heavens ! what is that running through the wood ? If it should be a robber ! Help ! help ! Enter Michael. Mich. Who's there ? Who is it that cries so 1 What, is it you, sir? How do you happen to be here at this time of night 1 Vol. O, dear Michael, my dear friend, I have lost my way. Midi, (looking at himjirst with an air of sur- prise, and then bursting into a laugh.) You don't say so ? I your dear Michael ? your dear friend 1 You mistake ? I am only a dirty little country boy. Don't you remember? Nay, let go my hand. The skin is only fit to cut up fur shoe-soles. Val. My dear friend, excuse my impertinence, and for pity's sake guide me back to our house. My mother will pay you well. Mich, {looking at him from top to bottom.) Have you finished reading your Tellymack 1 Val. (looking down, quite confused.) Ah, pray now — Mich, (putting his finger to the side of his nose, 70 VANITY PUNISHED. and looking up.) Tell me, my little wise man, bow big may the moon be just now ? Vol. Nay, spare me, I beg of you, and guide me out of this wood. Mich. You see, then, master, that one may be a dirty little country boy, and yet be good for some- thing. What would you give to know your way, in- stead of knowing how big the moon is? Vol. I own my fault, and I promise never to show any pride for the future. Mich. Well, that's clever. But this repenting, through necessity, may only hang by a thread. It is not amiss that a young gentleman should see what it is to look upon a poor man's son like a dog, and play with him according to his fancy. To show you that an honest clown does not bear mal- ice, I will pass the night with you, as I have passed many a one with our sheep on the downs. To- morrow morning early, I will take you home to your father. Here, then, I'll share my bed-cham- ber with you. Vol. O, my good Michael. Mich, (stretching himself under a tree.) Come, sir, settle yourself at your ease. Vol. But where is this bed-chamber of yours 1 Mich. Why here, (striking on the ground.) Were is my bed ; take your place. It is wide enough for us both. Veil. What, must we lie here under the open air 1 Mich. I assure you, sir, the king himself has not a better bed. See what a fine ceiling you have over your head ; how many bright diamonds adorn VANITY PUNISHED. 71 it ; and then our handsome silver lamp, (pointing to the moon.) Well, what do you think of it ? Val. O, my dear Michael, I am ready to die with hunger. Mich. I dare say I can help you there too. See, here are some potatoes. Dress them as you know how. Val. Why they are raw. Mich. It is only to boil or roast them. Make a fire. Val. We want a light to kindle one ! and then where shall we find coal or wood ? Mich, (smiling.) Cannot you find all that in your books ? Val. O no, my dear Miehael. Mich. Well, I'll show you that I know more than you and all your Tellymacks. (takes a tinder- box with flint and steel out of his pocket.) Crack ! there's a fire already ! now you shall see. (he gathers a handful of dry leaves , and putting Hum round the tinder, fans with his hand until they take fire.) We shall soon have a blazing hearth, (he puts bits of dry wood upon the lighted leaves.) Do you see 1 (lays the potatoes close to the fire, and sprinkles them with dust.) This must serve, in- stead of ashes, to hinder them from burning, (hav- ing laid them properly, and covered them once more with dust, he turns the fire over them, then adds fresh wood, and blows it up with his breath.) Have you a finer fire in your father's kitchen ? come, now, they will soon be done. 72 VANITY PUNISHED. Vol. O, my good friend, what return can I make to your kindness? Mich. Return ? Pooh ! when one does good, it pays itself. But stop a moment, while the potatoes are roasting, I will fetch some hay for you. I saw a good deal lying in one part of the wood. You can sleep upon that like a prince. But take care of the roast while I am away, (goes out sing- ing.) SCENE VIII. Vol. Fool that I am ! how could I be so unjust as to despise that child. What am I, compared to him 1 How little am I in my own eyes, when I examine his behaviour and mine ; but it shall nev- er happen again. Henceforward, I will not despise those of a lower condition than myself I will not be so proud nor so vain, (he walks about and gal h- ers up dry sticks fur the fire.) Enter Michael, dragging in a large bundle of hay. Mich. Here is your bed of down, your coverlet and all. I will make you a bed now, quite soft. Val I thank you, my friend. I would help you, but I don't know how to set about it. Mich. I don't want you. I can do it alone. Go warm yourself, (he unties the bundle, spreads part of it on the ground, and reserves the rest for a cov- ering.) That's finished. Now let us think of sup- per, (takes a potato Jrom tht fire, and tastes it.) They are done. Eat them while they are warm, they are better so. VANITY PUNISHED. Val. What, won't you eat some with me 1 Mich. No, thank you. There is just enough for you. Val. How ? do you think 1 — Mich. You are too kind. I won't touch them. I am not hungry. Besides, I shall have as much pleasure in seeing you eat them. Are they, good 1 Val. Excellent, my dear Michael. Mich. I dare say you never tasted sweeter at your papa's table. Val. That's very true. Mich. Have you finished ? Come, then, your bed is ready for you. ( Valentine, lies duicn. Mi- chael spreads the rest of the hay over him, then takes off his jacket.) The nights are cold ; here, cover yourself with this too. If you find yourself chilly, come to the fire ; I'll take care that it does not go out. Good night. Val. Dear Michael, I shall never be easy until I make amends for treating you ill. Mick. Think no more of it; I do not. The lark will awake us to-morrow morning at break of day. (Valentine falls asleep, and Michael sits up close by him to keep the fire in. At break of day Mi- chael ajcakes him.) Come, master, you have slept enough. The lark has opened her song already, and the sun will soon appear above the hills. Let us set out and go to your father's. Val. (rubbing his eyes.) What, already? so soon 1 Good morning, my dear Michael ! Mich. Good morning, master Valentine ! How did you sleep 1 vol. 2. 7 74 VANITY PUNISHED. Vol. (rising.) As sound as a rock. Here is your jacket I thank you a thousand, thousand times. I shall never forget you as long as I live. Mich. Do not talk of thanks. I am as happy as you. Come, walk with me. I'll guide you. (They SCENE IX. A room in Mr. Waller's house. Mr. and Mrs. Waller. Mrs. W. In what terrors have I passed this whole night ! I fear, my dear, that some accident has happened to him. We must send out people to look for him. Mr. W. Make yourself easy, my love; I will go myself. But who knot ks ? (the door opens.) Look here he is. Enter Valentine and Michael. Mrs. W. (running to her son.) Ah ! do I see you again, my dear child 1 Mich. Yes, madam, there he is, ifegs ! a little better mayhap than before you lost him. Mr. W. Is that the case ? Vol. Yes, papa. I have been well punished for my pride. What will you give him that has re- formed me ? Mr. W. A good reward, and with the greatest cheerfulness. Val. (presenting Michael to him.) Well, this is he to whom you owe it. I owe him my friendship too, and he shall always share it. Mr. W. If that be so, I'll make him a little pr**- DECEPTION. ii> ent every year of a couple of guineas, for curing you of an intolerable fault. Mrs. TV. And I will make him one of the same sum, for having preserved my son to me. Mich. If you pay me for the satisfaction that you feel, I should pay you for what I felt. So we are clear. Mr. TV. No, my little man, we shall not depart from our words. But let us all four go to break- fast. Valentine shall relate his adventuies of the night. Val. Yes, papa ; and I shall not spare myself, though I should be turned into ridicule for it. I blush for my folly, but hope I shall never have to blush for the same behaviour again. Mr. TV. My dear son, how happy you wilJ make your mother and me, by proving that your reforma- tion is sincere, and will never suffer a relapse. Valentine takes Michael by the hand. Mr. Waller gives his to his lady, and they all go into the next apartment. THE LITTLE GIRL DECEIVED BY HER MAID. Mrs. Barlow, Amelia. Ame. Mother, will you give me leave to go and see my cousin Henry this evening? Mrs. B. No I do not wish it, Amelia. Ame. And why not, mother 1 76 DECEPTION. Mrs. B. I have no occasion, I suppose, to tell you my reasons. A little miss ought always to obey her parents, without asking them questions. However, to satisfy you that I have always a reas- onable motive, whenever I order or forbid you any thing, I shall tell you. Your cousin Henry can only set you an indifferent example ; and I should fear, if you saw him too often, that you would imi- tate his levity and indiscretion. Ame. But, mother — Mrs. B. No reply, I request. You know that my orders must be followed punctually. Amelia retired to hide her tears; and soon after, her mother being gone out, she sat down in a cor- ner, and gave her grief full vent. Just then, Nan- cy, who had lately come into Mrs. Barlow's service, entered the room. "How, Miss Amelia," said she, " are you crying 1 What is the matter 1 May I know what troubles you 1" Ame. Leave me, Nancy. You cannot comfort me. Nan. Nay, why not? There was miss Sophy, at my last service, always came to me whenever any thing ailed her. " My dear Nancy, she would say, you see what has happened to me ; tell me, what must I do 1 n And I had always good advice to give her. Ame. I do not want your advice. I tell you once more, that you can do nothing for me. Nan. Give me leave, at least, to go for your mother. She will, perhaps, be better able to com- DECEPTION. 77 fort you. I do not like to see so pretty a miss as you in trouble. Ame. O yes, mother indeed ! Nan. I cannot believe that it was she who grieved you. Ame. Who should it be, then? Nan. I could never have thought it. I should always suppose you so reasonable, that your mother could not refuse you any request. There, if I had a child so well disposed as you, she should be her own mistress. But your mother loves to command, and for a whim, would oppose your most innocent wishes. How can one have so amiable a child, and take pleasure to thwart her ! I cannot express how I suffer to see you in this situation. Ame. (beginning to cry afresh.) All, it will break my heart. Nan. Indeed I fear it will. How red and swell- ed your eyes are ! You are very cruel to yourself, not to let those, who love you sincerely, try to give you some comfort. If miss Sophy had been in half your trouble, she would not have failed to open her heart to me. Ame. I dare not mention mine to you. Nan. Not that, for my part, I care much about knowing it— O, it is perhaps, because your mother makes you stay at home while she goes to the play. Ame. No : she has promised me not to go there without me. Nan. Well, what is it, then ? Your trouble seems to increase. Shall I go for your little cousin ] You may play along with him to divert you. 7* 78 DECEPTION. Ame. {sighing.) Ah ! I shall not have that plea- sure any more. Nan. It will not be hard to procure it for you. A young miss should have some company. Your mother has not a mind to make a nun of you. Ame. I am not allowed to see him. Nan. Not to see him ? I do not know what your mother thinks. Miss Sophy's was just the same. She would never let her have the least intimacy with little Semple. But how we contrived to de- ceive her ! Ame. How was that 1 Nan. We watched the moment when she went out to visit : then either miss Sophy went to Sem- ple, or Semple came to her. Ame. And her mother did not know it? Nan. It was I who guarded against that. Ame. But if 1 were to go to see my cousin, and mother should ask, where is Amelia ? Nan. I would tell her you were in the garden : or, if it was a little late, I would tell her that you were gone to bed, and fast asleep ; and immedi- ately I would run to find you. Ame. And if I thought that my mother would know nothing of it — Nan. Trust me for that : she will never suspect it. Will you take my advice 1 Go and pass the evening with your little cousin. Never trouble yourself about the rest. Ame. I have a mind to try it for once. But you promise me at least that mother — Nan. Go I never fear ! DECEPTION. 79 Amelia in effect did go to see her cousin. Her mother came home a short time after, and asked where she was. Nancy answered, that she had been tired of sitting all alone, so had eaten a good supper, and was gone to bed. In this manner Amelia deceived her unsuspect- ing mother, several times." Ah! much more did she deceive herself. Before this, she was always cheerful, and took pleasure in being near her moth- er, and would run with joy to meet her, whenever she had been absent a moment. But now, what was become of her cheerfulness 1 She was ever saying to herself, " O dear ! if mother knew where I have been !" and she trembled whenever she heard her voice. If at any time she saw her look a little serious, u I am undone !" she would cry. " Mother has discovered that I have disobeyed her." But this was not all that made her unhap- py. Nancy would often cunningly tell her how generous miss Sophy had been to her; how often she would give her sugar and tea; and how freely she had trusted her with the keys of the cellar and closet. Amelia took pride in deserving from Nan- cy the same praises for confidence and generosity. She stole sugar and tea from her mother for Nan- cy, and found means to procure her the keys of the cellar and closet. Nevertheless, she felt the re- proaches of her own conscience. " I am doing wrong," she would say to herself, " and my tricks will be found out sooner or later. I shall lose the friendship of my mother." She then went to Nan- 80 DECEPTION* cy, and protested that she would never give her any thing again. " Just as you please, miss," answered Nancy ; " but take care, you may, perhaps, have reason to repent it ! Stay till your mother comes home, I will tell her how obediently you have followed her or- ders." Amelia cried, and did every thing that Nancy desired her. Before, it was Nancy who obeyed Amelia, now it was Amelia who obeyed Nancy. She suffered every sort of rudeness from her, and had no one to whom she could complain. The wicked girl came to her one day, and said, " You must know I have a fancy to taste the pie that was locked up in the closet yesterday : besides that, I want a bottle of wine. You must go and look for the keys in your mother's drawer." Ame. But, dear Nancy ! — Nan. We are not talking about dear Nancy ! do you mind what I ask of you. Ame. Why, mother will see us ; or if she does not see us, God will see us, and punish us. Nan. He saw you all the times that you went to your cousin, yet I never observed that he has pun- ished you. Amelia had received good instructions in reli- gion from her mother. She was strongly persuad- ed that God has always an eye upon us ; that he rewards our good actions, and has only forbidden us what is evil, because it is hurtful to us. It was through mere thoughtlessness that she went to see her cousin, contrary to her mother's orders. But DECEPTION. 81 it always happens, that from yielding to one error, we fall immediately into another. She found her- self obliged to do every wrong thing that her ser- vant ordered her, for fear of being betrayed by her. It may easily be imagined how much she suffer- ed in this situation. She one day withdrew to her chamber to weep at leisure. " 0, ,? cried she, " how much am I to be pitied, who am so disobedient! Unhappy child that 1 am ! slave to my own ser- vant ! I can no longer do what is my duty, but am forced to do what a wicked maid orders me. I must be a liar, a thief, and a hypocrite ! Lord have mercy on me I" Saying this, she held up both hands to hide her face, which was drowned in tears, and began to reflect what steps she should take. At length, she suddenly rose up, crying, " I am re- solved, and though my mother were not to let me come near her for a month ; though she were to — But no, she will be reconciled to me; she will call me once more her Amelia. I depend on her fondness. But how dear it will cost me ! How shall I bear her looks and reproaches]? No matter; I will confess the" whole to her." She then immediately ran out of her cham- ber, and seeing her mother walking alone in the garden, flew towards her, and embracing her close- ly, covered her cheeks with her tears. Grief and confusion stopped her speech. Mrs. B. What is the matter, my dear Amelia 1 Ame. Ah ! mother — Mrs. B. What is the meaning of these tears ? Ame. My dear mother ! 82 DECEPTION. Mrs. B. Speak, child ! what occasions this agi- tation ? Ame. If I thought that yon could pardon me ! — Mrs.B. I pardon you, since your repentance ap- pears so lively and sincere. Ame. My dear mother, I have been a disobedient girl ; 1 have gone several times to see my cousin Henry contrary to your orders. Mrs. B. Is it possible, my dear Amelia? you, who formerly feared so much to displease me ! Ame. I should not be your dear Amelia, if you knew all. Mrs. B. You make me uneasy : but trust every thing to me. You must have been deceived. You never gave me cause of complaint until now. Ame. Yes, mother, I have been deceived. It was Nancy, Nancy — Mrs. B. What ! was it she 1 Ame. Yes, mother : and that she might not tell you, I have often stolen the keys of the cellar and closet. I have stolen for her I know not how much sugar and tea. Mrs. B Unhappy mother that I am ! Do I hear this shocking account of my own daughter ! Leave me, unworthy child ! I must go and consult with your father how we should treat you. Ame. No, mother, I will not quit you. Punish me first, but promise me that your love for me will one day return. Mrs. B. Unhappy child ! you will be sufficiently punished. Mrs. Barlow, at these words, left Amelia quite DECEPTION. 83 disconsolate, and went to seek Mr. Barlow, and they concerted together the means of saving their child from ruin. Nancy was called up. Mr. Barlow, after the se- verest reproaches, ordered her to quit his house immediately. It was in vain she wept and pleaded for a less rigorous sentence. In vain she promised that nothing of the same sort should ever happen again. Mr. Barlow was inexorable. You know, answered he, how mildly I have treated you, and what indulgence I have shown to your faults. I thought that my' kindness might induce you to second my wishes as to my child's education, and it is you who have led her into disobedience and theft. You are a monster in my sight ! Leave my presence, and be careful to reform, unless you wish to fall into the hands of a more terrible Judge. It was next Amelia's turn. She appeared before her parents in a situation worthy of pity. Her eyes were swoln with crying ; all the features of her face were changed ; a frightful paleness covered her cheeks, and her whole body shuddered as if in the convulsions of an ague. Unable to utter a word, she awaited in mournful silence the judgment of her father. " You have,'' said he, in a severe voice, " you have deceived, you have offended your parents. What could incline you to follow the advice of a wicked servant rather than of your own mother, who loves you so tenderly, and desires nothing in the world so much as to make you happy 1 If I punished you as much as your behaviour deserved ; 84 DECEPTION. if I banished you from my sight, as I have the com- panion of your faults, who could accuse me of in- justice V Ame. Ah, papa, you can never be unjust towards me. Punish me with all the severity you shall judge necessary, I will bear the whole : but take me once more to your arms ; call me once more your Amelia ! Mr. B. I cannot embrace you so soon. I am willing to omit all punishment, on account of the confession that you have made ; but I shall not call you my Amelia, until you have deserved it by a long repentance. Pay great attention to your conduct. Punishments always follow faults, and it is you who have punished yourself. Amelia did not as yet fully understand what her father meant by these last words. She did not ex- pect so mild a treatment; she went up to her pa- rents with a heavy heart, and curtsying, repeated afresh her promises of the most perfect submission. In effect, she kept her word : but, alas, her punish- ment followed very soon, as her father had told her. The wicked Nancy spread the most infamous sto- ries concerning her. She told all that had passed between her and Amelia, and added a thousand falsehoods beside. She said, that Amelia, by the humblest entreaties, and by the force of presents which she had stolen from her parents, had labour- ed so long to corrupt her, that at length she suffer- ed herself to be persuaded to procure her secret meetings with her cousin Henry ; that they saw each other every evening, unknown to their pa- DECEPTION. 85 rents; and Amelia often came home very late. These things she related with circumstances so odious, that every one conceived the most disad- vantageous ideas of Amelia. She was obliged to suffer the most cruel mortifications on this subject. Whenever she entered a party of her little friends, she saw them all whisper each other, and look at her with an air of contempt, and an insulting smile. If ever she staid somewhat late in a company, they would say, " It is plain, she waits here until the hour of her appointment." Had she a fashionable riband, or an elegant dress, they would say, " Whenever any body gets her mother's keys, she may buy what she pleases." In short, upon the least difference between her and any of her companions, " Don't talk, miss !" they would say. " Thinking of your cousin Henry confuses your ideas." These reproaches were so many stabs to the heart of Amelia. Often, when she was quite over- whelmed with grief, she would throw heiself into her mother's arms, and seek for comfort there. Her mother generally answered her, " Suffer with patience, my dear child, what your imprudence has brought on you. Pray to God to forget your fault, and to shorten the time of your mortifications. These reproofs will be of service to you all your life, if you can profit by them. God has said to children, Honour your father and your motherland submit in all things to their will. This command- ment is meant for their happiness. Poor children! you know not the world yet. You cannot foresee the vol. 2. 8 86 DECEPTION. consequences that your actions may draw after them. God has committed the care of guiding you, to your parents, who love you as themselves, and who have more experience and reflection to ward off every danger from you. This you did not choose to believe ; but you now experience how wisely God requires of children submission to their pa- rents, since you have suffered so much by disobe- dience. My dear Amelia, let your misfortunes serve for your instruction ! It is the same with all commandments. God prescribes to us only what is advantageous: he forbids only what is perni- cious. We act therefore to our own hurt whenev- er we do what is wrong. You will often find your- self in circumstances, when it will be impossible to foresee how much vice may injure you, or how much virtue may profit you. Recollect then what you have suffered by one single fault, and regulate all the actions of your life upon this unerring prin- ciple : Every action which is contrary to virtue, is contrary to our own happiness. Amelia punctually obeyed the wise advice of her mother. The more she was obliged to suffer the consequences of her imprudence, the more reserved she became, and attentive to her own behaviour. She profitted so well by this disgrace, that through the prudence of her conduct, she stopped the mouths of all who inclined to speak ill of her, and obtained the name of the irreproachable Amelia. 87 THE LITTLE NEEDLEWOMEN. Clara, with Leonora her sister, are discovered working in their room : Lucy stands by Clara; and Lucinda enters to them. Lucinda. Hard at work ! How melancholy you all look ! I thought of nothing more than finding you at play upon the snow. Come, come, and see the trees : they're powdered just for all the world like — what d'ye call 'ems. Clara. No : we would not leave our work for any pleasure you co-Id name us. Lit. O, I frequently leave mine for nothing — But you have not long, I hope, to sit here moping. Leo. We were moping, as you call it, all yester- day ; and have again been at it ever since the clock struck seven. Lu. My stars ! I was not up till ten : and in the name of goodness ! what possesses you, to work at such a rate ? Clara. If you knew, Lucinda, who we're work- ing for, I'm sure you'd willingly make one among us. Lu. No, no, Clara, were it even for myself. Clara. Yourself! I should not work, thus late and early with such spirits, for myself: nor you I fancy, Leonora. Leo. No, indeed. Lucy. Guess who 'tis for. Lu. Not for yourself, you say. It must be for your dolls, then. — I have guessed it, have I not ? 88 LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN. Clara, (shoiving the clothes before them.) Yes, yes ; look here, and see if these will fit a doll. Lu. How ! how ! Why here's a dress com- plete ; and which of you is going to be married 1 Leo. Did you ever hear the like ? a jacket to be married in! The girl has nothing in her head but weddings, and will never guess. Lucy. Well, then I'il tell you who 'tis for. You know those two poor children who have nothing on but rags ? Lu. What ? that poor woman who has lately lost her husband, and can't get a bit of bread 1 Clara. Yes, yes ; 'tis her poor children we are hard at work for. Lu. But you know that your mamma and mine both sent her money. Clara. So they did ; but there were debts to pay, and bread to purchase. As for clothes Leo. We've taken that upon us. Lu. But, my dear, why not much rather send them some of your old clothes ! You would, in that case, spare yourselves a deal of trouble. Clara. How you talk ! As if our clothes were fit for such small children ! Lu. That I know: they would have been too big, and dragged upon the ground at least a quarter of a yard ; but then, their mother might have made them less herself. Clara. She cannot. Lu. And why not ? Leo. (looking steadfastly upon Lu.) Because her parents never taught her to use a needle. LTTTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN. 89 Clara. Now, as we are rather ready at it, we de- sired mamma would let us have some dimity, with other stuff, and cut us out the necessary patterns, promising to do the rest ourselves. Leo. And when the whole is finished, we shall visit t lie poor woman with it, that her children may be dressed a little warmly this cold weather. Clara. Now, my dear, you know the reason why we won't go and play upon the snow. Lu. [with a stifled sigh) I'll work a little with you. Clara. Aye, I said so. Leo. No, no ; we have almost done. Clara. But why deprive her, Leonora, of so great a pleasure ? Look here, my friend: complete this hem : but you must sew it carefully. Lucy. If not, my sister will undo it; I am sure of that. Lu, What, you must speak too, Miss Whip- persnapper; just as if you knew what's going forward. Clara. How, Lucinda ? Lucy, I assure you, has assisted us surprisingly. J Twas she that held the stuff while we were cutting it, that handed us the pincushion, that picked up our thimbles when they fell. Hold here, my little heart, the scissors : Leo- nora wants them. Lu. Look, dear Clara, have T done this right 1 Leo. {laying hold of the work) O fie! these stitches are a mile too long, and all awry. Clara. 'Tis true they would not hold. But stay ; 8 90 LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN. I'll give you something else. — Here, pass this bobbin through the jacket collar. Lu. Aye, aye ; this I shall succeed in better. Leo. (looking over her) See ! see ! how she sets about it, Clara. Ah, that's all my fault, that I did not tell her how it should be done. See here, my dear Lu- anda — in this manner. i Lu. I was never taught to do so much as you ; and that's the reason why I'm so awkward. Leo. (with a sneer) O, I easily believe you. Clara. But don't vex her, sister : she has done the best she could. Hold ! let me look a little. How 1 you've passed the bobbin through already. Look you, Leonora. Leo. (pulling the bobbin) What a pity it will not stir. A mighty clever needle-woman, truly ! she does nothing else than make us work. Lu. (sorrowfully) Alas ! I know no better. Clara. Don't afflict yourself, my dear : you have the best of wills ; and we have nothing more to boast. It shall be quickly put to rights. I'll do it for you. There : the matter's settled. Have you finished; Leonora ? Leo. Only one more stitch: — And then to cut the thread off. — There, now I'll make up the parcel (She is preparing to do so, when Mrs. Greenfield enters.) Lucy. Here's mamma. Mrs.G. Well, my dears; how do you go on? Perhaps you wish for my assistance. Clara. No, mother ; we've finished. LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEJN. 91 Mi's. G. Have you ? Let me see a little. — Very well indeed! — What, my Lucy! I'm afraid you thought the time tedious. Lucy. O, not I, mamma : I've always had some little thing to do ; ask my sisters. Clara. Yes, indeed : we should not have so quickly ended, but for her assistance. She has never quitted us. Mrs. G. I'm very glad. O here's our little neighbour too, Lucinda. She must have helped you a good deal. Leo. (with a sneer) She tried ; but Clara. We had almost finished when she came. Lucy. She made a stitch or two, but she hardly knows more than I: had you but seen, mamma, how crooked Clara. Silence, Lucy ! M'-s. G. Come ; since you've been so very dili- gent, I've joyful news to tell you. Lucy. What, mamma? Mrs. G. The two poor children and their moth- er are below. I'll send up the little ones, that you may dress them, and enjoy the astonishment their mother will be in, when she observes them so much altered. Clara. Ah! mamma, how you increase our pleas- ures ! Lucy. Shall I go and fetch them up ? Mrs. G. Yes ; follow me ; and you shall come back with them. In the mean time I'll have a little conversation with the mother, and contrive how she may find out some employment for the time to 92 LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN. come, and earn a little money. {She goes out with Lucy.) Clara. Slay here with us, Lucinda : we shall want your help ; and you must have some business at our toilet. Lu. {embracing Clara) Ah, my friend, you have a good heart ! I see that plainly. Leo. I have had a fling or two at you, Lucinda. Clara makes me blush, and therefore I entreat your pardon. Lu. {embracing Leonora likewise) Yes, with all my heart. Clara. I hear the children coming up. Lucy enters, bringing in the little children, Madge and Joan. Lucy {whispering to Clara.) They'll wonder much. I have not told them any thing about it. Clara. You did well : their pleasure will be the greater, and ours likewise. Leo. I'll take Madge. Clara. I Joan. Lu. And Lucy and myself will hold the pincush- ions. ( They begin to undress them.) Madge (crying.) We are cold enough already. Will you take away the little clothes we have left? Clara. Don't be afraid, poor thing ! Come hither. You shall see. A little this way towards the fire. You seem very cold. Madge. Are these new fine clothes for us 1 Joan. O bless me ! what will mother say ? She'll take us for your sisters, we shall be so fine ? LITTLE NEEDLE-WOMEN. 93 Clara. And you shall be our sisters for the time to come : so never call us otherwise. Madge. O, good young lady, we are your ser- vants. Clara. Let me have your arm — The other. — But how short it is ! it only reaches to her knees. Well, harebrain, (to Leo.) this is like you ! Don't you see you've handed me the little jacket ? Leo. So I have, indeed ; for my part I was puz- zled likewise. Madge's feet were covered, and I could not see her head. We need but change. There's Joan's. Clara. Let's be as quick as possible ; and in the mean time, Lucy, do you run and ask mamma to come up. Lucy. I'm gone. (She goes out) Clara. Ah, now all's right. Turn round. — Once more. That's well ; now take each other by the hand, and walk across the room before us. ( The children do so, and survey themselves with pleasure.) Lu. How extremely well they're fitted ! they're quite pretty; and there's only one thing wanted; a handkerchief. What else? their hair. Leo. A comb, to untangle it, would not be amiss. I'll do that, Clara. Lucy (runs in jumping) Here's mamma. (Mrs. Greenfield and the mother of the children enter.) Mother. O, heavens ! what's this I see 1 are theso my children ? O, my generous lady ! Ms. G. My good friend, 'tis not to me you are indebted for this happiness. My children wished to make a trial of their skill in needle-work, and I 94 LITTLE NEEDLEWOMEN. permitted them to do so. (Examining the chil- dren's jackets) Not so bad, considering 'tis the first attempt; you might almost set up for yourselves. M dher (to Clara and her sister.) My charming ladies, let me thank you. God will recompense your kindness, for I cannot. (Perceiving Lucinda at a distance) Pardon me, my little lady ; for I did not see you ; otherwise I would have paid you also ray acknowledgments. Lv. (sighing) No, no. I had no hand in this day's business. Mrs, G. Do not, upon that account, afflict your- self, my child. By sighing, you'll get nothing ; but by steadfastly resolving, every thing. However, tell me, don't you think it useful and delightful for a young lady, like you, to accustom herself early to work of some sort or other? Lu. Certainly I think so. Mrs. G. Of what real pleasure, even at present, are you not deprived, by having hitherto neglected an employment, so adapted to your sex and age ? Mother. Dear little lady, learn betimes, if you would be considered provident or prudent, to love work ; or it will very soon be too late. I should be very happy now, had any one but given me such a lesson in my childhood. I could now have got my bread, and been of use to those dependent on me for support, instead of being burthensome to worthy people. Mrs. G. Truly, my good friend, it would have been much happier for you, I must own, although 1 should have lost the pleasure of assisting you, THE LAMB. P5 But you are yet full young enough to make up for lost time, by application to some honest labour. Children, you must know, I have procured her some employment at a weaver's in the neighbourhood ; and when she happens to have nothing to do there, she is to come and work here in the garden. Lucy. I am very glad of that ; for I'll go too and help her, if I am but able. M>s. G With respect to Madge and Joan, I mean my house shall be their school ; and you have (to Clara and Leonora) boih deserved to be their mistresses in work and reading. Lu. And may I be their assistant, madam ? Mrs. G. Willingly, if your mamma consents ; in which case you and Lucy shall endeavour to outdo each other. (To the woman) My good friend, are you contented that matters should be as I have set- tled ? Mother. Contented ? My benevolent and gene- rous lady, 1 shall owe you all my happiness, and that, too, of my destitute and friendless children. Dear good angels, give God thanks for having bles- sed you with so careful a mother, that trains you thus betimes to diligence. You see it is the source of comfort to yourselves and to us too. THE LAMB. Little Flora, the daughter of a poor country- man, was seated one morning by the side of the 96 THE LAMB. , road, holding on her lap a porringer of milk for her breakfast, in which she sopped a few slices of coarse black bread. Just then a farmer was pass- ing the road, who had in his cart about a score of lambs that he was going to sell at the market. These poor creatures, crowded one upon the oth- er, with their feet tied together, and their heads hanging down, filled the air with plaintive bleat- ings, which pierced the heart of Flora, but were heard by the farmer with an ear of unconcern. When he was come up opposite to the little country girl, he threw down before her a lamb, which he was carrying across his shoulder. — " There, my girl, said he, is a good-for-nothing beast that has just died, and made me five shil- lings the poorer. Take it, if you will, and make a stew of it." Flora quitted her breakfast, laid down her por- ringer and her bread, and taking up the lamb, be- gan to examine it with looks of compassion. " But," said she immediately, "why should I pity you ? To-day or to-morrow, they would have run a great knife through your throat, while now you have nothing more to fear." While she was speaking thus, the lamb, revived by the warmth of her arms, opened its eyes a little, made a slight motion, and cried ban faintly, as if . it was calling its mother. It would be difficult to express the little girl's joy. She covered the lamb • with her apron, and over that with her petticoat, bent her breast down to warm it still more, and blowed with all her force into its nostrils and THE LAMB. 97 mouth. She felt the poor animal stir by degrees, and at each of its motions, she felt her own heart throb. Encouraged by this first success, she crumbled some soft bread into her porringer, and taking it up in her fingers, with some difficulty forced it between its teeth, which were shut fast. The lamb, which was dying only through hunger, felt itself a litt'e strengthened by this nourishment. It began now to stretch its limbs, to shake its head ; to wag its tail, and to prick up its ears. It had soon strengih to support itself upon its legs, and then went of its own accord to Flora's porringer, who smiled to see it drink up her breakfast. In short, before a quarter of an hour was past, it had already played a thousand little gambols. Flora, transported with joy, took it up in her arms, and. running to the cottage, showed it to her mother. Baba (so she named it) became from that moment the sole ohject of her care She shared with it thn little bread which was given her for her meals, and wo^ild not have exchanged it singly for the largest flock in the neighbourhood. Baba was so gratefully sensible of her fondness, that she never quitted Flora for a single step : she would come to eat out of her hand, would frisk round her, and whenever she was obliged to go out without her, would bleat most pitifully. This was not the only recompence with which Providence repaid Flora's humanity. Baba brought forth young lambs, and these, others, in their turn : so that in a few years after, Flora had a pretty vol. 2. 9 THE BUTTERFLY. flock that nourished her family with good food, and furnish their wool. and furnished them with comfortable clothing from THE BUTTERFLY. Butterfly, pretty butterfly ! come and rest on the flower that I hold in my hand ! Where go you, little simpleton 1 See you not that hungry bird that watches you 1 His beak is sharpened, and already open to receive you. Come, come then, hither; he will be afraid of me, and he will not then dare approach you. Butterfly, pretty butterfly ! come and rest on the flower that I hold in my hand ! 1 will not pull off your wings, nor torment you : no, no, no ; you are little and helpless, like myself. I only wish to look at you nearer. I want to see your little head, and to examine your long body, and your spread wings, mottled and speckled with a thousand different colours. Butterfly, pretty butterfly ! come and rest on the flower that I hold in my hand ! I will not keep you long ; I know you have not long to live. When the summer is over, you will be here no more ; but I shall only then be six years old. Butterfly, pretty butterfly ! come and rest on the flower that I hold in my hand ! you have not a mo- ment to lose from enjoying this short life, but you may feed and regale yourself all the time that I look at you. VETERAN DISMISSED WITH HONOUR. Bertram a'one, sitting for a little while profoundly thoughtful on th trunk of a tree, hen getting up and walking. « Why should he des.re to set papa a singing V 101 THE VETERAN DISMISSED WITH HONOUR. A DRAMA IN ONE ACT. characters. Lord Cornwallis. Officer, attending him. Captain Harlow. Mrs. Harlow. Bertram, Cecilia, Helen, their Children. The Scene is at the entrance of a grove, before the house of Captain Harlow, somewhat distant from the road. SCENE I. Bertram and Cecilia. Cecilia is discovered sitting on a fallen tree, pick- ing strawberries. Bertram brings her others, and both hats that hold the strawberries are neat- ly lined with leaves. Ber. Look, sister, we shall quickly have enough. Ce.c. I don't know, Bertram, how I shall dispose of mine; my hat is too full already. Ber. It can't be long before Helen brings the bushel ! and indeed she might have gone into the house, found one, and returned in much less time 9* 102 TETERAN DISMISSED. than this. However, in the interval, Cecilia, put them in your apron. Cec. Yes, yes ; that would make a fine business indeed. To spot it all from top to bottom ! What do you suppose mother would say ? and therefore I have thought of something else. Your hat is big- gest; so I'll add my strawberries toyour's, and you shall gather more, while I am picking these. Ber. Well said, indeed ; and in the interim, Helen cannot fail to come, and then we shall have enough. Cec. When they are all together, we shall see. Ber. What's over when the baskets are filled, we'll take ourselves. Cec. I think we shall not have much appetite to taste them afterwards. Ah, brother! 'tis the last time we shall eat with our father this year, and who can tell that we shall ever see him more ! Ber. O don't be dejected, sister. In a battle it is not every one that's killed. Cec. O frightful war ! if men were not so wicked, but would love each other, as we do Ber. Mighty fine, indeed ! And don't we quar- rel every day for trifles ? We each think we're in the right; and frequently it would puzzle one to find out which is. ? Tis just the same among grown men. Cec. They ought at least, then, to be friends again as soou as we are. Our worst quarrels never come to bloodshed. Ber. No ; because our parents settle them : but men, Cecilia, are not children ; and won't let them- VETERAN DISMISSED. 103 selves be governed, if they have fire arms. How- ever, should we suffer any one to do us wrong with- out resisting? Cec. You are always talking like a soldier ! JBer. A good reason why, because I am to be one. Look ye, sister ; notwithstanding any thing you say against it, war is a very charming thing. Without it how do you imagine we should live r for would the little our father has, be sufficient to support us? But don't weep. You grieve me. Cec. Let me weep, dear brother, while we are alone. I would much rather do so here, than in the presence of father, it would afflict him. Ber. Come, come ; dry your eyes, and set to work for some amusement. I'll go fill your hat. Cec. Go that way ; f<>r we have left none here- abouts. (Bertram goes out) I would I were but learned enough, that I might pray to God, for he would hear me. Or at least, if 1 were big enough, I would, in that case, go to court, and fall before the king; and he, I'm sure, would grant me my father's dismission, when I begged and prayed him to oblige me. He has served his country long enough, I think. (She sets about picking straw- berries.) Enter Lord Cornwall-is, and the Officer. Lord C. (whispering the officer) Yonder is the house we were directed to, where Captain Harlow lives. But what charming little girl is that? I'll stop and have some conversation with her, please not address me by my name. (To Cecilia, tapping 104 VETERAN DISMISSED. her upon the shoulder) Why you are very hard at work, I see, my pretty child. Cpc. O, sir, you've frightened me. Lord C. 1 ask your pardon then, my dear. I did not mean to do so. And for whom are you preparing all those strawberries ? They cannot but be very good, I fancy, being picked by such a plump and snowy hand. Cec. (holding out the hat) I beg, then, you will take some, sir. Don't be afraid ; for they are very clean. I only wish 1 had a better plate to put them in. (Lord C. takes two or three, as well as his attendant.) Lord C. I never tasted better: do you sell them, my dear ? Cec. No, sir ; though you were to give me — I can ? t tell how much. Lord C. You are in the right ; they are above all value, being gathered by so sweet a little hand. Cr. Fie ! how you talk, sir ! but 'tis not for that : they should be at your service, were they not intended for my dear papa (wiping her eyes). We have not gathered any for him yet, this season ; and perhaps these will be the last he is to eat. Lord C What, my dear, he's ill then 1 and you think he'll not live 1 Officer. It is to be hoped, his illness is not yet desperate, since he thinks of eating strawberries. Cec. No, not that. 'Tis true, indeed, he has been troubled with the rheumatism all last winter, to a very great degree ; and is not yet quite cured. But cured or not, he must set out to-morrow. VETERAN DISMISSED. 105 LordC. And why, pray? is his departure so need- ful? Cec. O, because his regiment then goes through the village ; and he must join it on the march. Lord C. His regiment? Cec. Yes, my Lord Cornwallis's, that's going to America. Lord C. (aside to (he officer) This must be one of Captain Harlow's children. Cec. (having heard him) Yes, that's my father. And do you know him ? Lord C. Know him ? Why this gentleman and I are his comrades. Cec. What ! and is the regiment then so near? — Will it go through the town to-day ? Lord C. No, no ; not till to-morrow. We are come, my dear before it; and — and (aside to the officer) What excuse can I invent to serve my pur- pose ? — And a wheel belonging to our carriage be- ing broken hard by, we thought to get a little shade here while it was mending. And now every thing, I fancy, must be set to rights. This path, I take it, leads directly to the road again 1 C'C N<», sir; it takes you to the village. L'ird C. And the village, I suppose, belongs to your father ? Cec. Belongs to him ? I wish he wpreso rich : no, he has nothing but a little cottage, with a garden, this small grove, and yonder meadow. When he's not from home, he passes all his time here with us. Lord C. He was ill then, in the winter? Cec. Yes, indeed, sir, to our sorrow ; and he 106 VETERAN DISMISSED. could not move a limb. Besides, a wound which he received many years ago, below the temple, has broken out afresh. And now that he is almost well he must go again to meet with new misfortunes. Lord C. Why, in such a situation, does he not sell out?" He might procure sufficient attestations from the surgeon. Cec. O, mother did that in private for him ; but her letters never yet were answered. Certainly the king refuses to believe her; or perhaps, that Lord Comwallis who commands the regiment is so- cruel Lord C. Truly, I believe Lord Comwallis would not like to lose so good an officer as your father, by whose instructions myself and all the younger officers may learn so much. Cec. And yet, you don't appear so very young ; but are your father and mother still living ? Lord C {a little disconcerted) Do you doubt it 1 Cec. O I warrant you, they cried at parting with you. How could they consent to lose you ? I remember how much grief it caused mother and us, when first my eldest brother went abroad to study ; and that's nothing in comparison with war. L'»-d C. I can't tell that ; I have left them, after many separations : in which case 'tis nothing to leave one another. And besides, when first I went to camp, my father went with me. Cec. Did he ? O, those fathers, that are soldiers themselves, are a little hard, I can tell you, but yet that's not the case with my father. He's very in- dulgent ! Why, a child is scarce so gentle ! 'Tis VETERAN DISMISSED. 107 on the point of honour only he can never be per- suaded ; so that after all, I fancy he is to blame, and no one else, for still remaining in the service. Lord C. Aye, indeed ! how is that ? Cec. Because he never asked for dismission. He is ever saying, people would imagine him a cow- ard, should he quit the service during war. He only wishes he may always have strength enough to sit on horseback ; and then says he'll part with every drop of blood he has, to serve his country. Well, he will be satisfied some time or other; but then we poor children shall be without a father. Lord C. Recollect, your father has been hither- to preserved from danger; and why should he not still continue as safe r It is not every musket that hits. Cec. But those that do,commonly kill their man ; and in the number, may there not be one that will reacli papa ? Lord C. That's true indeed : but what sweet little lady is this 1 Cec. My sister Helen. Enter Hflen. So, Helen, you are come at last, I see: and where have you been staying ? Heh'n. VI hy, mother would make me help her do up father's portmanteau. Cec. Where's the basket ? let me have it, sister. Helen. Have you gathered strawberries enough to fill it ? Cec. You shall see. (emptying the hat) Your par- don, gentlemen. 108 VETERAN DISMISSED. Lord C. O, don't mind us. (Whispering the officer.) What lovely children ! Helm. (whisperingCecilia) Who may these be 1 Cee. (whispering Helen.) Officers in Lord Corn- wall's regiment. Helen. Do they come for papa ? Cec. No, no : they are before the regiment, which will not go through the town till to-morrow, as papa expected. Helen. Ah, I wish all the officers, together with the regiment, at Jericho. Cic. Speak lower, Helen. If the gentlemen should hear you Helen. Let them hear me,if they like ir. What ! they come to tnke away papa, and shall not we have leave to make complaint'? L >>-d C. (whispering the officer) Methinks we arc not looked upon too favourably here. Officer. Whv then, mv lor T don't you diwlese yourself, :.iul mention the good news you biiug their fiil.err Lord C. No Their openness delights me ; as well as the affection they evince in favour of their parents. CV. (to H len) Poor-Bertram's hard at work, while w.e :ire chattering here, without once think- injfo^Sfem. I'll be gone, and help him. Helen, Stay you here, and take care how you speak before these gentlemen. Helm Go, go ; I know what's proper. Cec. Here's my sister Helen : 1 present her to you, gentlemen. VETERAN DISMISSED. 109 Helen [with a Utile forwardness). Your servant, gentlemen. Lord C. She has a countenance as resolute as yours is timid. Cec. She'll stay here to entertain you, gentlemen ; for I must run and help my brother to gather straw- berries ; so that all of us may go back sooner to father. Will you permit me to inform him of your visit ? — He'll be very happy to receive you. Helen. No ; he won't be very happy to receive y ou, nor yet any one among us ; we should be quite happy were we left alone for the present. Cec. 1 hope your kindness will excuse this little madcap. Helen. O yes, to be sure ! Excuse me 1 Why these gentlemen are sensible that little girls, when strangers are at table, must not speak a word ; and I have twenty thousand things to tell papa at parting; which will otherwise go near to break my heart. Lord C. Dear children, don't fear any thing: you shall not be disturbed by us in your delightful con- versation. (Cecilia makes a grateful curtesy and withdraws.) Helen. But pray tell me, gentlemen, what reason has the king for taking away a good father from us poor children ? Does he think we don't want one to bring us up ? Lord C. No, no ; but then do you think he don't want good soldiers to go out and fight ? Helen. And what necessity for fighting ? Or sup- 10 vol. 2. 110 VETERAN DISMISSED. pose there should be any, surely our papa, when he would slay at home to give his children a good edu- cation, is not useless to his country. Lord C. No, indeed ; especially, my pretty little Helen, if his otlur little ones improve as much as you do. Helen. I believe you jest. I know I am thought a litile forward in the family ; and I have heard it said, that if I had but a cockade, I could not fail to make a tolerable soldier. Lord C. Ha, ha, ha! A little Amazon! You would become a perfect hero ! Helen. I can tell you, if I only had a sword, I would not be laughed at. Lord C. Nay, if that all, here's mine. I'll arm you with it. Helen. Do. I should be very glad. Lord C. (presenting the sword and stooping to kiss her) This is the first ceremony. Helen (keeping him off.) Softly ! softly ! I be- seech you, sir. Lord C. (attempting it again) O, you are a charming child ! Helen (running from him.) Brother ! sister ! Lord C. Mighty well, miss soldier; you're afraid of me, I see then. Helen. I afraid of you ! O no. But don't, how- ever, come too near, or I shall run and fetch papa. Papa's an officer as well as you are ; and won't suf- fer any one to hurt his little Helen. Lord C. Heaven forbid 1 should design to hurt you : it was only pleasantry. VETERAN DISMISSED. Ill Enter Bertram. Ber. (coming boldly forward) You cried out just now, Helen ! I am come to your assistance. Lord C. Against us. my little friend? B^r. Aye, any one who hurts my sister. Helen. Thank you, brother ; but 1 did not mean to cry out quite so loud, and have no need of your assistance ; for, you see, there's one I have disarm- ed. However, sir, [returning Lord C. his sword) this once I grant you quarter. But don't come too near in future. I believe you understand me ? Lord C. Why, 1 declare, you are an extraordi- nary little creature ! Cec. I am charmed to hear you talk so ; but, gen- tlemen, we have gathered strawberries enough to share some with you. (Presenting them the bushel) Take a few, let me request you. Lord C. No, indeed ; we don't intend to touch them; they've a destination too respectable, for us to think of making free with any. Cec. Those you take, will all be from our share ; and no harm done, should we go without. You are in papa's own regiment ; and 'tis fitting we should treat you with as much respect as we are able. Helen, (taking a nosegay out of her bosom, and presenting it to Lord C) Ah ! on that account, I'll beg you to accept this nosegay I had gathered for myself. Papa and mamma have each had one, or I could not have given you this : but it belongs to me, sir, and I give it you. 112 VETERAN DISMISSED. Lord C. And I, my dear, accept it with the great- est pleasure. Helen. It is somewhat faded by the sun ; but if you will stay a little, I'll gather you some jessamine, violets, and jonquils, in my garden. Cec. Helen, you remember, I believe, the rose- bush before my window : you may gather all the roses that are blown upon it. Helen. Well, sir, shall 11 Lord C. I thank you for your kindness, my dear child ! but no, the pleasure of conversing wiih you entertains me more than all the roses in the universe. Helen. I have a notion strikes me. Fossibly, you know what method an officer should take to quit the service honourably. Could you not afford us some good counsel to procure papa's dismission ? Cec. If you could, we should be very glad to give you every thing we have. Her. (who has hitherto amused himself by play- ing with the hilt of Lord C's. sword, and looking at his uniform) O yes, if you could only tell us how to keep papa at home, my drum, spontoon, cartouch- box, and accoutrements, should all be your's. Helen (looking down with a smile.) And 1 will give you freely, what you sought just now to take by force. Lord C. So many charming things at once ! Be- lieve me, if I did but know Cec. (sorrowful) You did but know ! So then we only make things worse, and grieve you that you cannot be of service to us. Helen. O, I don't give up so soon. Lord VETERAN DISMISSED. 113 Cornwnllis, colonel of the regiment, will very soon pass this way. We three will go and throw our- selves before him, hang upon his clothes, and not let go till he has granted our desire. Cfc. Yes, sister, he shall see our tears; and we will tell him how extremely ill papa has been all winter ; how sick he is at present ; and how much we should lament his going from us. Do you think, he would be so cruel as to send us from him, and not grant our request? Lord C. 1 cannot think that of him, my good friends ; but if he is not already thus far come on his way, there's room to fear he will delay setting cut from London longer; and you know, in that case, you would lose your pains, as your papa must march to-morrow. Happily, however,there is a gentleman, his particular friend, who can do every thing, as if he were my lord himself; and he is at present with the regiment, serving as a volunteer. Ber. A volunteer 1 Lord C. Yes ; so they call it ! one whose wish is to acquire a knowledge of the art of war, assist- ed by my lord's instruction. I can answer for it, he will grant whatever your papa may wish. Cec. And is he your friend 1 Lord C. Yes, truly. Or. Then, for heaven's sake, sir, speak to him in papa's behalf, that he may not be parted from his family, who live by his means ; and if he must leave England, do soften, if you can, his service; and at any time should he be sick or wounded 10* 114 VETERAN DISMISSED. Helen. Wounded ! Don't wait, sir, till he is wounded ; but in case a sabre should be raised against him, run in and save him from the blow. Lord C. (aside) How difficult 1 find it to keep still concealed! — No, generous little girls, fear nothing : I'll be answerable for his safety with my life. Cec. We may rely upon you, then ? How much you charm us, sir ! Yet do not forget to speak of him to the volunteer, you just now mentioned. I could talk further to you on this subject ; but your heart will tell you everything I've left unsaid ; and our papa, whom we shall lose to-morrow, must be waiting for us. Lord C. Go, dear children ; but first take some trifle from me, as a recompense for that agreeable half hour I've spent in conversation with you. Here, my sweet Cecilia, take this ring, it is a little too big, but may soon be fitted to your finger. Cec. (refusing the ring) No, no, sir, mamma, perhaps, would be displeased ; and so, too, would papa, whose least reproach I would not for the world deserve, particularly as to-morrow he must leave us. Lord C. You must absolutely take it. Should he be displeased, I'll undertake to reconcile him, when he joins the regiment, if I cannot by my speak- ing to the volunteer, prevent his leaving England. Cec. (taking it) Well, then, he shall bring it you, in that case ; and if otherwise, I shall be very happy to remember you as often as I look upon it. VETERAN DISMISSED. 115 Helen. Come, come, sister : 'tis high time we be gone. Lord C. And yon, my lovely Helen, I suppose, would not be sorry to remember me : See, here's a copper etui gilt ; and at the top, a composition stone ; they call it a false diamond. Helen (looking- at it.) Yes, I understand you : but there's nothing false about it, but your words. 'Tis gold, I'm certain, and a real diamond. I won't have it. You have been plundering for it. My papa's a captain, sir, as well as you ; but cannot make such presents, for he never went a plundering in his life. Lord. C. Take, take it : there's no plundering in the case : It would be useless to me in the field, and therefore, if you will not have it as a present, keep it for me, till such time as I return. Helen. O, that I will, with all my heart. Lord C. And now, perhaps, you have a kiss to give me for security. Helen. No, no ; I've told you the conditions. Lord C. Well, then, I'll do all I'm able to obtain them. Helen. And I'll keep the — you know what, sir, till that time. Come, brother. Ber. Go first : I'll follow you immediately. I've something I would say in private to the gentleman. Lord C. I'll speak this moment with you. (The offirer, who some little time before had with- drawn, returns, and gives Lord C. a pocket-book ; they whisper.) 116 VETERAN DISMISSED. Helen (whispering Bertram.) What! and should you like h p, esent too? Cec. (in a whisper likewise) Fie, fie, brother ! I should never have suspected you of so much meanness. Her. And fie you^ sisters, that can entertain so mean a notion of your brother ! [ have something very different, and much more important, I should like to ask about. Helen. Well now, if I were in a merry mood, I could not but laugh, at the gravity with which you speak of your important something. Ber. Aye, and were you not my sister, I would make you squeak, Miss Saucebox, for suspecting me. Helen (going out with Cecilia ) Well, manage your important something properly. SCENE II. Lord Cornwallis, Officer, and Bertram. Lord C. I am glad, dear Bertram, you desire to stay. We were not quite acquainted : but at pre- sent, and particularly as my friend here tells me they have not yet repaired my chriise, we shall have some more minutes to talk with each other. Ber. So we shall: but don't imagine I remain here to get something from you. Lord C. How ? Br. Because you give my sisters each a present, you might fancy I want one: but I protest, sir, I shall not take any thing. VETERAN DISMISSED. 117 Lord C. Unluckily for me, I have nothing I can offer you. Ber. Unluckily? I'm glad you have not; for now, neither can be tempted. Lord C. (aside to the officer) I am charmed with his disinterestedness, and never saw a handsomer figure ! Ber. I have but one question, sir, to ask you. Lord C. And what's that, my friend 1 Ber. You told my sister, a gentleman was with the army as a volunteer ? Pray what's a volunteer? Lord C. A volunteer's a soldier that may fight or noi, just as he chooses. Ber. O, if I were to turn soldier, it should be to fight ; and I would gladly be a volunteer on that condition. Lord C. But a volunteer must have a deal of mo- ney : hive you any ? Ber. No; but then the king has. And pray is not he obliged to keep his soldiers ? Lord C. No; for as a volunteer is not obliged to fight, it is but just he should subsist himself. Ber. I am sorry to hear this ; but if I wanted only biead and water, or should beg the regiment to re- ceive me, sir, instead of my papa ; — what then ? Lord C. Poor child ! and what sort of a figure would you cut before a company ? You ought to have experience and authority. B^r. If I havo not enough of either to command, I must have surely to obey. Let me be anything, provided 1 may serve. 118 VETERAN DISMISSED. Lord C. Would you be capable of following in the march ? Ber. I'll go as far as I am able ; and when tired, let me be lifted up among ihe baggage ; or I'll ride upon a cannon. Are you fearful 1 should lag be- hind ? Lord C. But if you were to serve instead of your father, you lemember you must part with him, as much as if he went himself. Br. And don't you think 1 should rejoice to be the means of keeping him at home here, with mamma and sisters? You would lose but little by such a change. Unhappily, my dear father will not be able to serve long; and I shall very soon be what he was. I love a soldier's business from my heart. I know a great many marches, and can play them on my fife. Look, here's a book of songs : 'tis called the Grenadier's D> light. I'll give it you. I know the whole by heart. Lord C. (a.$id° to the officer) I have a thought. [to Bertram) I would not wish a better present : and in return, Til give you, not indeed a book of songs, my little Bertram, but a single song. Ber. A song, indeed, I may accept of. Lord C [feeling in his pocket) Stop, in the first place, here's one that you will give your father. Ber. O, he never sings now, sir; and likes no music hut the cannon's. Lord C. That don't signify. I'm sure you'li both he pleased with this, even if you do but read it. And here's one for you. [taking a paper out of his pocket-book.) VETERAN DISMISSED. 119 B?r. (jumping for joy) O, thank you ! Let me see if I know ir. Lord C. \o, nn, Bertram : you shall read them after we have left you. (He puts the two papers to- gether, and thrusts them, into Bertram's pocket) Let me put them in your pocket : and take care you don't lose either. .Now farewell, my little friend, and since you love a soldier's life, I'll have you for my comrade. B;r. (jumping info his arms) Yes, I will he so, I'll always love you ; and the first engagement I am in, I'll all the while be at your side. Officer. We will go, and let the regiment know you're coming. Ber. Do: and pray, sir, give me a good word. Lord C. (retiring with the officer) I feel how much the father's heart must hleed to quit such lovely children : and rejoice, on that account, to be the bearer of such welcome tidings as the paper, in Bertram's pocket, will inform him of. Let us withdraw, to some corner, where we may, unseen, remark him. (They shelter among the trees.) Bertram, (alone, gifting for a while profound- ly thoughtful on the trunk of a tree : then getting up, and walking to and fro) Why should he desire to set papa a singing ? {T,kin? the papers out) Ha ! this paper's sealed .'—There's something fmmy in it, I suppose. So, let me see my own. Is this a song ? It does not look like one. The words go one after another, all aiong the line. (R ading) "I promise to pay to Mr. Abraham Newland, or bearer, on demand, the sum of fifty pounds,'* I 120 VETERAN DtSMlSSED. don't know any tune that will suit these words. (Reading again) "London, December 1, 1787, for the Governor and Company of the Bank of England, Philemon Stacy." He meant to make a foofof me, I fancy, in calling this a song. 'Tis all about money !— Mr. Captain ! Mr.Captain ! (Run- ning out.) SCENE III. Bertram, Captain Barlow (pale and feeble), Mrs. Harlow, Helen, and Cecilia. Capt. H. Where, where is he ? (Perceiving Ber- tram) Bertram, where's my lord ? Ber. (looking about him) My lord ! I have not seen the least bit of a lord, not I. Helen. That handsome gentleman we talked with. Cec. He who gave me this fine ring. Papa says no one but a lord could make so rich a present. Ber. (vexed) Blockhead as I've shown myself, in not discovering who he was ! Cec. O ! what a fine, fine gentleman ! Helen. So good and so familiar ! O, my sweet etui! I'll keep you all my life-time now. Capt. H. How long has he been gone ! Ber. This moment 1 was running after him. Capt. H. To-morrow, fortunately, I shall join his lordship ; for it must be Lord Cornwallis ; it is his cypher that's engraved on the etui ; and I can tell him then, how much my children are obliged to his benevolence. I am, however, sorry I h.id not an opportunity of asking hira to lodge one night VETERAN DISMISSED. 121 with us. Should you not have been rejoiced to en- tertain him, children ? Ber. yes, yes, papa. He called me comrade, when he took his leave. Helen. For my part, though I like him, yet I'm glad he's gone ; for had he staid, we should not .have been able then to talk as if we loved you. Capt. H. Helen's in the right. I should not have been free to mix my tears with your's, dear children, in his presence. Mrs. H. And on that account I wish we might have had his company. The violence you must .have done your sorrows, would, in that case, have enabled me to keep down mine: and since to-mor- row we must lose you Cec. O don't speak of that, mamma. Capt. H. Dear children, possibly 1 shall not leave you long. Peace cannot be far off: it is the wish of every one in England ; and no sooner shall that wish be gratified, but I will instantly come back, and never part with you again. Mrs. H. But yet, till things are settled, you must unavoidably be from us ; and what comfort shall we have, as long as you are absent 1 Cec. With what pleasure would I give hira back his ring, if he would leave you with us? Helen. And I his etui likewise ! Ber. And I too his new-fashioned song. See, see, papa, what he has put into my hand here. Was there ever such a song before ? Caut. H. Let's see. {Having read a little) What 11 VOL.2. 122 VETERAN DISMISSED. bounty is in this nobleman ! and what a charming way too' he has of obliging ! He has given you. here, an order for receiving a whole pocket full of gold ! Ber. What, has he tricked me 1 When you see him give him back his money. I won't have it. But there's something else ; he has given me like- wise a song for you. Capf.H. A song for me, my little fellow ? You are dreaming! Ber. (drawing the sealed paper out of his pock- et) No, no : here it is. The children (smiling and approaching their father with looks of curiosity.) A song ! a song ! Capt. H. Good heavens ! What's this ? The king's coat-of-arms ! (He opens the packet with a trembling hand, and looking at the signature, cries oat) and signet ! (Then casting his eyes over the three or four first lines, breaks forth again) Is it possible ! — Dear wife, and little ones, rejoice ! re- joice ! Mrs. H. If you stay with us. Capt. H. Let me read the letter out. (They all come round him, and stand silent while he reads.) O, unexpected joy! (Continues reading) No, no! it must be all a dream, in which my pleased imagi- nation forms the most brilliant chimeras! — And yet, stay; for I'm awake, and every thing is real, though I never could have hoped for so much happiness. Mrs. H. I'm dying with impatience to know every thing. Cec. Well, well ; what is it, dear papa ? I VETERAN DISMISSED. 123 Helen. What pain you keep us all in ! Ber. Let me see your song 1 Capt. hi. (embracing his wife and children) I Bm to stay with you, my life ! — We are not to be separated, my dear children ! (Giving Mrs.H. the letter) Yes, yes ; read yourself. Mrs. H. I tremble every limb, and cannot. The children (in a transport of joy) Our papa stays with us ! our papa stays with us ! Capt. H, Yes, yes, children, I shall not go to America, or leave you, and yet continue in the ser- vice in a way so honourable ! Mrs. H And how? how, my life? Capt. H The king, informed (but how I know not) of my illness, and commiserating the condition I am in, permits my staying here in England; but, to recompense my services, (and these are his own words,) confers upon me the command of Upnor Castle, with the rank of colonel. Mrs. H. What, my dear 1 Cec. Joy ! joy ! Helen. So then, papa, there is not a greater man in all the army ! Ber. And you're colonel ? are you ? Capt. H. Yes ; and for the first time in my life entirely happy. But, my dear, {to Mrs. H.) shall I be pardoned, when I tell you, such an honour is not on account of any step I took to get it ! — It has come, 1 can't tell how. Mrs. H. Yes, yes ; I know that very well. I did what I could, though what I did was never meant for such an honour, joined to so muchhappi- 124 VETERAN DISMISSED. ness. They must be both, however, placed to the- account of my solicitation. Helen. Ah! the naughty man, say I ; but that mamma took greater care of us than he did. Cec. So, papa, then you deceived us ? Copt. H. • Yes, my little dear : but still what could J have done ? I've only this excuse to offer, that false modesty restrained me from requesting my dismission, although I should have thought I could not be of any real service to my country. I was not, however, then quite sensible of my condi- tion, but now I feel it : yes, 1 feel within me, that my constitution is no longer fit for the fatigue of arms. Mrs. H. And this false modesty would have been death to me, and left these children without a father, but that Provjdence has ordered your affairs much better. Every thing, however, now, is par- doned. All I wish is, we had here the generous nobleman, who brought us this glad news, that we might thank him for the kindness he has shown our little ones, and also for his message, which, if the truth were known, I dare engage he has in some de- gree been instrumental in procuring; for what like- lihood that I, an unknown woman, of myself should have so far succeeded beyond every thing I even wished ? Capt. H. At least, if we had but enjoyed the opportunity of granting him the hospitality of one night's lodging with us. Ber. We'll run different ways and overtake- him, if we can. VETERAN DISMISSED. 125 Capt. H. Go, go. It grieves rue I cannot fol- low you. Helen. If we can meet with him, and he will but accompany us back, he shall have, instead of one, three kisses. SCENE IV. Bertram, Captain Harlow, Mrs. Harlow, Cecilia, Helen, Lord Cornwallis, and the officer. Lord C. (running from his hiding place, and laying hold of Helen.) Shall 1? — 'Tis a match, my little maid. (He kisses her three times.) Cec. and Ber. My lord ! my lord ! Helen (a little out of countenance) You've almost scared me with your kisses ! Capt. H. O my worthy general ! what words will show you half my gratitude ? Mrs. H. How can my children and myself ex- press our obligations 1 To whom we are indebted for such a blessing, we at present know not ; but your lordship is the bearer of a paper, that restores a husband to me, and a father to my children. LordC. For this blessing, you and they are debtors to the king. I have done nothing more than solicit his bounty, wishing 1 might prove the channel thro* which it should flow. Hearing accidentally, dear madam, of your application, I determined to support it with my little interest, and if possible, procure more than was solicited. You owe this interference to my knowledge of the captain's merit, as I was convinced how much he had instructed his inferior 11* 126 VETERAN DISMISSED. officers, and been of benefit to those above him* Upon this account t did not think it reasonable he should still be forced among us, when his infirmity made service painful to him. And still more, to show how heartily I prosecuted this affair, with pleasure I took advantage of our march so near his habitation, to bring down the news myself of his success, and gladden the bosom of his wife and chil- dren with it. This, believe me, is a joy I never shall forget. {He holds out his hand to Capt. Har- low, who clasps it with transport.) Capt. H. And is it possible I should have met with such a generous friend, who, of his own accord, has seconded an application which the affection of a valuable wife was making for me, without my knowledge ! No one with less than your benevo- lence, my lord, could have so heartily endeavoured to promote the happiness of an afflicted family. Mrs. H. Then, likewise, you have made such princely presents to my children ! Cec. I am now ashamed that I took this ring. I did not think it was of so much value. Lord C. I must own it is very pretty, but much more so on your charming hand. It is indeed so altered, I no longer know it. Helen. Neither would you, I suppose, sir, your etui ; and therefore I'll not speak a word about it. Ber. As for me, I give you back your song. It is not what you meant to let me have. Lord C. Then be it a mistake ; and since I have already made it, pardon me ; to which I hope your good father will add another favour ; that bisBertram TETERAN DISMISSED. 127 may be made an ensign. I'll give order for it, if he chooses I should. Capt. H. If I choose, my lord! You are the guardian-angel sent to succour us ! Ber. But is it in your regiment ? Lord C. Yes, my little friend. Ber. O how rejoiced I am ! I'll go this moment with you, and the name of my father shall not quickly be forgotten in the army. Capt. H. You have conferred many favours on me ! Would you not favour me with one more, I am about to ask ? Lord C. I apprehend your meaning, and so far from not consenting, beg you to bestow it, namely, a bed in your house for one night for my companion and myself. (Captain and Mrs. Harlow bow re- spectfully) Provided Helen pleases ! Helen. O, since father is to remain among us, stay as long as you think proper. Cec. I may hope, my lord, that now you will consent to eat a few more strawberries ? Htlen. You will make them so much the sweeter to us, as 1 thought your arrival would have made them bitter. Ber. Yes, my lord, come in, and honour my father by eating with us ; and, in future, I will do whatever I am able, to deserve a second honour like it — in your lordship's tent. 128 TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE, Archibald had often been told by his father that children know very little what, is fit for them, and that they can never grow wise but by following the counsel of those who are older than themselves. But this was a lesson which he was unwilling to un- derstand, or else which he did not remember. A division had been made of a liitle square piece of ground in the garden, between his brother Perci- val and himself, and each had his own half at his entire disposal, with full permission to sow or to plant in it whatever he pleased. Percival immediately recollected his father's in- structions. He went, .therefore, to the gardener, and said to him : Robert, be so good as to tell me what 1 can plant in my little garden, and how I must manage to make things grow in it. Robert gave him some roots, and picked out some of his best seeds. Percival flew to put them in the earth : and Robert had the good-nature to overlook and to direct his proceedings. Archibald only shrugged his shoulders at the compliance of his brother. Should you like, said the gardener, that I should do something also for you ? O to be sure, cried Archibald, I have great need of your advice 1 He then went himself and gathered some of the TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE. 129 flowers, and planted them by the stalk in the ground ; while Robert left him wholly to himself. The next morning Archibald went to visit his flowers, and saw them all drooping, withered, faded, and bending down to the earth. He instantly, how- ever, planted more, but he saw, the next day, that they had shared the same fate. He soon grew weary of this work. It was pay- ing rather too dear for the pleasure of having flow- ers in his garden. He ceased, therefore, to take any further trouble with it, and the ground was quickly covered with thistles and weeds. About the 1 atter end of the next spring, he per- ceived upon his brother's ground something red, that seemed budding in the midst of thick clusters of green. He went to examine it, and found the finest strawberries, beautiful in their colour, and deli- cious in their taste. O dear ! cried he, if I had but planted some of thpse in my garden ! Not long after, he observed some little round things, of a deep vermilion, hanging in bunches between the leaves of a thick bush. He instantly went up to them. They were currants, so fine, ripe, and inviting, that only to look at them might create an appetite. Ah ! cried he again, if I had but planted some of these, too, in my garden ! You may eat of them, as if they were entirely your's, said his brother. It was all in your own power, said the gardener, to have had some equally good. So pray take care for the future not to despise the advice of people who have had more experience than yourself. 130 THE BIRD'S NEST. Mother, mother ! cried little Sam one evening, as quite out of breath he ran up to her, only look at what's in my hat ! Mrs. B. Ha, a little bird ! and where did you get it ? Sam. I found a nest this morning in the garden- hedge : so I waited till it was night; and then I slid softly to the bush, and before ever the bird was aware, pop ! I caught it by the wings. Mrs. B. And was it alone in its nest 1 Sam. No, mother, all its children were there too. But they are so little, they have no feathers on yet : so I am not afraid of their escaping. Mrs. B. And what would you do with this bird ? Sam. I shall put it in a cage and hook the cage up in my room. Mrs. B. And all the^poor little ones ? Sam. O, I shall take them too, and feed them myself. I'll go and run for them now directly. Mrs. B. I am sorry to tell you, you won't have time. Sam. O, it is not far off. You know where the great cherry tree is? Well, it's just opposite to- that. I looked well at the place. Mrs. B. But that is not the thing ; T am afraid you will be seized yourself first. The soldiers are, perhaps, at the door already. Sam. The soldiers, mamma ! to take me ! Mrs. B. Yes, you. The king has just had your THE BIRD'S NEST. 131 father arrested ; and the guard who forced him away, said he should return to take you and your sister, and carry you also to prison. Sam. O dear, O dear ! — what will they do with us? Mrs. B. You will be confined in a small apart- ment, and never be allowed to go out of it. Sam. O, what a wicked king ! Mrs. B. He will have no harm done to you. You will have food and drink every day. You will only be deprived of your liberty, and of the pleas- ure of ever seeing me again. (Sam begins to cry) Why, my love, why what's the matter with you 7 Is it so great a misfortune to be shut up in a room, when you will have all the necessaries of life. (Sam sobs too violently to speak) The king does but be- have to your father, your sister, and yourself, as you have behaved to this bird and its little ones. You cannot, therefore, call him wicked, without calling yourself so at the same time. Sam. (still crying) O !— I'll let the bird fly away ! [He releases the bird, whifh flies off.) Mrs.B. ( folding him in her arms.) Take cour- age, my child ; I have said this merely to try you. Your father is not in prison, and neither your sister nor yourself are going to be confined. I only wanted to make you understand how ill you were acting, in desiring to imprison the poor little ani- mal. Just as you were terrified yourself when I told you that you were to be seized, this bird was terrified when you robbed it of its liberty. You little considered how the husband would have pined 132 THE BIRD'S NEST. for his wife, how the children would have cried for their mother, and how afflicted they must all have been by such a separation. I am sure this did not once enter your mind, or, certainly, you would never have taken the bird. Is it not true, my dear 1 Sam. Yes, mamma, for I had never thought about all that ! Mrs. B. Well, think of it then in future ; and forget not that these innocent little animals were created to enjoy their liberty, and that it is highly cruel to fill a life, so short as theirs, with bitterness and sorrow. But, to remember it better, you should get by heart your good friend's verses upon this subject. Sam. What ! mamma, the verses by the Chil- dren's Friend ! O, read them to me, dear mother ! Mrs. B. I will ; here they are : the bird's nest. 133 Yes, little nest, I'll hold you fast, And little birds, one, two, three, four; I've watch'd you long; you're mine at last : Poor things ! you can escape no more. Chirp, cry, and flutter as you will, Poor simple ones, 'tis all in vain ; Your little wings are unrledg'd still : How can you freedom then obtain ? What note of sorrow strikes my ear ? Is it their mother thus di>trest 1 O yes — cind see, their father dear Flies round and round, to seek their nest. And is it I, who cause their mean ? I, who so oft in summer's heat, Beneath yon oak have laid me down, To listen to their sons so sweet ? If from my tender mother's side, Some wicked wretch should make me fly, Full well I know 'twould her betide To break her heart, to sink, to die ! And shall I, then, so cruel prove, Your little ones to force away 1 No, no; together live and love, See, here they are— Take them I pray. Teach them in yonder wood to fly, And let them your soft warblings hear, 12 vol. 2. 134 THE SECRET OF PLEASURE. Till their own wings can soar as high, And their own notes can sound as clear. Go, little birds, go, free as air ! While oft again in summer's heat, To yonder oak I will repair, And listen to your song so sweet. THE SECRET OF PLEASURE. I wish I might do nothing but play all day long t mamma, cried little Laura, to Mrs. Draper, her mother. Mrs. D. What, nothing else for the whole day 1 Lotira. Yes, mamma, mothing else. Mrs. D. I have no desire but to make you happy, my love ; but I am sure playing so long will only tire you. Laura. Playing tire me, mamma ? O no indeed ! you shall see if it will. Laura then, jumping at every other step, flew in search of all her play-things. She soon got them together : but she was quite alone, for her sisters were employed in studying till dinner-time. At first she enjoyed her liberty with all possible spirit, and for a whole hour was perfectly happy : but, after that, she began to be weary ,and every mo- ment took from her some portion of pleasure. She had already looked at her play-things, one after another, a hundred times : and now she knew not what to do next. Even her favourite doll dis- pleased and tired her. i SECRET OF PLEASURE. 135 She went to her mother and begged she would tell her of some new amusement, and play with her a little herself: but Mrs. Draper was engaged in some affairs of importance ; and she was forced to refuse Laura's request however unwillingly. The litile girl then seated herself mournfully in a corner, where, uncomfortable and yawning, she waited till her sisters had finished their lessons, and were allowed to find entertainment for them- selves. The time at last arrived. Laura ran to them, and, in a doleful voice, told them how long the morning had seemed to her, and how impatient she had been for their coming. They now made choice of their most favourite plays, in order to raise the spirits of their little sis- ter, who was tenderly loved by them all. But, alas ! their kindness was in vain. Laura declared she was quite sick of all these plays al- ready, and that they did not give her the least pleasure ; and added, she believed they were all in a plot against her, not to choose any game that she liked. Adelaide, her eldest sister, who was a young lady ten years of age, very sensible and reasonable, now took her by the hand, and said with great sweetness : Look at us all, Laura, one after another, as we stand here together, and then 1 will tell you who among us it is that occasions your discontent. Lnurn. And who is it, sister ? for I am sure I can't find out. Adelaide. That is because you have not looked at 136 HOT COCKLES. yourself. Yes, my dear Laura, it is no one but yourself; you see very well that these plays still amuse us, notwithstanding we have played at them so often, and even before you were born. But we are just come from our tasks, which makes every thing - seem new to us. If yon had earned your pleasure, as we have done, by working, you wouJd find it as sweet as we do. Laura, child as she was, did not want for under- standing, and was much struck by her sister's dis- course. It taught her that, to be really happy, it was necessary to mingle useful exercises with pleas- ant diversions. And I believe, since that time, she would have conceived a greater dread of a whole day of mere pleasure, than one filled up with every em- ployment suited to her age. HOT COCKLES The Elder and Younger. Younger. Brother, all our friends have left us, and yet still I'm in a playing humour. What game shall we choose 1 Elder. There are only two of us, and I'm afraid we should not be much diverted. Younger. Let's play at something, however. Elder. But at what ? Younger. At blindman's-buff, for instance. HOT COCKLES. 137 Elder. That's a game would never end. It would not be as if there were a dozen, of which number some are generally off their guard ; but where there are only two, I shold not find it diffi- cult to shun you, or you me : and then, when we had caught each other, we should know for certain who it was. Younger. That's true indeed. Well then, what think you of Hot Cockles ? Elder. That would be the same, you know. We could not possibly guess wrong. Younger. Perhaps we might. However,let us try. Elder. With all my heart, if it will please you. Look you, if you like it, I'll be the hot cockles first. Younger. Do, brother. Put your right hand on the bottom of this chair : now stoop down and lay your face quite close upon it, that you^may not see. That's well ; and now, your left hand on your back. Well, master ! — but I hope your eyes are shut 1 Elder. Yes, yes ; don't be afraid. Younger. Well, master, what have you to sell ? Elder. Hot cockles ! hot ! Younger, (slopping him.) Who struck ? Eldrr. (getting up.) Why who, you little goose, but you ? Younger. Yes, yes ; but with which hand ? The eldest did not dream of such a question ; he was taken by surprise, and said the right, at hazard. — It was with the left, however, he had been struck ; and thus the youngest outwitted him. 12* 138 MAN IS BEST AS HE IS. Mr. Howell, having in his hand a dead parrot, stuffed, comes in, ascends a chair, and ties it to a cord already hanging from the ceiling. I fancy that unlucky Rowland will not reach it at this height. One can scarcely keep any thing from such a meddling boy. [He puts the chair in its place again, and goes out.) Rowland ( Mr. Floyd's Children. Anne, 3 pIrc?v"l, I Mrs. Floyd's Children. Daniel, a Servant. The Scene is in Mr. Floyd's garden. SCENE I. Francis, alone. Once more, I am in my garden, where I have not been these six months ! What a pleasure every object gives me ! Here is the little summer house, where I used to breakfast so frequently with my dear mamma. If she were still living, what happi- ness for both of ,us : She would receive me now with open arms ; she would embrace me : and I should have many little things to tell her. But, alas! (beginning to cry,) I have for ever lost her; and if we are still to love each other, we can only do so in another world. My dear mamma, could you only hear me, it would be some comfort, since you cannot come back to see your Frank. Instead of you, I have indeed a mother; but a mother, as 178 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. they call it, in law : and that, as I am told, is just as much as if one were to say, a cruel mother. What then ami to do ? I never shall dare look upon her. O, if I might at least have lived with grandmamma! But it cannot be; papa will have me here, though poor mamma is dead. Alas, I never shall be able to live here: I know it. I will therefore only see my dear papa and sisters, and go back. Yes, yes ; I will go back, and must. Enter Daniel. Dan. What, master Francis ? is it you come back again ? How goes it with you ? Fran. In health, not much amiss, dear Daniel. And pray how are you 1 Dan. Quite well ; not a penny for the apoth- ecary out of me ! My draughts are made up for me at the George. But what is the matter 1 I see you have been crying. Fran, {wiping his eyes) Crying ? Dan. Yes, yes, crying ! O, you cannot conceal it. Have you met with any accident ? Fran. None, Daniel, since I left my grand- mamma's. Dan. O, O, I understand ; you weep for your mamma ; but then you have another. Fran. A step-mother you mean ? If I could on- ly shun her ! But how fare my poor dear sisters ? Dan. How ? ah ! bad enough. At six they must be up. I would not advise them to lie a min- ute after. They would pay dear for their drowsi- ness. Fran. But what have they to do up so early ? SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 179 Dun. O, their new mother knows how to find them work ! She rules us all like slaves ! and I myself must get up with the rest ! I rose at seven this morning ; and, early as it was, 1 saw both your sisters hard at work in the parlour. Fran. But I ask you, at what ? Dan. Why working for their young brothers-in- law. Fran. Yes, I am told that second mothers never spare their husband's children, while they love their own : and I imagine, I must go to work too. But what has become of all my pinks and tulips ? Dan. O, they are all taken away ! Fran. By whom ? Dan. By Charles and his brother. Fran. So then, I have lost my pretty flowers ; and those two wicked little fellows have destroyed them. They have nothing now to do but to take the garden from me likewise. Look, here they come. SCENE II. Enter Charles and Percival. Charles (whispering Percival.) Percival, who is that young gentleman with Daniel 1 If it were but Master Francis ! Percival, [whispering Daniel ) Is it he ? Dan. (answering drill/.) Yes, gentlemen. Charles. O, my dear, dear brother, welcome ! We have wished to see you ! Fran, (shrinking back) Have we been acquaint- 180 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. ed with each other long enough, that you should thus embrace me 1 Charles. We are not acquainted with you I ac- knowledge, but are all three brothers. Fran. Yes, half brothers, sir. Charles. Why half? If your papa loves our mamma, and she loves him, why should not we love one another ? They are man and wife, and we are therefore brothers. Fran. If we are brothers, have you a greater right than I have here ? Percival. {aside) How quarrelsome he is ! Charles. Why your papa has let us work these three weeks in this garden. Fran. I was in it first, and surely you will not drive me out ! Percival. Come, Charles ; let us be gone, and leave him in his peevish humour. Charles. No, no, Percival : we must stay and be good friends with each other. Per. Do you like the sulky fellow, then, so much ? Fran. The sulky fellow ! do you call me sulky ? Percival. Yes, and envious, and — Fran. You dare insult me then ? and even in my garden here ? Percival. You began : but I am your match ! mind that ! Charles. Hear me, Percival ! Would you strike your brother'? Come along, and for Heaven's sake let us not vex our new father ; and more particu- larly so, the very day that he is to see his son. (Ac draws him away.) SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 181 Percival. Weil, I will go and tell mamma. (He and Charles go out.) SCENE III. Francis and Daniel. Fran. See now if my anxieties are not beginning. They will tell their mother that I have insulted them, and she will get me anger from papa. Un- happy as I am, do not you think, Daniel, that I am to be pitied ? Dan. Indeed you are ; however, take heart. I will be your friend ; and we shall then, I think, be able to make head against them. Fran. Yes ; but my papa 1 Dan. Let me alone with him. I know a thou- sand tricks of these new comers, which I will tell him. They have spoilt your garden, killed your flowers, and called you names. I warrant you they will be badly off. Fran. So then, my good Daniel, you will stand up for me ? Dan. Ay, as sure as my name is Daniel. Fran. Thank you ! thank you ! I am not with- out a friend, I see then, though I have lost mamma. But did you notice their fine clothes 1 What hand- some waistcoats they had on ! Who worked them ? can you tell ? Dan. Their mother. Fran. Yes, yes, I was thinking so. She will always be employed upon her favourites ; but pray who will work me such a waistcoat ? 16 vol. 2. / 182 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. Dan. Why indeed, if you should want one you must work it yourself. Fran. And had not they new jackets on like- wise 1 Dan. Yes : they had them as a present from your papa, on the day of his marriage. Fran. O, he did not make me such a present. I was sent with these old clothes into the country. It is too much ! 1 cannot support the thought ! My poor mamma is dead, and my papa forgets me ! I have only you now left to befriend me ! Dan. Be of comfort! matters may turn out much better than you think : but in the first place, yeu must see your new mamma. So follow me, and put on a cheerful face, as if you were rejoiced to see her. Fran. That I can never do. Dan. But you must, however it may go against you. I do so, though I detest her. Would you think it? she begins to tell me that I must be less frequent in my visits to the ale-house ; I that was accustomed to spend half the day there, in the life- time of my last dear mistress ! She indeed was quite a lady. Things are marvellously altered now, and we must alter with them. Patience ! when we are once alone, I will tell you what more is to be done. At present follow me. Fran. But will she see by my eyes that I have been crying? Dan. Why, you are crying still. Fran. Then I will not go now : she will ask the SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 183 reason of ray tears. What answer should I give her? Dan. You might say, that coming home, and thinking of your dear mamma, you fell to crying. Fran. But, provided she should speak about my quarrel with the children? Dan. Tell her that they began it ; and call me to witness what you say. But here she comes. Go and salute her boldly. Enter Mrs. Floyd. Mrs. Floyd. Where, where is he ? Is it you, my dearest Francis ? Then I have all my family together at last. (She embraces hiin with tender- ness.') How sweet a countenance ! and how happy am I, that I can call so amiable a child my son ! Fran. I should be happy too, could I but rejoice ; and yet — (sighing.) Mrs. Floyd. What is the matter, my dear? You seem quite sad, my charming little man ! (Francis cries afresh, and cannot speak a word.) You turn away and cry. What causes these tears ? Won't you inform me what afflicts you? Fran. Nothing, nothing. Mrs. Floyd. It is enough, however, to distress me. Say, what gives you all this sorrow, and I will comfort you, if possible. If your papa or sisters were to see you, they might fancy that you met with some misfortune coming home: and they are pleased in thinking that they are so soon to see you. Would it grieve you to embrace them ? Fran. Believe me, I can have no greater plea- 184 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. sure ! But shall I embrace mamma ? It is for her that I cry. Mrs. Floyd. She died six months ago, and do you still weep for her ? Fran. Yes, yes ; all my life ! O, my mamma ! my dear mamma ! Mrs. Floyd. Be calm, my little dear! Endea- vour to divert your thoughts, and let us speak of her no longer, since it gives you so much sorrow. Fran. No, no : on the contrary, let me be always speaking of her, if you mean that I should feel any comfort. Would you have your children so soon forget you after you were dead ? Mrs. Floyd, Dear little fellow ! (embracing him.) You loved her then very much 1 Fran. I find so ; much more now than when she lived. She was so good ! Mrs. Floyd. I wish I were but able to restore her to you ; which I cannot do, and therefore I will take her place, poor little fellow, in your bosom. I will love you as she did : and be a mother to you. Fran. But it never can be you that bore me, nursed me, and brought me up. She was my real mother, and you only my step-mother. Mrs. Floyd. But why give me such a name ? I have not called you my step-son. Fran. Pray pardon me ! I said it not to displease you. I begin to think you very kind ; at least you seem so. But then you have children of your own, and must, of course, love them much more than me. Mrs. Floyd. You shall not find it so. Some few days hence we shall be more acquainted than we SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 185 can be now, and you shall see if my affection will not make you think yourself my son. Fran. If that could be without forgetting my mamma? — Mrs, Floyd. I would not wish you to forget her: on the contrary, we will speak often of her, and your tenderness shall be a pattern for my children. Come, I long to introduce you to them. Fran, O, J have seen them already. Have they not complained of my behaviour? Mrs. Floyd, No, my little man. Have you had any quarrel then ; I should be very sorry for that, as all my wish is to behold you tenderly united to each other, like real brothers. Fran. I wish nothing more. But where is my papa and sisters 1 Let me see them. Mrs. Floyd. Your papa will very soon be home. He went this morning to dispatch some business out of doors, that he might have the afternoon entirely to himself; in the mean time, I will take you to your sisters, who will tell you what you are to think of me. Fran. I wish them to speak of you, but not first. I have a deal to say of my mamma, (as they go out Charles and Percival enter on the opposite side.) SCENE IV. Charles, PercivaL Percijal. Why did you stop me from complain- ing to mamma? I keep company with that little snarler ! No, never. When his father comes 16* 186 SCH90L FOR STEPMOTHERS. home, I will tell him what a waspish son he has, that he may teach him to behave a little better. Charles. Do you think then that papa will not be vexed, when told of this difference between you? and would it please you to afflict him ? Percival. Certainly I should be sorry for it. And yet, what can I do 1 since, if this little gentle- man is not corrected for his rudeness the first day of coming home, there will be nothing but disputes hereafter. He will be always affronting us. T am not very deliberate in such cases ; I shall certainly be warm, and tell him what he ought to know; and if hereafter he should think of taking airs on him, as just now Charles. 1 hope then, Percival, you do not mean to beat him ! Percival. But you do not suppose that I will let myself be beat for him ! Charles. No, certainly. Percival. Then what ought I to do 1 Charles. To-morrow, very likely, we shall see ; but now it would be improper to disturb his father's satisfaction in seeing him. Percival. Be it now, to-morrow, or the following day, it is all the same to Percival ; but the sooner, in my opinion, the better. Charles. Brother, I beseech you, wait a little longer. Francis cannot be so sulky as you think. Percival. And yet, sure, I know him as well as you 1 Charles. His father and his sisters say he is very condescending and good-natured. SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 187 Per civ al. Yes, indeed, he showed his condescen- sion and good-nature, when he turned his back upon me in reply to my civility. Charles. That was not well ; but then he does not know us yet. Percival. He might have tried to know us. Charles. How you talk ! perhaps something grieved him. Percival. And are we to suffer for it 1 Charles. No ; but brothers must pass over many things which others have a right to take amiss. Percival. It appears to me that he scorns to look upon us as brothers. Charles. No : I cannot persuade myself of that. Percival. Well, let him look a little to himself: I shall not put up with any insult from him. But he's coming with his sisters; I will withdraw. I cannot bear the thoughts of such a snappish gen- tleman. Charles. For heaven's sake, brother, let us stay and share in their amusement. Percival. No, no : 1 might possibly disturb them, and will go. Charles. If you are resolved, I will follow you. — (Aside, going out.) I must do everything in my power to soften him. SCENE V. Francis, Priscilla, Anne. Priscilla, (holding Francis by the hand.) But why afflict yourself, dear brother, any longer ? Our afflictions cannot bring mamma to life again. 188 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. Fran. But will you promise me, at least, that we shall think a little of her every time we meet ? Pris. Yes, brother, I shall always think I see her with us, just as when she was alive. Fran, (affectionately looking at them) My dearest sisters ! this idea doubles the delight I have in seeing you. Pris. Anne and I have been wishing, this long while, to see you likewise. Anne. And so have I, brother ; for now we can play all together as we used to do. Charles and his brother can play with us too. O, how fine that will be ! (jumping for joy .) Fran. Pshaw ! no more about your Charles and his brother, if you love me. Pris. How ! Fran. They would but interrupt our pastime : they are good for nothing but to go complaining of us to their mother, and convey away our things. Pris. They, brother ? Can you think so badly of them] Anne. Look here, Frank ? (showing an etui.) Fran. And who gave you that ? Anne. Why, Percival : he went out and bought it for me, with a crown that his mother gave him. Pris. See, too, this morocco pocket-book. It was a present made to Charles; and he gave it me. Fran. Ay, ay ! I see you understand each other's meaning, and will all four be against me. Pris, 8f Anne. Be against you ! Fran. Certainly. I know they hate me, having taken all my flowers away, and spoiled my garden. SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 189 Pris. Who has taken all your flowers away, and spoiled your garden ? Fran. Those two little fellows that you seem to admire so much. Pris. We do not understand you. Have you seen your garden ? Fran. Have I seen it 1 What a question ! Only look yourself. Where are rny pinks and tulips ? Pris. Where ? you have not then been at the terrace, under my mamma's bow window ? Fran. Is there any garden there ? Anne. Ay, surely ; and ; J very pretty one. Pris. Your garden here was far too little : so mamma had one marked out for all of us, behind the terrace, six times larger. Fran. And who owns it ? Doubtless your two favourites ! Pris. No, no ; it belongs to all of us, we have each a portion. Anne. I, as well as the rest. Fran. And is there one for me ? Pris. Undoubtedly : and you are luckier by a deal than we. You have not taken any labour in the cultivation of your part, which, notwithstanding, you will find quite full of flowers. Anne. Red, yellow, blue and white in plenty as you will see. Fran. Who set them for me ? Anne. Why, your brothers. They have been a month employing all their play hours upon the work. They have selected all the flowers that their 190 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. beds supplied, and put them into yours, that at the time of your return, you might be more surprised. Fran. And have they done all this for me 1 Dan- iel told me that they had taken all my flowers away, but did not tell me why. Pris. If you give ear to Daniel, you will be worse off for it, I can tell you. Why he wished to make us quarrel with our brothers likewise. How un- grateful ! Their mamma consents to have him for no other reason than because our mother begged papa upon her death-bed, not to turn him off; and all his study is to make h^r children as unhappy as he can. Anne. And all because mamma will have him work, instead of spending half the day with idle fel- lows at the ale-house. Fran. Is it so ? Then I begin to see that he wanted to deceive me, when he promised to be my friend. Pris. However, we must not tell any thing about it to papa ; he would dismiss him : we must there- fore carefully keep silence, and not ruiu Daniel. Fran. O ! no, no, indeed ; since poor mamma had such a value for him. Pris. You will soon see whether he told you truth. Anne. But come now, and pay a visit to your garden, brother. Fran. Yes, with all my heart : I long to see it. (Anne and Priscilla take him by the hand, and go out on one side, without perceiving Charles, who comes in with Pereival on the other side.) SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 191 SCENE VI. Charles, Percival. ( They enter icith two plates of cake and fruity which they put down vpon the table in the sum- mer-house.) Charles. Where is he ? Per. [looking every way) Look, there he is — There, brother, with his sisters, going to our garden. Charles. I am glad of that ; for only think what pleasure he will have, when he discerns how busy we have been to ornament his portion of it! Per. Do you think so 1 For my part, 1 would lay any wager that he will find fault with every thing about him, he is so queer ! The flowers, he will say, are badly chosen, or the box not planted as it should be, or the ground too moist or too dry, and twenty other things. Charles. Yes ; but do you know that I am be- ginning to consider you as touchy as you think him 1 I never saw you so befure. Per. It is he that caused it. Have his sisters ever had occasion to complain of my behaviour ? and I only wish to live upon good terms with him. You know with what impatience I expected his ar- rival here, and how I ran with open arms to meet him. Charles. True indeed ; but, as I said before, it is very likely something grieves him. He is afraid, perhaps, that his father will no longer love him, or our mother show him less affection than he fancies she does us. If so, then surely it is our du- 192 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. ty to make much of him in his uneasiness, and win him to be friends with us, by every gentle method in our power. Per. You are in the right ; I did not think of that. Charles. If he is as good as every body says, think, brother, how a little kindness on our part will, in th\? end, affect him ; how his father will be fonder of us for it ; and what pleasure we shall give mamma ! Per. I was in the wrong, I own, let him but come, and I will be so attentive to him, he must unavoid- ably forget the past. Charles. What hinders us from running to him where he is 1 The flowers that we planted for him, will make peace between us. Per. That is well said ; we will go immediately. But here he comes himself. Charles. And see how pleased he seems ! SCENE VII. Charles, Per rival, Francis, Priscilla, Anne. Fran, [running to embrace his brothers) My dear good friends, my brothers, you must certainly be very much displeased with my behaviour. Charles. We ! why so 1 Per. It is over, my dear Frank, and I love you. Fran. What a pretty garden you have made me ! You have given me all your finest flowers, without my having done any thing to give you pleasure. Charles. It is enough for us, if you are pleased with our endeavours. SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 193 Fran. If I am ! Forgive me pray, dear brothers. I insulted you : I turned away, when you came running to embrace me. I will never do so for the future. We will always be good frinds; and every thing that I have shall be yours as well as mine. Charles. Yes, yes, and every thing shall be in common to us; not our pleasures only, but our sor- rows also. Per. Let us then embrace each other, and begin this friendship. (They embrace.) Charles. This is as it should be ; and now, Frank, we must go and have a little banquet that has been prepared for us by mamma : we have brought it, and put it in the summer-house, as you may see. Let us enter. Enter too, sisters, and sit down with us. Per. It is your privilege, dear brother, now to do the honours of the feast. Mamma will have it so ; as you, she says, by your arrival, are the founder of it. Fran. O, I am sure I never could have eaten any where with so much appetite, as at this feast of friendship. (He presents them with the cake and fruity and they begin to eat.) Per. Well said, and is not this much better than to quarrel with each other ? Anne. I believe so, truly ! For what quarrel can be worth these pears ? Charles. How glad mamma will be to find us such friends with one another ! Pris. Sbe deserves that we should afford her all 17 vol. 2. 194 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. the joy possible. When once you come to know her — But I remember you have seen her. Fran. Yes, yes, Priscilla ; she received me with the greatest kindness, and has so agreeable a coun- tenance that she cannot be ill-tempered. I per- ceived even by her tone of voice that I should be easily induced to love her. Pm. And how good she is to us ! Anne. We need but please ourselves, to give her pleasure. Pris. We were greatly to he pitied at the death of our mamma. Papa, who is employed all day in business, could not look to us. There was forever something wrong in our clothes, and our education was much more neglected. Anne. We should very probably have fallen into a habit of indolence. Pris. But since our new mamma has come, we are both set to rights. She gives us every entertain- ment suited to our age, and is a party with us in our little pleasures. One would think her much more interested in the preservation of our health, than of her own. I have not yet had time suffi- cient to remark that I stand in need of any thing ; she makes beforehand such provision for our wants ! Anne. But lately I was ill ; oh, very ill indeed ; and it was she that waited on me. She was al- ways by my bed, and doing every thing in her power to comfort me. She made up all manner of nice things ; and I believe, I should have died, but for her great attention to me. Fran. O my dear, dear sisters ! is it possible ? SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 195 Pris. You know too, brother, that before you left us, we had not been any ways accustomed to employ our needle. Well; mamma was kind enough to teach us. So that now we know — not only plain, but every sort of fine work. Charles, (tn Francis) See here, the neck and wristbands of this shirt. Mamma extols the work very much. Well, Priscilla did it all herself, and presented it to me. Pris. Which you deserved beforehand ; for'who made me such a garden, or presented me with such fine nosegays ? Brother Francis, you must know, mamma will not have us oblige our brothers, unless they likewise oblige us, and they do more to please us, than we could have thought to ask. Anne. Yes, indeed ; and as a proof, I will show you the cork boat of Percival's making with his pen- knife. You shall see its nice silk rigging, satin sails, and riband streamers. It swims charmingly, in the fish-pond. Per. Since you made me such a handsome pair of braces — Anne. Braces ! I can make much handsomer things than braces now. Ah, Frank, were you but to see a certain green and lilach striped silk purse ! The green at least is all of my own fancying ; ask Priscilla. O, I am sure you will be delighted when you have it. Fran. How! and have you made me, then, a purse 1 (Priscilla makes a sign that Anne should hold her peace.) Anne, (embarrassed) O, Frank ; I forgot : 196 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. — (in a whisper) yes, it is ! but you must know, mamma enjoined me not to tell you. And besides, she means to surprise you herself with nothing less than a nice worked waistcoat, such as my brothers have on — O, you will soon see ! Pris. This little giddy creature can keep no se- cret. Anne. No, because there was such pleasure in revealing it. We have been always thinking of you, brother. Fran. O, I thank you : but pray tell me, are you happy 1 Pris. Are we happy 1 What is wanting in our situation 1 Our mamma is really so good ! I do not know how it is, but she has found the secret of converting every thing into a sort of pleasure. I have no amusement half so great as chatting with her. Even while she is joking, she instructs us. Anne. You should see us, when we are reading certain little tales, which a friend of ours composes for us. He knows what every little boy and girl does in the world ; and it would be comical if he were to put us in his book. Pris. I wish he would put us in it, on account of our mamma ; that all the world might know the goodness of her heart, and how we love her. Charles. Yes, and I too, for the sake of our pa- pa, who treats us just as if we were his real chil- dren. SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. 197 SCENE VIII. Mr. Floyd, Francis, Priscilla, Anne, Charles, PercivaL Mr. Floyd, (who had stood by the side of the summer-house, during the whole preceding scene, shows himself suddenly amongst them, crying) Yes, and so you are within my heart. I make it all my happiness to think that I am your father. But where is Frank ? Fran, (embracing Mr. Floyd) Here, papa. O how rejoiced I am to see you, dear papa. Mr.F. Kiss me once more, my dear child. — And now let me inquire, if you are pleased with your new brothers ? Fran. O, I never could have chosen better. I will love them, and do every thing in my power that they may love me likewise. Charles. There will be no difficulty in that mat- ter, since we are determined to do just the same. Per. We shall but need to recollect the pleas- ure that we have had this day. Pris. That you may keep your promise, I will be sure to put you frequently in mind of it. Anne. O, sister, as to that, I am sure I shall re- member it without a monitor. Mr.F. I verily believe you will do so, from what I have heard you say ; for you must know, dear children, 1 was planted here hard by in secret, dur- ing all your conversation ; and I am sure, I never shall forget it : nor I only, but another ; for another 17* 198 SCHOOL FOR STEPMOTHERS. has heard every thing as well as I. Come then, dear wife, approach, and enjoy a pleasure so adapt- ed to your goodness. SCENE IX. Mr. and Mrs. Floyd, Francis, Priscitta, Anne, Charles, Percival. Mr. F. Here she is, my little ones : the partner that I have chosen to promote your happiness ; and not yours only, but my own. The fortune which it might have been in my power to leave to yu , would be nothing, in comparison of that more valu- able gift, a good and proper education. We have therefore made these second nuptials to procure you every possible advantage. Three among you very much wanted a mother, who might take upon her the care of your childhood : and the other two, a father to advance them in the world. Your interests were the same, in these second nuptials ; and it is for the benefit of all of us that they have been framed. Do you then promise me, dear wife, as I on my side do, that you will never think of treating either of these children with the least degree of par- tiality, except indeed what his superior good behav- iour may appear to merit. Mrs.F. My reply to you, dear husband, are these tears ; I cannot possibly repress them ; and to you, my children, these embraces (she holds out her arms, and all the children strive with each other to come nearest to her.) Mr. F. And do you, dear little ones, on your part, promise to keep up a constant union with each THE SUDDEN FORTUNE. 199 other, to avoid all jealousy and quarrels, and like children of one parent, love each other. (They take each other by the hand, and kneeling, answer) Yes, papa ; we do, we do. Mr. F. (raising them.) Continue to live in such' a state of friendship. You will find its charms con- stantly increase, and the tie between you grow closer every day. You will be as happy from the services that you do each other, as from those little sacrifices that may frequently be needful for the sake of peace among you. Every one enjoying his own happiness, will not the less enjoy his broth- er's; which, in fact, he may attribute to himself. There will not be an individual around you, but will interest himself in your prosperity, if his friendship be worth the acquisition; and your fu- ture children will reward you by their tenderness, for having so well merited the affection of your parents. THE MAN WHO ROSE TO SUD- DEN FORTUNE. One fine evening in June, Mr. Russel went with his son to take a walk in one of the most agreeable environs of the city. The weather was mild, the sky clear, the purling streams and waving trees lulled them to an agreeable thoughtfulness. What a 200 THE SUDDEN FORTUNE. lovely evening ! said Eugene, enchanted with the beauties of nature that surrounded him. He pressed his father's hand, and said to him, if you knew, papa, what thoughts rise in my heart ! He was silent for a moment ; then lifting his moistened eyes to heaven, I thank my God,, said he, for the happy moments that he gives me to enjoy. O that every one could feel the beauties of the evening as 1 do ! That all mankind overflowed with joy, as I do at this moment ! I could wish to be a king over a large country, that I might make all my subjects happy. Mr. Russel embraced his son. My dear Eugene, said he, the benevolent wish that you have just ex- pressed, comes from a heart as generous as humane. But would not your thoughts change with your fortune ? Would you still hold, in an exalted station? these sentiments, that animate you now in the middling condition to which heaven has appointed you ? Eugene. Why do you ask that question, papa 1 cannot one become rich without becoming cruel or wicked 1 Mr. R. It does not always happen so, my dear. There are some fortunate persons who remember their past distresses, and in whom this reflection produces sentiments of charity towards the un- fortunate. But to the disgrace of the human heart, a change of fortune frequently alters affections the most tender and sympathetic. While we are un- fortunate ourselves, we think that heaven requires of all men as a duty to relieve our sufferings. If the hand of God remove misfortune from us, we THE SUDDEN FORTUNE. 201 think all his intents in the preservation of the uni- verse fulfilled ; and we no longer think of those wretches that remain in the gulf from which we have been rescued. We have an instance of this in the man who comes sometimes to ask relief of me, which I give him with a reluctance that I cannot conquer, though I reproach myself for it. Eugene. True, papa ; I observed that you put your alms coldly into his hand, without ever giving him those words of comfort that you do to other poor people. Mr. R. I will show you, my dear, whether he deserves them. Mr. Lowe was a linen-draper in the Minories. Though the profits of his business were but moderate, a poor person never appeared at his door in vain. This was all the pleasure with which he indulged himself ; and he thought him- self happy to enjoy it, though he could not com- mand even this to the full extent of his wishes. Business called him one day upon 'Change. He saw in one part of it a number of principal merchants together, who were talking of vast cargoes, and im- mense profits to be expected from traffic. Ah, said he to himself, how happy these people are ! If I were as rich, heaven knows, I should not be so for myself alone, and that the poor should partake of ray abundance. He went home full of ambitious thoughts, but how can his narrow business enable him to fulfil his vast projects ? With tolerable economy, it was no more than sufficient to afford him a decent subsistence the year round. ' I shall 202 THE SUDDEN FORTUNE. always be at a stand !' cried he, l and never rise above this middling condition in which I linger at present.' A handbill, inviting adventurers to purchase in the lottery, was at this moment put into his hand. He seized the idea with eagerness, as if inspired by fortune ; and without minding the inconvenience which his covetousness might reduce him, he went to the lottery-office and laid out four guineas,the only money he could spare in the world. With what impatience he waited for the drawing ! He atone time repented having so foolishly hazard- ed a stake, the loss of which would disturb him. At another, he fancied that he saw riches falling down upon him in showers. At last the drawing began. Eugene. Well, papa, did he get a prize 1 Mr. R. Five thousand pounds. Eugene. Aha ! he jumped for joy. Mr. R. He went immediately and received his money, and spent some days in thinking of nothing else. When he had thought enough,he said to himself — I can put this sum to better use,than barely poring over it. He therefore enlarged his stock, extended his dealings, and, by his knowledge of trade, soon doubled his capital. In less than ten years he became one of the richest men in the city. It must be said in his praise, that he had till then been faithful to his vow, in making the poor partake of his abundance. At the sight of an unfortunate person, he remembered his own former condition without being ashamed of it. And this recollection never failed of profiting the person who occasioned THE SUDDEN FORTUNE. 203 it. Led on by degrees to frequent fine company, he contracted a taste for luxury and dissipation. He purchased a magnificent country-house, and fine gardens, and his life became a round of pleasure and amusement. The most extravagant whims were gratified without scruple, but he soon perceived that they had made a considerable breach in his for- tune. Trade, which he had relinquished in order to be quite at leisure to enjoy himself, no longer enabled him to repair it ; and a habit of indulgence and mean vanity would not suffer him to lessen his expences. I shall always have enough for myself, thought he ; let others provide for themselves. His heart, hardened in this resolution, was thenceforth shut to the unfortunate. He heard the cries of mis- ery, as one hears the tempest rumble at a distance, when sheltered from its fury. Friends, whom he had till then supported, came to solicit him for relief: But he refused them harshly. Have I made a fortune, said he, only to squander it upon you? Do as I do, he added ; depend upon yourselves. His mother, whom he had deprived of half the pension that he allowed her, came to beg for a retired shelter in his house, there to spend her few remain- ing days ; but he had the baibarity to refuse her, and with tearless eyes beheld her die in misery. This crime however did not long remain unpunished. His debaucheries very soon exhausted all his wealth, and deprived him of the strength necessary to sup- port himself by work. In short he was reduced to the state of misery in which you see him, and now 204 THE SUDDEN FORTUNE. begs his bread from door to door, an object of con- tempt and indignation to all honest people. Eugene. Ah, papa, since fortune can make men so wicked, I wish to remain as I am. Mr. R. My dear Eugene, I wish so too for the sake of your happiness ; but if heaven destines you a more exalted station, may you never forfeit the nobleness and generosity of your soul. Think often of the story I have just told you. Learn from this example, that we can never taste true happiness, without feeling for the misfortunes of others ; that it is the powerful man's duty to comfort the sorrows of the weak ; and that he reaps more true happiness from the performance of this duty, than from all his pomp and luxury. The sun was now about to set, and his parting beams threw a lively glow upon the clouds, which formed a purple curtain round his bed. The air, freshened at the approach of evening, breathed an agreeable calm. The birds, in repeating their farewell songs, exerted all their powers of melody. The leaves of the grove mingled a gentle murmur with their concert, and every tning seemed to inspire sentiments of joy and happiness ; but Eugene and his father instead of the transports they at first felt, returned to their home lost in melancholy reflec tions. 205 THE YOUNG SPARROWS. Little Robert one day perceived a sparrow's nest under the eaves of the house, and running im- mediately for his sisters to inform them of his dis- covery, they all contrived how to make themselves masters of the little covey. It was agreed to wait until the young ones should be fledged ; that Rob- ert should then raise a ladder against the wall, and his sisters should hold it fast below, while he climb- ed up for the nest. When they thought the little birds sufficiently feathered, they made ready to put their design in execution. It succeeded perfectly, and they found three young ones in the nest. The old birds sent forth piteous cries on seeing the little ones taken from them which they had nour- ished with so much care ; but Robert and his sis- ters were so overjoyed that they paid not the least attention to their complaints. They were at first a little puzzled what to do with their prisoners. Augusta, the youngest, being of a mild and compassionate disposition, was for having them put in a cage ; she promised to take the charge of them upon herself, and to feed them regularly every day ; she described in a lively man- ner to her brother and sister, the pleasure they should have in seeing arid hearing those young birds, when grown big. This was opposed by Robert, who maintained 18 vol. 2. 206 THE YOUNG SPARROWS. that it was better to pluck them just as they were, and that it would be much more funny to look at them jumping about in the room without feathers, than to see them dismally shut up in a cage. Char- lotte, the eldest, declared herself of the same opin- ion as Augusta, but Robert persisted in his own. At last the two little girls, seeing that their brother would not give up the point, and that he had the nest in his possession, agreed to whatever he desired. But he waited not for their consent to begin the ex- ecution. The first was already plucked. — There is one stript, said he, setting it on the ground. In a mo- ment after, all the little fiimily were deprived of their tender feathers. The poor things cried, peep! peep/ and complained very piteously ; they shud- dered with the cold, and shook their bare little wings. But Robert, instead of pitying their suffer- ings, did not end his persecutions here : he pushed them with his toe to make them go on, and when- ever they tumbled over, he burst into a laugh ; and at last his sisters joined in the laugh with him. While they were practising this cruel amusement, they saw their tutor coming towards them. — Mum ! Each pocketed a bird, and was stealing off. " Well," cried their tutor, " where are you going ? Come hither !" This order obliged them to stop. They advanced slowly with their eyes fixed on the ground. Tutor. Why do you run away at my coming? Rob. We were only playing. Tutor. You know I do not debar you from amusement; and indeed I am never so happy as when I see you all merry. THE YOUNG SPARROWS. 207 Rob. We were afraid you were coming to scold at us. Tutor. Do I ever scold at you for taking inno- cent diversion? I see you have done something amiss. Why have you each a hand in your pock- et ? 1 must know the reason. Show me your hands, and what you have in them, (they show their hands, with a bird picked.) Tutor (with an emotion of pity and indignation) And who could give you the idea of treating these poor little creatures thus 1 Rob. Why, it is so droll to see sparrows jump without feathers. Tutor. You think it very droll, then, to see in- nocent creatures suffer, and to hear their painful cries ? Rob. No, sir ; I didn't think it made them suffer. Tutor. Did not you ? Come hither, I will con- vince you it did. (he plucks a few hairs out of Robert's head.) Rob. O, O! Tutor. Does that hurt you ? Rob. Do you think it does not, to pluck out my hairs ? Tutor. Pshaw! there are only a dozen. Rob. But that is too much. Tutor. What would it be then were I to pluck out all your hair? Have you a notion of the pain that you would feel ? And yet you have put these birds to the very same torture, though they never did you any harm. And you, youug ladies ; you, 208 THE YOUNG SPARROWS. that should be more tender-hearted ! did you suffer this? The two little misses were standing by, silent ; but hearing these last words, and feeling the keen- ness of the rebuke, sat down with their eyes swim- ming in tears. The tutor remarked their sorrow, and said no more to them. Robert did not cry, but endeavoured to justify himself: 1 could not think that I did them any harm. They sung all the while, and they clapped their wings as if they were pleased. Tutor. Do you call their cries singing 1 But why should they sing ? Rob. I suppose to call their father and mother. Tutor. No doubt. And when their cries should have brought them, what did the young ones mean to tell them, by clapping their wings ? Rob. I cannot say exactly ; perhaps to ask their help. Tutor. Just so. Therefore, if those birds could have expressed themselves in our speech, you would have heard them cry, " Ah, father and mother, save us I we have fallen into the hands of cruel children, who have plucked all our feathers. We are cold, and in pain. Come, warm us, and cure us, or we shall die." The little girls could hold out no longer ; they sobbed, and hid their faces in their handkerchiefs. " It was you, Robert, that led us to this cruelty : We hated the thought of it ourselves." Robert was then sensible of his fault. He had already been punished by the plucking of his hair; he was THE BLACKSMITH. 209 now much more so by the reproaches of his heart. The tutor thought there was no occasion to add to bis double punishment. It was not, indeed, from an instinct of cruelty, but purely from want of thought, that Robert had done this ill-natured ac- tion, and the pity which he felt from that moment for all creatures weaker than himself, opened his heart to the sentiments of kindness and humanity that have animated him all the rest of his life. THE BLACKSMITH : OR, TWO MADE HAPPY. A gentleman of fortune passing very late one night by a blacksmith's habitation, was surprised to see him busy at his forge, when every other person in the neighborhood was gone to rest. He had a curiosity to know what reason he could have for working thus at midnight, as if twelve hours labour in the day would not suffice to provide sub- sistence for his family. It is not for myself I work, replied the black- smith, but a neighbour of mine, who has un- fortunately been burnt out. I rise two hours be- fore the usual time of labour every morning, and continue working two hours after, every night, and sometimes longer, as is now the case, and this 1 do, that I may help him in his destitute condition. If I had any thing myself, I would divide it with 18* 210 THE BLACKSMITH. him ; but my all is nothing but this shop and some small stock of metal, which I cannot part with, because it is what I subsist on. By thus working every day four hours at least, it comes to two days weekly, and the earnings of these I can yield to him. Thank heaven, at this time of the year, there's work enough ! and while I have strength, it is my duty to assist the unhappy. This is very generous, my good friend, said the gentleman, as I suppose your neighbour will never be able to repay your kindness. Truly, sir, I fear he will not : but on his ac- count alone, not mine. However, I am sure he would rejoice to do as much for me, were I in his condition. At these words, the gentleman, not willing to in- trude upon the blacksmith longer, wished him a good night, and went away. On the morrow, having put into his purse a twenty-pound note, which he could well afford to part with from his savings, he went out, with in- tent to leave it with the blacksmith, whose benefi- cence he was resolved to recompense, and to put it in his power to buy metai at the cheapest market price, and thus undertake more business, and lay by a little from his labour, to support him in his old age. But what was his wonder, when the black- smith bade him take his money back again ! I can- not lay it out,, said he, because I have not earned it. I can well afford to pay for all the iron I make use of; and if ever I should be in want of more, OLD MAN BEGGING. 211 the merchant would supply me with it, on my note. It would be absolute ingratitude in me to take that profit from him he is used to make upon his goods, when he has never hesitated to supply me with as much as I could ask for, even when I had no other coat than that upon my back : but you may make a better use, sir, of this money, if you lend it, free of interest, to my unhappy neighbour. He might then retrieve his affairs, and I regain my usual portion of sleep. The gentleman, with all his rhetoric, not being able to prevail upon the blacksmith to accept his offer, followed the advice he gave him ; and was highly gratified in thinking he had made two wor- thy objects happy, where his generosity had wished to serve one alone. AN OLD MAN BEGGING. Mr. Annesley, to a servant. Why did you not make this good old man come in? Old M. Sir, I was asked ; but it was my own choice not to go in. Mr. A. And why 1 Old M. I blush to tell. I am doing a thing to which I am not accustomed : I come — to beg alms. Mr. A. You seem honest: why should you blush to be poor ? I have some friends myself who are so. Be you of the number. 212 OLD MAN BEGGING. Old M. Excuse me, sir : I have not time. Mr. A. What have you then to do 1 Old 31. The most important thing in this world : to die. I may tell you, since we are alone, I have not more than a week to live. Mr. A. How do you know that 1 Old M. How do I know it 1 I can scarce ex- plain that to you. But I know it, because I feel it : and that proof is sure. Happily nobody is a loser by my death. My daughter and my son-in- law have maintained me these two years. Mr. A. They have only done their duty. Old M. I was once just rich enough not to fear becoming chargeable to any body. I lent my money to a gentleman who called himself my friend. He lived merrily, until at last, he reduced me to poverty. 1 beg pardon, sir ! you are a gentleman too : but I speak the truth. Mr. A. I have as much pleasure in hearing it, as you have in speaking it, even were it against myself. Old 31. I should have been wiser, had I worked to the last ; but I grew pale and withered, and looked upon this change as a signal from Provi- dence to repose myself. I never disliked work, sir. When I was young, that supported my health : I .had no other physician. But what strengthens youth, exhausts old age. I was no longer able to work. When I had lost my fortune, I was desirous to work again. I desired it with all my heart. I felt for my arms, but could not find them. Excuse me for dropping a tear when I OLD MAN BEGGING. 213 think of it. No moment of my life was more heavy than when I felt myself so weak. 3Ir. A. You then had recourse to your chil- dren ? Old M. No, sir : they came to me of them- selves. I had only one daughter, but I found a son in her husband. They made me welcome to every thing they had, and took care of me. May God take them to his heavenly table, as they have taken me to their table in this world. Mr. A. What, are they become cooler to you now ? Old M. No, sir, but they have become poor themselves. The floods have swept away their house, and destroyed their stock : so they have borrowed money to maintain me at ease till my death ; the only thing that they ever did against my will. I would wish them to have the sum for my burial beforehand, that I may not be a charge to them when dead. It is for this reason that I come begging alms. I am an old man, but a young beggar. Mr. A. And where do you live 1 Old M. I beg pardon, sir ; but must not answer that, either for myself or for my children. Mr. A. Excuse my indiscreet curiosity. Heaven forbid that I should seek to gratify it ! Old M. Sir, I believe you. In eight days, look up to heaven ; you will then, I hope, see my dwell- ing ; it will not be concealed. Mr. A. (offering him silver) Take this, good old man, and may God keep you. 214 OLD MAN BEGGING. Old M. All that, sir 1 No, it was not my inten- tion. I want but a crown ; the rest is of no ser- vice to me. There is no want in heaven. Mr. A. You will give the remainder to your children. Old 31. God forbid ! My children can work ; they want nothing. Mr. A. Farewell, my good old man ! Go and repose yourself. Old M. (returning all the money except a crown) Take this again, sir. Mr. A. My friend you make me blush. Old M. I blush myself too. Even a crown is too much to take. Keep the rest for those who are to beg longer than I. Mr. A. I feel for your situation. Old M. I hope that heaven will also feel for it, and for your generosity, sir : and repay it to you. Mr. A. Will you take any food 1 Old M. I have already had some broth and some bread. Mr. A. At least take some provision v/ith you. Old M. No, sir ; I will not affront Providence so much. However, a glass of wine— just one — Mr. A. More, if you choose, my friend. Old M No, sir, only one ; I cannot bear more. You deserve that I should drink with you the last drop of wine that I shall taste upon earth, and in heaven I will tell from whom I received it. Boun- tiful God ! even a cup of water is not without its recompense from thee. (Mr. Annesley goes for wine. The old man lifts his hands to heaven.) My OLD MAN BEGGING. 215 last refreshment ! Heaven reward him one day who gives it to me. Mr. A. (returning with a bottle and two glasses) Take this glass my good old man. I have brought one for myself too. We will drink together. Old 31. (looking vp) God be thanked for all the blessings of this life ! May the Lord grant that your latter end be as happy as mine. Mr. A. My good old man, stop here to-night. Nobody shall see you, if you desire it. Old M. No, sir, I cannot ; my time is precious. Mr. A. Can I serve you in any thing further 1 Old M. I could wish it, sir, for your sake. But I want nothing more in this world ; nothing but a glove, (looking at his hand) I have lost mine. Mr. A. (taking a pair out of his pocket } and of- fering them) Here, my good friend. Old 31. Keep that ; I ask only one. Mr. A. And why not take the other 1 Old 31 This hand can bear the air. It is only the left that suffers, which has lost its warmth these two years, (puts the glove on his left hand, and gives the right to Mr. Annesley. I shall think of you, sir, Mr. A. And I too of you. My good friend, let me accompany you. I find it hard to keep the promise that 1 gave you. Old 31. Then so much the better for you, sir, if you keep it. (going.) 3Ir. A. Give me your hand once more, my good old man ! It is full of blessings. O.M. I hope to take you by the handinParadise. 216 THE LITTLE VIXEN. • Won't you do what I bid you, Mr. Obstinacy 1 —Come, come, sir, obey ; or else you'll be the worse for it, I can tell you.' — It was thus Camilla, the pert little vixen, was perpetually rating and com- manding her poor brother. Might her word be taken, he did every thing amiss : whatever she thought of doing was a master- piece of reason and reflection. The diversions he proposed were always dull and heavy in her judgment ; but forgetting this decision, the next day she would, most likely, choose them herself, as the liveliest and most entertaining. Her unhappy brother was obliged, on pain of being soundly lectured, to obey her whims and fancies. If he durst attempt to show her the unreasonableness with which she acted, she would that moment assume her airs ; his play-things were sure to go to ruin, and he be forced to mope, without amusement, in a corner of the room. Camilla's parents had a hundred times endeavour- ed to break her of this fault. Her mother, in particular, assured her that people never were beloved by others, if they were not complaisant and gentle; that a little girl, who would on all occasions set up her own will as a law for others, would be found the most intolerable creature in the universe. These prudent lessons made no impression on her heart. Her brother,sick of so much tyranny, began to lose something of his love and kindness for her; LITTLE VIXEN. 217 and Camilla was so far from shaking off her domineering disposition on that account, that she became a hundred times more arbitrary. As it chanced, a gentleman of understandings who was always remarkably sincere and open in his speech and conduct, dined one day, with Camilla's parents. He observed with what a haughty air she treated her little brother, nay, and every body in the room. At first, through mere politeness, he kept silence ; but, tired out with her impertinence, he addressed his discourse to Mrs. Osborn, as follows : ' Had I such a little girl as your's I know what I would do. 5 What, Sir ] said Mrs. Osborn. You shall hear, replied the gentleman. I have lately come from France, and as I liked to see the soldiers exercise, I amused myself by visiting the grand parade as frequently as I had leisure, where the soldiers are drawn up for drill. Among them I observed many with whiskers ; and one cannot but acknowledge they looked very fierce, as soldiers should do. Now, had I a child like your Camilla, I would instantly give her a soldier's uniform, and clap a pair of whiskers on her, and make her a Swiss corporal, so that she might completely satisfy her passion for commanding. Hearing this, Camilla stood confounded. She could not refrain from blushing, and even wept. From that time, she was sensible how much a tyrannizing disposition misbecame her, and resolved to shun the mortifying consequences it would sooner vol. 2. 19 218 LITTLE VIXEN. or later bring upon her. This resolve, assisted by the prudent counsels of her mother soon proved successful. Such a change was doubtless very prudent on her part. It were however to be wished, for the sake of all young ladies labouring under such a fault, that they would yield obedience to the kind instruction of their parents on this subject ; and not wait till a man of understanding tells them to their face, they would look better in a surly soldier's uniform, with whiskers, than drest in white cambric frocks, like all well-behaved little girls. CHARACTERS. Master of THE Academy. Tutor. Eugenius, . . the Master' Edward, Roderick, Theodore, C Scholars. 219 THE MILITARY ACADEMY, A DRAMA, IN TWO PARTS. FIRST PART, IN ONE ACT. Son. The Scene is in the Master's Study. SCENE I. The Master sits writing at his desk. Enter Tutor, {knocking at the door and half opening it.) Tutor. Will you permit me, sir, to interrupt you for a moment ? Mast. Come in, sir ; you know, whatever time 1 have belongs in justice to the duties of my place. Tutor. I wish to tell you of a circumstance not very common, that has happened in the school within these few days past. Mast. What is it 1 you alarm me ! Tutor. O, there is no occasion, sir, for that: what I have to say is rather affecting than alarming. What are your ideas of our last pupil, Edward Barton ? 220 MILITARY ACADEMY. Mast. For the ten days past, that he has been among us, you are sensible, I have not had an opportunity of even speaking to him. This however I can say in his behalf, that when his parents brought him, I remarked something in his counte- nance that pleased me much. Do any of the assist- ants take offence at his behaviour ? Tutor. The reverse. They give him all possible praise for his diligence ; and the quickness of his understanding also charms them. He has come among us with more knowledge than our own scho- lars of three years standing generally have ; in short, his school-fellows only and myself have reason to be discontented with him. Mast. How, sir! have you reason to be discon- tented with him ? I am sorry for it. Tutor. I am so indeed ; but much less on my own account than on his. I do not know what it means, but there must be some deep anxiety upon his mind. I have had recourse to many methods for discovering il, but have been always baffled. Mast. What is his behaviour? Tutor. In the first place, sir, he is very studious when in school, and nothing can divert him from the business of it : but in play-time he is silent and reserved among the scholars. I have given him two, who are allowed to be the spriteliest, as com- panions, and enjoined them to do every thing in their power to please him. He is sensible indeed to their endeavours, and acknowledges their kind- ness ; but when all is done, their fire is utterly in- capable of warming him, and he appears between MILITARY ACADEMY. 221 them just like so much ice. Ves, gentlemen ; no, gentlemen ; and such like monosyllables, are all his answers to their questions. Mast. He is sad, no doubt, at being separated from his parents? Tutor. Yes, it is very natural to think so ; yet his sadness has continued now ten days ; and can we think a child of only twelve years of age really susceptible of an impression for that length of time? Mast. Not often : but a child of so much eleva- tion as I thought his countenance indicated ! Tutor. Pardon, sir, ray contradicting you ; for if that age is very sensible, it is variable also, and since I have been a tutor here, I have noticed that all those who have been most afflicted at the thought of being separated from their parents, have, and very shortly, been induced by their companions to forget that separation. Now whatever Edward's notions may be on this head, what will you think when I have told you every thing ? Mast. You raise my curiosity. Proceed. I look to be informed of nothing on the subject of this Edward but what is great and singular ! Tutor. Would you believe it then, sir, he refuses every thing at meal time, but a little bread and water. It is not possible that any criminal should be condemned to coarser fare than what he voluntarily chooses ! Mast. You surprise me 1 He should have Jived at Sparta. j e Tutor. True, sir ; but with us, where singularity 19* 222 MILITARY ACADEMY. must not be suffered, and the little soldier is to be submissive to general subordination, there is room to fear some danger to the rest in his example. Twenty times would I have made him eat the food set before him ; but to all my instances, he has no other answer, than by turning towards me, in tears, — I almost weep myself to think of his af- fecting way. Mast. I am not unmoved. This disobedience is however blameable, and must not be unpunished. If he should persist therein, whatever causes it, he cannot possibly stay here. The intention of a military school is nothing less than that the scholars should be absolutely subject to the will of their instructcrs. Tutor. His dismission was indeed the circum- stance that I feared ; and therefore I put off speak- ing of his disobedience to you. I was every day in hope that his resolution would be conquered ; but it still continues. Mast. Is it possible, that at his tender age he should be so far master of himself, as to conceal his thoughts from one so exercised as you are in examining the dispositions of young people? Tutor. He is, what you called him just now, a true Spartan. His behaviour, though not tinctured with a grain of pride, is perfectly seducing. Such is, I may say, his manner of concealing what afflicts him, that one cannot but be really admonished at his silence, and yet not harsh enough to think him. obstinate. j- Mast. I will sound him then myself. The light MILITARY ACADEMY. 223 in which you place his portrait, adds considerably to the fair opinion that I formed on my first seeing him. If I can possibly prevail upon him to reveal the cause of his affliction, I persuade myself I shall be fully compensated for my trouble in obtaining it. Tutor. On my part, threats, entreaties, and persuasion, have been all employed without effect. Of course then, I must fear, your efforts will be no less unsuccessful, though I wish the contrary, and should be even happy if it proved so. Mast. In the first place, I mean to question those whom you said you had enjoined to keep him company. — Who are they ? Tutor. Theodore and Roderick : but your son Eugenius, sir, will give you better information. Mast. How ! has Edward interested Mm then ? Tutor. He thinks more, I verily believe, of Edward, than himself. 1 have observed him study- ing his actions silently. Has he never uttered a syllable to you about him? Mast. No : but I am as well pleased with his reserve as his attention. It proclaims a secret sympathy between him and the youth who has at- tracted him. You will oblige me by conducting them all three together here this instant. Tutor. I would rather send them ; as they will think my presence a restraint. They will be free, if I am absent. Mast. Right: so let them come alone ; and send Edward likewise, when you find that they have left me; or, on second thoughts, let him sit down 224 MILITARY ACADEMY. and wait my coming in the parlour. I will be with him shortly. [Exit Tutor.] SCENE II. Master, alone. This affair is all a mystery to me ! It is very natural that Edward should grieve at being separated from his parents. It is impossible that a boy of such promising qualities should not be extremely dear to every one who knows him, and have had continual marks of their indulgence ; but that nothing should have mitigated his affliction in the period of ten days, surrounded by so many of his age, and all desirous to amuse him ; and still more, that he should wish for nothing in the world but bread and water, is inexplicable ! What the children have to eat is very good, and therefore could not from its quality disgust him. Besides, he was never used at home to better fare. His father, at his bringing him to school, informed me he was far from rich, and had a numerous family to main- tain. The more I think of his behaviour, the more I think it wonderful ! (He walks about in thought.) Enter Eugenius, Roderick, Theodore. Eug. We come, papa, according to your order. The tutor told us that we were wanted ; Theodore, Roderick, and myself. Mast. Yes, Eugenius. I desire to have a little conversation with all of you. Rod. and Theo. It is doing us great honour. Eugen. Yes, and pleasure too ; at least I think so. MILITARY ACADEMY. 225 Mast, (to Theo. and Rod.) I am told, you are not quite contented with your new companion's conduct 1 Rod. To confess the truth, sir, he is indeed a little of the dullest ; this same master — What's his name Theo. He has spoken so little to us, we do not recollect what name he goes b}\ Eug. Edward Barton. For his name, I do not think much of that, in preference to any other : but his person, that is another thing, and I am hap- py to be acquainted with him. Rod. Edward? a good name enough, if Dummy were but added. Master Edward Dummy ! Eug. O, papa ! pray do not let Roderick ridicule poor Edward in this manner ! Mast. Master Roderick, who has authorized you to distribute epithets among your school-fellows thus? Rod. Because he does not speak three words in half an hour. Had he come to us from the moon, I should not wonder at it. He is so pale and mopish, he would not belie his country. Mast. Should his paleness then, or mopishness, as you are pleased to call it, make you hate him ? Rod. I am not his enemy ; far from it, sir ; but cannot be his friend, since he does nothing to divert us, after we have taken so much pains to make him speak. - Theo. The night, sir, is surely long enough for silence. The day was made for amusement and talking:. 226 MILITARY ACADEMY. Rod. Must I be dull, because he takes so much delight in dullness ? Eug. Poor young man! You should not call it dullness ; it is uneasiness. Rod. And did we not do everything in our pow- er to make him cheerful ? The more we play our tricks to make him smile, the more his sober sadness gains on him. We have done with him at last in our diversions ; but still find him when we come to dinner, where he makes such faces as are enough to make us hungry again. Mast. Has he any disgusting method, as some children have, of eating? Rod. He must needs be very awkward, were his manners sickening ; since he eats bread only, and drinks nothing but clear water. Theo. He affects a puny stomach, merely to show us what good things he had at home. Eug. You very much mistake him, if you fancy it is from pride. I watched him yesterday, when he had good roast beef put before him, and could see, though he concealed his face, that his eyes were full of tears. Mast. Is it so, Eugenius ? Rod. Yes, he very often whimpers ; and if once Don Quixote should return again to life, they would fight to know which of them should be called Knight of the Woful Visage. Mast. Are you so unfeeling as to make a jest of his affliction ? Rod. He is enough to make us also of Don Quixote's order. It is quite dismal to see such a MFLITARY ACADEMY. 227 countenance at dinner : it deprives us of our appetite. Commend me to Theodore : it would give you a good appetite to see him eat. 3Iast. You would be glad then, I suppose, to rid yourselves of Edward at table ? Rod. Yes, sir, with all our hearts, unless he would become a little merry. Eug. Well then, papa, let him sit at mine. I should be glad to have him by me, and will take care of him. Mast. You are not afraid then of his sadness, like these gentlemen ? Eug. I am sorrowful to see him sad ; but merely upon that account would show him all the friendship in my power. He would not be so un- happy, did he know that we pity him. Mast. Can neither of you guess the reason of his melancholy ? Theo. To confess the truth, I never thought of asking him. Rod. Why wish to know things that are sure to make one sad ? Mast. And, Eugenius, can you let me have no better information ? Eug. No, indeed, papa. I should have been rejoiced to know the secret, and to console him were it in my power. Three times have I begged him to reveal it ; but durst go no further, when I saw he was resolved to keep it. Doubtless he does not think me yet sufficiently his friend to trust me with it. I must therefore merit his reliance on me by my services. 228 MILITARY ACADEMY. Mast. But why, Eugenius, did you tell me nothing of all this before ? Eug. Because I thought that you would have forced him to conduct himself upon a footing with the rest, and have reprimanded him in case of his refusal. You have given me your permission to be always in the school ; and I shall never be so mean as to betray my companions by telling tales. But if ever they do any thing that merits commenda- tion, never fear but I will make you acquainted with it. Mast. I expected nothing less, my dear Eugen- ius, from your sensibility ; and am quite charmed to find myself not disappointed. (To Tkeo. and Rod.) I am sorry, gentlemen, that I cannot bestow the same eulogium on your conduct. I could cer- tainly have wished that you had evinced a little affection, or at least some slight consideration, for poor Edward in his sorrow. Return to your amusements ; it were a pity to disturb you in them. If your dspositions preserve you from some sort of sorrows, I am grievously afraid that it hinders you from relishiug those exquisite delights which a generous heart experiences. ( Tkeo. and Rod. leave the r oo7n.) Mast. You only are worthy to enjoy those ex- quisite delights. I rejoice to find you so compas- sionate towards others in their sorrow ! Eug. Who, papa, could possibly refrain from pitying the unhappy Edward 1 His dejection and his paleness, every thing tells of some uncommon cause of sorrow in his heart. So young ! and yet MILITARY ACADEMY. 229 so miserable ! I avoided him at 6rst, just like the rest, and thought him morose and savage. But when I afterwards noticed his consistency and per- severance, his condescension and politeness, I was gradually attracted to him, and in the end gave him all my friendship. I think, 1 should conceive a great deal better of myself, could I but merit his. Mast. You know, however, that his behaviour has incurred the crime of disobedience 1 Eug. Yes, at table. — I cannot possibly conceive the meaning of it : but, perhaps he fancies that every soldier should live coarsely. After all, his singular abstemiousness is better than the glnttony of others ; and the example that he holds out can injure no one. Pray then let him still continue what is so much to his liking, being, as he is, so punctual to duty, and so diligent in school. He is first of his class in mathematics, geography, and drawing. Mast. But a conduct which so openly infringes upon rule and order, cannot be excused in any circumstance, nor from any motive. — I perceive, I shall be forced to send him home. Eug. You do not mean so, papa 1 What ! for so slight a fault, and one that perhaps merits praise rather than censure, will you send him off as if his principles were vicious ? Let me then go with him. Mast. How, Eugenius ! are you so attached to him 1 For what reason 1 Eug. I cannot tell you ; yet, if you will but have a little conversation with him, you will perhaps discern the reason. How rejoiced I should be, vol. 2. 20 ^0 MILITARY ACADEMY. were he but my brother ! I should only have this to fear, that you would love him more than you do me at present. Mast. I have sent for him, and mean to have some conversation with him here. I shall then discern if he is worthy of inspiring such strong attach- ment, and sincerely hope that you have not mis- judged in the affair. If so, I promise — but of that another time. I hear a knock. Step into the adjoining room, that if I call, you may come to us. Eug. Yes, papa. (Eugenius goes out. The Master rises to open the door.) SCENE IV. Edioard entering, bows to the Master, who sits down. Edward stands before him. Mast. Well, master Barton, can you conjecture why I sent for you ? Ed. Yes, sir, I am afraid I guess the reason. Mast. It is true, then, that you disdain the company and conversation of your school-mates, and disturb their pastimes by such whims as were never heard of in persons of your age? Ed. I dare answer, sir, with all the deference and respect that I owe you, it was never my inten- tion to do either. Mast. You have been told, for instance, what rules the scholars are to observe, when at meals, and yet you choose to live on bread and water. Ed. True, sir ; I want nothing more. Mast. The Tutor has endeavoured to convince you how improper such a singularity must be con- MILITARY ACADEMY. 231 sidered, and yet finds you fixed to persevere therein. Ed. Yes, sir. Mast. And think you such a preference com- mendable 1 Ed. Not, sir, in your thoughts, I own. Mast. It is then a matter of indifference to you, whether you do right or wrong in my opinion ? Ed. No, sir; for in that case, I should heed as little your reproaches as your praise. I know what obligation I am under to obey you, and have often blamed myself for not complying with your plea- sure, in the regulations of this place ; but still have found it utterly impossible to do so. Heaven is witness for me, notwithstanding, that I am not quite so guilty as appearances proclaim. Mast. I will readily allow you are yourself per- suaded of your innocence, and therefore think, that you have such reasons as will justify your disobedi- ence. — Have you anything to say t Ed. Nothing, sir. Mast. But surely you must know, that disobedi- ence is a bad example, even though you think that your motives will excuse you. Ed. I have had the honour to acknowledge that myself. Mast. That hitherto it has been tolerated from the hope of your amendment. Ed. Always. Mast. And, in short, that by your obstinacy you have merited already the severest punishment. Ed. I am ready to endure it. 232 MILITARY ACADEMY. Mast. But not ready to amend your conduct ? Ed. It is impossible. Mast. I see then, and T am sorry for it, that it will be impossible for me to keep you here a moment longer ; as it would be contrary to all good order, to suffer such an instance of rebellion in an institution of this kind. Ed. What will become of me ! wretched as I am ! O sir ! must I then be at last a burthen to my parents, and an object of contempt to others ? Have I merited this sentence ? Mast. Have you merited this sentence! When you will not place the least degree of confidence in me, do you ask that question ? Would you hide a secret from your father 1 I am here to be a father to you, and you refuse to show yourself a son to me ! Ed. If such, sir, be your condescension, I will give you the possession of my heart. I could stand patiently and hear your threats, but cannot be unaf- fected by your friendship : yes, sir, I will lay my whole heart before you, and make known the affliction that opresses me. Mast. You are willing then to think yourself my son ! Ed. If you are then willing to become my second father. Mast. My dear Edward ! call me for the future only by that name. Ed. Well then, my father, I have one at home so poor, that he subsists on scarcely better food than bread and water. My poor mother likewise is as MILITARY ACADEMY. 233 reduced as he is ; I have two sisters, and as many brothers, who enjoy no better fare. And can I then indulge my appetite, and live on your good things, while they have, as it were, nothing more than bread to moisten with their tears? No, no ; much rather would I die of hunger. I am Edward Barton, and there never was a father of that name who had a son unworthy of him. Mast. Has no one solicited government in favour of so old a soldier 1 Edw. No one, sir ; but he is destitute of all things, after having served his country two-and- twenty years with honour, and consumed the little he had left in soliciting a pension. On the eve of my departure for this place, I heard him read the story of Count Ugolino, who was shut up in a cas- tle with his family, to die of hunger. Since that moment, this sad story has been always in my mind. I think that I incessantly hear the parish bells tolling for the burial of my father, mother, brothers, and poor sisters. Can I then make mer- ry, when my heart is overwhelmed with grief? and eat such food as my afflicted parents cannot pur- chase ? If I could, I should be no longer Edward Barton. While my father is unhappy, in whatever corner of the earth I may be, nothing shall prevent me from enduring his affliction. If the king — 31ast. The king certainly knows not your fath- er's situation : if he did, he would have softened it. I will use my interest to convey the knowledge of it to him ; and do you relv upon his justice. My 20* 234 MILITARY ACADEMY. dear Edward, why not tell me this before ? You at least might have spared your family ten days dis- tress. Edw. You think then, sir, that I shall become so happy as to save him at my years ? Mast. I hope so ; and at least am certain that your behaviour has relieved him. Generous boy ! I am proud of such a son. Edw. You are the father too of all my family, if through your friendship they may be assisted ; but alas, sir ! we have been so long unhappy, it is not to be hoped — Master. Hoped ! Edward 1 Should you doubt of what 1 tell }'ou, it would be an insult to me. I have told you that I was certain your behaviour had relieved your parents, since relief depends upon myself alone : and therefore, (going to his bureau, and giving him a paper ,) till I have tried the ef- fect of my interest, which is not inconsiderable, take this : it is a twenty pound bank note, and what your second father gives you, as the first fruit of his love. Edw. Give me ! what need can I have for it ? Send your generous present to my father ! there it will be useful. Mast. He shall know that he is indebted for it to your filial piety, and now, my dear Edward, you will no longer live on bread and water ! Edw. Not till my poor father is reduced again to do so. Mast. And in future, you will be joyous with your comrades ? MILITARY ACADEMY. 235 Edzc. While my father is joyous with his wife and children. Mast. Well then, run and write your father an account of this transaction : I will instantly set off for London. I shall see a nobleman of considera- ble interest this very morning. Edw. How shall I collect my spirits, to return you thanks in such a manner as I ought, sir "? Mast, (smiling.) Sir ! — It seems then you forget already that you are my son 1 Edw. O, my dear, dear father ! pardon me, if being, as I am, beside myself — Mast. Go, go, my child, and leave me here a little. I have no less occasion to compose myself than you have. Edw. I will come back very shortly, with my letter. You must see it. so do not go, dear father, till I have once again spoken to you ! 3Iast. No, my son ; I will not deny myself that pleasure. Run and write your letter : I will wait for you. SCENE V. Master, alone. Fortunate occurrence ! O happy day ! What a number of affecting objects present themselves be- fore me ! A brave soldier, for whose services I am about to procure a recompense ! and his son, whom I may form into a man, and so contribute to the glory of my country ! My Eugenius, who appears so sensible of the virtuous impression made on his heart, and so worthy of the friend he has selected ! My sovereign, to whose notice I shall introduce a 236 MILITARY ACADEMY. little hero, such as his munificence may cherish ! and a suffering wife and children, such as his com- passion may deliver from affliction. Enter Tutor. Mast. You are come, sir, quite apropos, to share my transports. Tutor. What has caused them, my good sir 1 You seem no less agitated than young Edward, who ran by me wild with pleasure ; for he did not see me, did not seem as if he trod upon the ground. His eyes beamed with rapture, though the tears that he had been shedding were not yet dry. — I called to him, but he could not hear me. Mast. It would have charmed you to witness what passed between us. It was a moment such as does not twice occur in any one man's life. Tutor. Your hope then is not disappointed. You have wrought upon him to reveal the cause of his affliction. Mast. But what difficulty had I to obtain my wish ! what pain it gave me to upbraid him ! and how nobly he withstood me ! How much honour even does his disobedience reflect on him ! Tutor. I foresaw as much in general, though I could not clear up the particulars, to reason on them. Mast. Who could possibly have guessed at the excess of his affection ! he was prompted to deny his appetite at table, that he might not fare in the least degree better than his parents. At so great a distance from them, he supported such privations, though he knew, by so doing, he could not succour MILITARY ACADEMY. 237 them. What think you of so rare a youth 1 What think you of a father, surrounded by misfortunes, who has been able thus to form his son to virtue 1 What exalted pleasure for a monarch to reward such virtue ! I am proud, my friend, that I have it in my power to convey to his royal ear, intelligence of this poor youth, and his father's sufferings and deserts. There is but one thing else would yield me greater satisfaction. I should like to be in such a situation, as to give him an account of all his mer- itorious subjects. I would so exalt his throne, that he should then be able to look down on every vir- tuous man in his dominions, while they, looking up, should see him in the act of applauding and encour- aging their virtue. Thus, without the wretched breath of adulation, might a king be really called a god among his subjects. Tutor. Our king is worthy of your solicitude, to interest him in behalf of Edward and his parents. Mast. That is what I told him I would do ; and his gratitude was very great. But I hear some one coming 1 — I believe it is he. Step into this apart- ment ; you will find Eugenius there ; I shall soon require your presence again, if it be Edward. (Tutor ivithdraws. SCENE IV. Master, alone. Yes, it is he ; and how expressive even at this distance is his whole countenance ! Enter Edward. Edio. My dear father, here is my letter. Mast. I observe, it is not sealed, and therefore you would have me read it ? 238 MILITARY ACADEMY. Edw. Would 1 It is every line about you. Mast, reading. " Father, mother, brothers and sisters ! Come all of you together, while this letter is reading. O, that I were present, and could read it to you myself: but I am present, and observe you. Weep no longer, as I trust you are no lon- ger to subsist on bread and tears. There are on earth as in heaven, generous bosoms, of whom the master of our academy is one, as I have found. He is a father to me, let me call him so ; or rather the protecting angel of our family. Would you be- lieve it ! he has sent you this from himself, and will solicit you a pension, which he says he doubts not of obtaining for you ! Fall on your knees and bless God as I do, for sending us such a benefac- tor." — The master stops, and seeing Edward on his knees, raises him, and takes him by the hand, — Do not kneel to me. Edw. I offer to you my life. Dispose of it as you please. Mast. Keep it for the accomplishment of wor- thy and illustrious actions. Mine is posting fast to decay; but by your conduct, you may lengthen it. Edw. eagerly. I, father ! Shall I ever be so happy 1 — Speak, sir, and inform me by what means I may experience so much heartfelt satisfaction. Mast. By your friendship for my son. (He opens the adjoining door.) Eugenius, come and embrace your brother. Enter Eugenius and Tutor. Edward and Eu- genius ?'ush into each other's arms. MILITARY ACADEMY. 239 Mast. Edward, he is worthy of your friendship. His affection for you went before his father's. Edw. I could clearly see indeed, that my suffer- ings moved him. Eug. You shall never suffer for the future, but mvself shall be a sharer with you. Shall I not, dear Edward 1 Edic. (taking Eugenius by the hand, and pre- senting it with his own to the Master) Well then, Eugenius, let us thus connect ourselves as friends for ever, in the hands of our good father. Mast. Yes, dear children, I approve your wishes, and bestow my blessing on them. Let those happy days return, as far as your example can have influ- ence, when the field for combat was a theatre for friendship. When warriors united the most ami- able private qualities to the most undaunted cour- age. Let Sidney and Wolfe be your model; serve your country with fidelity like theirs. Live, as they did, admired by all mankind, and, if necessary, die as they did, regretted, in the service of your country. MILITARY ACADEMY. FIRST SCENE AT CAPTAIN BARTON'S. 241 THE MILITARY ACADEMY. SECOND PART. A DRAMA, IN ONE ACT. characters. Captain Barton. Mrs. Barton. Ed\va.rd, ~] Paul, Theodore, } their Children. LUCRETIA, Isabel, J Master of the Academy. Eugenics, his Son. Pipes, an old Sergeant. Scene, an apartment in Capt. Barton's House. SCENE I. Paul, Theodore, Liicretia, Isabel, Pipes. Lucretia and Isabel are both employed ; the one in reading, and the other at her tambour frame. The- odore has a pencil, and is drawing. Paid shoul- ders Pipes' 1 crutch. Pipes to Paid. Make ready ! — Present ! — Fire ! — Come ; very well. Another lesson will complete you. Give me back my crutch. ( To Luree. and Isabel) You will not let me teach you then ? Lucrttia. Teaches ? Isa. Young ladies ? vol. 2. 21 242 MILITARY ACADEMY. Pipes. And why not ? A soldier's children should all learn their exercise. One never looks so well as with a musket. Lucretia. Particularly when a crutch must repre- sent it. Pipes. True ; but I mistake it frequently my- self, miss Lucretia ; and incline to put it over rather than under my shoulder. It is, in truth, a sort of instinct in me, my first motion. Ah, poor Pipes ! to have a crutch, instead of a gun in his hand. For ten years I have carried it about, and not used to it yet. Paul. But recollect, Pipes ! at your age you would certainly have been otherwise dismissed. Pipes. Dismissed ! what mean you, master Paul 1 Had it not been for my wooden leg, I should have died a soldier. Confounded leg ! a hundred times a day I find myself disposed to make a bonfire of it I Instead of a fine white spatterdash, when I see noth- ing but a wooden stump, I hardly know myself, and fall into a passion. Theo. Would you wish to have it otherwise ? Why, man, it is nothing but the fortune of war. Isa. And is it thus that Theodore comforts you ! Do not be afflicted, Pipes. Pipes. You are in the right, my dear miss Isa- bel ; for after all, it bears me witness I have seen hot service. If my leg had not been in the fire, it would hardly be so dry now. In fact, I know some legs that are in their place^ because they carried their owners out of danger ; and I would not ex- change my wooden leg for twenty such. Young MILITARY ACADEMY. 243 gentlemen, it is happy for you both that you are to serve ; but take my counsel, and lose arms as well as legs, rather than get the least spot in your hon- our for want of courage. Theo. Yes, I promise you I will. Paul. And so will I. When I am fighting, I will always think of you. Pipes. Do, master Paul ; and your brave father too. Barton and Pipes shall be your charging words. With these two names between your lips, you will always be the first to do your duty. SCENE II. Theodore, Paul, Tjucretia, Isabel, Pipes, Captain Barton, (who has entered towards the close of the preceding scene). The Children, (seeing Capt. Barton, run together towards him, and cry all at once.) Here is papa ! Capt. Barton, (embracing them.) Good-morning to you all, my dears ! Good-morning to you, Pipes, (holding out his hand) and thauk you heartily for your instructions to my children. Pipes. Ah, sir, my instructions I bestow upon them with a great deal of pleasure, when you are not by ; but seeing you, 1 am almost sorry. Capt. Barton. And why so, my friend ? Pipes. Because I see, by your example, what the fruits of it are. If I am wise then, shall I study to make soldiers of your children, that they may be dismissed, after they have worn themselves out in the service ? Capt. Barton. But why call my fortune back 244 MILITARY ACADEMY. to remembrance, since I myself have laboured to forget it, and complain no longer of what you sup- pose hard usage. Pipes. Please your honor then, I will complain for both. Bombs and cannons ! is it not a shame ! What, turn me off for having one leg less? A sol- dier is always fit for duty, if his heart and his head are left him. If they think that we cripples make no show at a review, why let them keep us for a bat- tle : we will be put into a corps apart ; we won't even condescend to mix with others. No affront to your Grenadiers or your Light Infantry, we will be first of all, 1 warrant you, sir. Capt. Barton. Good old friend ! how much I am pleased to see this fire of youth and courage burning still within you. Pipes. I am quite vexed to see you smile, when you should storm much more than I do. 1 am a vulgar dog ; I am nobody ; and they may think that they ought to overlook me, having lost a limb: but you, a Captain, who have had so many wounds in twenty battles, and have such a family of children, to put such as you on what they call half-pay, and send him off without a pension! who can think of such treatment and be patient ! Capt. Barton. I find fault with no one. There are others more unhappy. (He turns to Paul and the rest who seem uneasy.) My good children you have done enough this morning to require some re- creation. Go, then ; but first visit your mamma: she is in her chamber. MILITARY ACADEMY. 245 Children. Yes, papa ; aud afterwards we will come back to study. SCENE III. Captain Barton, Pipes. Capt. Barton. My old friend, I am pleased with your affection ; but still I do not like that you should speak before my children as you do. I would not have them think themselves authorized to hate their fellow-creatures ; such a notion would discourage them in their pursuit of fortune ; and besides, they are destined to acquire themselves a reputation by their actions. It is unlikely that they would take pains for such a purpose, if they are told that men merit only their contempt 1 ? Pipes, {ironically.} Yes, yes ; your honor has great reason to defend mankind, they have respect- ed you so much ! Capt. Barton. There are more good men than wicked men about us ; and if there were only you, that thought would reconcile me to humanity. Pipes , {boioing.) O, Captain ! Capt. Barton. You have been so willing to at- tach yourself to my ill fortune ! and besides, you know, I am indebted to your friendship for the pre- servation of my life. Pipes. And if I saved it, I was under obligation to do nothing less, my worthy Captain, for your having sent me to the drill so often. Had it not been for your honor, Pipes would have turned out a vagabond and drunkard, like many others. It was 21* 946 MILITARY ACADEMY. your attention that made a man of me ; I should have been my whole life long a common soldier, had you let me grovel on. From rank to rank I have been promoted, and at last made serjeant ; and that is something, every one will grant me ! and no inconsiderable lift towards colonel. But a plague upon the musquet-ball, say I, that to my heart of oak has added this pine leg ! Capt. Barton. Come, Pipes, you have now re- pose, and that is as good as honor always. Pipes. I shall never have repose as long as I observe your honor ill at ease. The produce of your farm, this year, has failed, and I am now be- come a burthen to you. Capt. Barton. Can a child become a burthen to his father ? And pray, are you not as one among ray children ? Thanks to heaven! I shall be always sure of a subsistence. If our ration is a little less, there shall still be an equal share for you, Pipes. Pipes. And I take it ; but have hopes that I shall be able to acknowledge all your favors handsomely, as I have met with an employment. Capt. Barton. So much the better, Pipes ! I am charmed to hear that you have, for your sake. What is it 1 Pipes. Could you have supposed what I am now going to tell you 1 But it is true, sir, that a hosier offered me, the other day, employment in his shop, if I would knit him stockings. Capt. B. Very good : at least, you will not be idle by accepting it. Pipes. How, sir, very good ? I could have knock- MILITARY ACADEMY. 247 ed the fellow down, but that my crutch had tum- bled on the ground. Capt. B. I hope this knocking people down is not the employment that you mean 1 Pipes. It would be better far than what the ho- sier meant to give me. A fine sight, indeed ! Pipes knitting like a woman ! 1 would see his stock of knitting-needles at Jericho first ; and yet, this cir- cumstance made me think a little. I can work, it is true, said I to myself; so I went to Mr. Wilkin- son's, and told him that I would furbish up his old sword blades, if he would but employ an ancient soldier. He consented : so that I shall have the handling still of warlike weapons, and beside, re- ceive a shilling a day. Let me beg, captain, that you will accept it for my maintenance. Capt. B. No, no, my friend : keep what you earn yourself. You have other calls for money : and-for my part, I want nothing. Pipes. Nothing ! when you almost live on bread and water ? Nay, now, Captain, you are far too proud, believe me ; and refuse my shilling, for no other reason than because I am not your equal ! A vengeance on this wooden leg of mine, that has pre- vented me from being a colonel, for what any one can tell ! Capt. B. You do not know me yet, I can see, my friend ; for were I to accept a gift from any one, it should be only from the king and you. Pipes. What, both of us together thus ! and in a breath ? Capt. B. My king is but my master. In my 248 MILITARY ACADEMY. friend, I see a sort of god : and you, Pipes, are the only friend that is left me. Pipes. Well then, my friend — Captain, take my shilling. Capt. B. I have already told you, I could put it to no use, and did not misinform you ; but, on sec- ond thoughts, a time may come, when I shall need a great deal more. Lay by as much as you can save out of this daily shilling, that whenever I may want your savings, you may then assist me. Pipes. O, I understand you. Jt is for my sake, rather than your own, that you counsel me to act thus savingly. No matter : I will pursue your coun- sel literally ; and my money shall be sacred. It shall go in nothing but tobacco ; and I will take care how I get into a passion, that 1 may not break my pipe. Capt. B. 1 praise your resolution ; but at pres- ent go and smoke one to the honour of our friend- ship. Mrs. Barton, I observe, is coming ; and I wish to have a little conversation with her by myself. Pipes. Yes, yes, I will leave you ; and besides, a little air will be of service to me. Your discourse has had an effect upon my spirits. I shall quickly be composed again. SCENE IV. Capt. Barton, Mrs. Barton. Mrs. B. What circumstance has happened, my dear 1 You sent the children to me ; and I thought I saw upon their countenances something not quite natural to them. 1 conceived it not so proper to MILITARY ACADEMY. 249 ask them the reason, but came to know the whole from you. Hide nothing from me, 1 beseech you ! Has any new misfortune happened, that is in my power to lighten by giving you comfort'? Capt. B. No, my dear ! With your assistance, I can bear all sorrows ; and if unforeseen affliction were to come upon me. would not hesitate to tell you of it, after the experience I have had of your philosophy and fortitude. But be of comfort ! noth- ing fatal or unfortunate has happened ! Mrs. B. What then could occasion the uneasi- ness that I noticed in their countenances ? Capt. B. Our old soldier caused it, whose ex- cess of zeal and friendship for me carried him so far, while they were present, as to vent complaints con- cerning the injustice of my lot. I observed that they were affected by the strength of his expres- sions ; and because I apprehended such invectives might inspire discouragement, I directed them to go to your chamber ; so that Pipes' murmurs might not make a bad impression on them, being followed in- stantly by your caresses. Mrs. B. Poor things ! they know not what a sad coudition they are to experience upon earth ! Capt. B. I hope their fortune will not be so la- mentable, as your affection seems to fear ; for hith- erto, at least, they have no great occasion to com- plain of their condition. Mrs. B. What, ray dear, when they are utterly deprived of all the advantages that they might rea- sonably have expected in life? Capt. B. They never knew them ; therefore 250 MILITARY ACADEMY. never can the want of those advantages afflict them. Possibly they might have only served to soften and unnerve their strength, as well as understanding. The hard life to which they have been used, has given them a robust and sound constitution, and an energy of mind. Instead of pursuing frivolous or puerile amusements, they know already how to con- vert their labor into pleasure. If God's providence should grant them any of the gifts of fortune, they will therefore yield the more enjoyment ; but sup- posing they are all decreed to pass their days in the privation of this life's conveniences, they will have learnt to undergo their fortune without murmurs or complainings. Shall I tell you what I think, my dear 1 I do not look on the condition to which we are destined, as so very lamentable ; for, surrounded by the pleasures of the world, should we have known those tender sentiments for each other, which we certainly have learnt, in what men call the school of adversity 1 Hurried on by pleasure, we should each have gone in quest of friends who would have left us in adversity, and perhaps aggravated our afflictions by their treachery ; while now, afflicted as we are, we are convinced that we have it in our power to make each other happy, by our mutual friendship. There are many miserable individuals in the world, who are even destitute of bread to eat ; we have never experienced such want, nor stooped to procure our bread by dishonour. If, as is the case, we are necessitated to put up with what may certainly be called a very common diet, that our children may not want education — we enjoy, on the MILITARY ACADEMY. 251 other hand, their gratitude, and their improvement in knowledge. We are conscious that we have neg- lected not one tittle of our duty to them. Every generous notion that they possess is our work : it is our lessons and example that have enabled them to possess it. They will do no laudable or virtuous action in their future lives but what an honest pride will permit us to attribute to ourselves ; and grant- ing that any among them should be raised to dis- tinction by his merit, I am confident he will not leave us in old age, when we may more particularly waut his succor. Mrs. JB. O my dear husband ! how does your fortitude sustain me ! Capt. B. On the contrary, dear wife, it is your constancy that upholds my fortitude. Without sup- port, I should have long since sunk beneath the bur- then of my sorrows ; but seeing you renounce the delicacy, and subdue the weakness inseparable from your sex, that you might properly discharge your duty, how could I seem less firm than you were, and not blush at being called a man ? Mrs. B. Ascribe not so much honour to me for the sacrifices that I have made. They must be nothing to a mother's sensibility : and I would make still greater, if, on such conditions, I might have the prospect of happier fortune to befal my children. But, my dear, have you renounced all thoughts of soliciting your friends? Are you without hope, that such solicitations would be attended with success? Capt. B. You know the issue of my former ap- plications. If then I experienced nothing but deni- 252 MILITARY ACADEMY. als, when more recent services spoke for me, shall I hope a better fortune now ? and if the hollow hearted friend, who then deceived me, would not second my just expectations with his influence, who will now espouse the application of a man so many years forgotten ? My very silence since that period would be urged as a pretext for new refusals, and fresh disappointments but re-open wounds as yet not quite healed up. I have thrown away almost my whole dependence to procure me nothing but vexa- tion ; I shall therefore hardly be so rash, as to con- sume what is left me in such steps as, if they failed, would end in desperation. Mrs. B. Desperation ? Capt. B. Yes ; though they should cost me no- thing but the time that I must purloin from the in- struction of my children. If I durst have any hopes, and should again be disappointed, I am convinced, I could not possibly survive ; or should at least drag on the wretched remnant of my life in sorrow. No, dear wife ; let us not imitate those parents, who im- agine that they have done enough, in yielding some small portion of their superfluities, and that too with reluctance, that their children may obtain an educa- tion. Let us prove our love, by dedicating even our necessaries to their wants. Let us consent to live on bread, if such a sacrifice be needful, that in future they may show themselves to have been edu- cated in a manner worthy of us. Mrs. B. And I trust in the Almighty that they will do so : for surely we have not given life to mon- sters. MILITARY ACADEMY. 253 Capt. B. I have already such a hope concern- ing Edward. Child though he be, yet I have fre- quently remarked his depth of understanding, open- ness of temper, and ingenuous way of thinking ; qualities that I would desire to find in my friend, He will have two motives for seeking advancement, and those such as operate very forcibly on noble minds : he will have obstacles to overcome, and thereby so much the more glory to acquire. With what ardor have I observed him, particularly these ' two years past, resign himself entirely to study, and digest the greatest difficulties ! With what enthusi- asm has he been seized at the recital of some glori- ous action I I have often noted him retiring in thought, that he might narrowly examine the trans- actions both of Rome and Sparta, and observe the infancy of the mosi celebrated heroes. In a search like this, no wonder that the achievements of a Cyrus should inflame his nature to resemble him in temperance, fortitude and reputation. On the whole, I verily believe that nothing but some happy cir- cumstance is wanting, to proclaim him already, what he may one day show himself to be. Mrs. B. But, my dear, in such a situation as he is doomed to be at present, when can we hope that this happy circumstance will happen 1 Capt. B. To the weak man it can hardly ever happen ; a great heart will frequently create it. Yes, my Edward, there is hardly any thing that I have not room to hope from you ! vol. 2. 22 254 MILITARY ACADEMY. Enter Paid, Theodore, Lucretia, Isabel. Paul. You were speaking, I believe, papa, about my brother? Capt. Barton. True ; I was so, Paul. You are sensible, there is scarcely a moment of the day, in which I do not think of one or other of you. Isabel. Have you had any letter from him 1 Capt. B. Not to-day ! but then I know him, my child, so well, that I can tell, at any time, what he is about, without his writing to me. For example : I am sure that, at this very moment, he is thinking to afford me a proof of his affection, by a diligent attention to his studies. Paul, I am sure his good behaviour will be serviceable to your introduction, when the time comes that you must go to school, and have the same instructer. Paul. And for my part, as I am to go before Theodore, I will do every thing in my power to in- troduce him likewise, with the same degree of credit. Capt. B. T was sure that you would have made me such a promise. In your present situation, my , dear little fellows, destitute as you are sensible you j are, of wealth and patrons, your advancement in the world must be at first entirely owing to yourselves, since it depends upon the efforts you will make, at all times to excel each other. And what is more, the elevation of all three may be the happy conse- quence of good behaviour in one only : as the bad behaviour of one only may involve the other two, and be a bar to their good fortune. So that you may see, on one hand, what disgrace, and, on the MILITARY ACADEMY. 255 other hand, what honour, may be expected from the turn of your conduct. Paul. But, papa, you know, we heard Pipes say just now that you had not been recompensed for your services? Thodore. I am sure, however, you were never found deficient in your duty. Isabel. So pray tell us why the king has for so many years forgot you? Capt. B. Possibly, because there have been so many to reward, much worthier than myself ; or else, because the expenses of his government pre- vent his generosity : besides, I have neglected, for along, long time indeed, all applications to his justice, that the time which they would have taken up might be better employed upon your education. But when once you enter into public life, you will be able, by a proper conduct on your part, to turn his royal eye upon your father ; and if so, I shall enjoy his benefits twice over. Paul. O, if it depends upon my conduct Theodore. What ! and shall we then be able to repay you every thing that you have done on our account ? ■ Capt B. Yes ; and to the full. I will not raise the value of those sacrifices which your good mother and myself have made to your instruction. We have constantly submitted to them unrepi- ningly, and even with the greatest pleasure. Provi- dence already recompenses us, by planting in your hearts the promise of those virtues that will gratify our hopes. But if you were in future to deceive 256 MILITARY ACADEMY. us, and conduct yourselves in such a manner that the fruit of all our sacrifices would be lost, what then would be the dismal consequences ? your poor sisters brought to poverty ! your mother in despair ! and my grey hairs descending to the grave with sorrow ! Paul. No ; it never shall be so. Theodore. And therefore, if you love us, be assured, we shall do every thing in our power to make you happy. Capt. B. My existence totally depends upon you ; and through you I am to live or die. Paul. In that case, you will live while we have one single drop of blood within us. Theodore. We will rather die a thousand times, than willingly dishonor you. Capt B. Well, I receive, my children, this as- surance in the sight of Heaven, and can have nothing else to wish. I shall be indebted to you for the greatest happiness that is to be enjoyed in this world. Luc. O papa, how badly off are we, who can- not by our conduct make you happy ! Capt. B. You may make my happiness still greater, by so acting in this retirement, as to occa- sion me the permanent and tranquil joys peculiar to a father. What will there be wanting to my happiness, if, while your brothers honour my old age by their laudable actions, you, together with your sister, comfort it with your attention, and adorn it with your virtues ? What additional fe- licity can I entreat of Heaven, if I but live to see MILITARY ACADEMY. 257 you merit the distinction gained you by the fame and glory of your brothers 1 (He takes Mrs. Bar- ton by the hand.) Dear wife ! can you imagine what would be our transports at so fair a prospect, when both joy and honour, caused by each of those to whom we have given birth, should fill up our dwelling ! Paul. You say nothing, dear mamma ! Luc. You weep ! Mrs. B. It is for joy, my children. I was in- dulging myself in the happiness which your father has just described. Paul. O, we promise that we will do our ut- most not to disappoint you. And as for Edward, I will answer for him just as he himself would, were he present. (31rs. B. affectionately embraces them.) Enter Pipes, rushing all at once into the room. Pipes. O my worthy captain ! Capt. B. What is the matter ! Pipes. I have seen him — he is returned ! Capt. B. Returned ? — who, Pipes ? Pipes. He, sir ; my best friend ! the only friend I have ! except indeed, your honour ! Capt. B. Edward, do you mean 1 Mrs. B. My son 1 Paul. My brother 1 Luc. and Isa. Where — where is he ? Theo. O my dearest Pipes, is Edward coming ? Pipes. Do you ask me, when I have told you ? Why, he almost beat me backward, throwing, as he did, his arms about my neck. The excellent 22* 258 MILITARY ACADEMY. young man ! still, still the same ! He is coming after me. I hear him on the stairs. Mrs. B. But why does he return 1 O, heaven ! he has been only ten days absent ! Is it possible, that— Capt. B. (interrupting her.) What ! suspect my Edward ! This is the first reason for displeas- ure that you have ever caused me ! Mrs. B. Pardon my uneasiness ! And yet, what are we to suppose on this occasion 1 Capt. B. Any thing, or every thing, much rather than imagine that he has done amiss. Enter Edward. Edward, (springing to his father.) My dear, dear father 1 how rejoiced I am to see you ! Capt. B. My dear Edward ! is it you ? — What can be the reason of your coming back so unex- pectedly 1 Edward. It is mentioned in this paper. Read, read, read ! (He gives a paper, and then runs up to his mother.) My dear mamma ! you will be very happy ! (He returns to his brothers and sisters and salutes them.) And how are you,dearest Isabel, and Lucretia ? — and you, Paul and Theodore ? You were far from expecting to see me so soon, were you not ? However, you will be glad of my return, when you know the reason of it. Isa. O, we are glad already, without know- ing it. Edw. I had drawn up a letter yesterday for my papa, with good news in it, and the promise of much better : but my master being then on the MILITARY ACADEMY. 259 point of setting out for London, on the subject of that better news, thought proper to detain the let- ter : and succeeding in the object of his journey, it was instantly determined that I should come myself this morning ; which was full as well, I fancy : was it not ? Luc. O certainly. Capt. B. What is this ! A pension of three hundred pounds a year, the king allows me ! Mrs. B. Is it possible 1 Pipes. Bombs and cannon ! if it were but true ! All the Children. How, how, papa ? Capt. B. There, read the whole yourself, dear wife. — And who is the generous man who has thus condescended to enumerate my services in presence of the king, when every one beside him had aban- doned me ? The king then knows that I have not served him without some degree of honour ! O my prince ! I could certainly have been happy, though deprived of your munificence, but not of your es- teem. Dear Edward ! who has been my benefac- tor ? SCENE THE LAST. (Edward rims out hastily, and very soon returns. bringing in his master by the hand.) Captain Barton, Mrs. Barton, Paul, Theodore, Lu- cretia, Isabel, Pipes, Echcard, the Master of the Military School. Hhigenius. Echcard. Here is our friend, and second father. See here too, my brother Eugenius. A new son, for you and my mamma. Master. Pardon me, sir, that I have been so 260 MILITARY ACADEMY. free as to intrude upon you without leave : I was not willing, I confess, to Jose the affecting scene to which I am witness at present. Copt. B. You may well expect the liberty of being witness to it, since it is all of your creation. Mrs. B. And has wherewithal, no doubt, to gratify your benevolent heart. Master. I am indeed most happy, madam, to perform a character therein, though not the hero. It is to Edward, to your son, that the honor of that character appertains. Mrs. B. To Edward ! Capt. B. To my son 1 Master. You had deprived yourself of every comfort in this life, that you might form his heart and understanding ; and on his part he deprived himself of his enjoyments, to evince the gratitude that he owed you. Pardon me, good sir, if I ap- pear acquainted with the secrets of your family. Your son has not betrayed them. It was I who read them in his bosom. Ever since his first com- mencement with us, he would take no sustenance but bread and water. All our menaces were not sufficient to procure an explanation of his motives for such abstinence ; and by insinuation only did I come to know it. He resolved to be no happier than his father, who denied himself so many things on his account. We spoke about you, and I learn- ed your situation. I have had no other merit than j causing intimation of it to be made to our good sovereign ; but your name, it seems, was in his re- collection ; and he said, as I was told, that he MILITARY ACADEMY. 261 thought himself quite happy, in the means of re- compensing as he did, your ancient services, as well as the care that you took in bestowing such an education on your children, as must render them the most valuable of his subjects. The worthy nobleman, who mentioned your affair to his majes- ty, even told me, that in saying these words, he shed tears. Capt. B. O, sir, forgive the weakness of na- ture. I had strength sufficient to endure misfor- tunes ; but not half enough to bear such joy ! My son ! my dearest Edward ! are you capable of such generous affection to your father 1 Edward, Pardon me : I have but for a moment done in your behalf, what you have been doing for so many years, on my account. (He turns to- wards his mother.) My dear mamma ! do not die, I beseech you, now that you are rich. Master. Edward, you remember that I also mean to be your father 1 Edward. O, yes ; always, always ! So papa, embrace Eugenius my new brother ! we have vow- ed for ever to love one another. Eugenius. Yes ; and I, on my side, never shall forget my promise. Master. I have been so free, sir, as to bring him with me to your house, that he might contemplate the virtues that flourish here. He has read the [heart of Edward many days before myself; and he it was who first of all desired his friendship. Capt. B. If you give him thus a friend, in the 262 MILITARY ACADEMY. person of my son, I ought to find another for my- self in the person of his father. Master. I can wish for nothing with such ar- dor, as T do such a title ; and, on my part, offer you my pledge of friendship. (Holding out his hand.) Pipes. I can be no longer an indifferent looker on ! (he lets fall his crutch, and rushes in between them.) Excuse me, sir ; but where my captain gives his heart, mine also must go with it. You are a generous man ! were you not, Pipes would never flatter you by calling you so. Capt.B. You will pardon, sir, the bluntness of a soldier: he is full of honour, and this mark of his affection for me, cannot be a matter of indifference to you. It has been my consolation under many sorrows. Master. Say you so 1 then I take his affection in good part. Your hand, comrade ; for soldiers are all brothers. Pipes. O my other good supporter, where are you now 1 But I will dance without you at the thought of such a happy day. THE DIRTY BOOTS. Fortunatus, proud of his high birth, was not content with inwardly despising every one inferior to himself in point of fortune, but presumed to take such airs upon him as showed the scorn with which he viewed them. As it chanced, one day he saw his father's footman cleaning shoes. Pho ! what a i DIRTY BOOTS. 263 filthy business ! cried he, as he passed him, turning up his nose: for all the world I would not be a shoe-black, — Very likely, said John ; and I, for ray part, hope that I shall never be your shoe-black. All the last week's weather had been very bad, but now it was grown clear and bright ; on which account young Fortunatus received his father's per- mission to take a ride on horseback. Now the promise of this ride afforded him the greater pleas- ure, as the day before, when he was out, he had been hindered, by a heavy shower of rain, from going far. However, he had been far enough to splash his boots from top to bottom, and they were not yet quite dry. Transported with the thoughts of his ride, he ran down to John, who was at breakfast in the kitchen, and with an imperious tone of voice, cried out, "John, John! I am going out on horseback! Run and clean my boots ! do you hear me ?" John pretended that he did not, and continued at his breakfast quite composed. In vain Fortunatus put himself into a passion, and called him an hundred names. John contented himself with answering him very calmly, " I have told you, sir, already, if you recollect, that I hoped never to become your I shoe-black." In the mean time Fortunatus, seeing he could not, in spite of all his menaces, prevail upon John to do as he desired, returned quite full of rage, and made complaint about him to his father. Mr Rail- ton could not comprehend why John refused a bu- siness that belonged to his employment, and which 264 ^jfl DIRTY BOOTS. hitherto he had performed without expecting orders for that purpose ; so he sent to speak with him a little, and was told of the affair. His conduct was fully approved by Mr. Railton, who not only blamed his son, but told him that he might go and clean his boots himself, or stay at home whichever he thought proper. He forbad the other servants to assist him in his business. li You will learn, sir, (added he) how silly it is to look with scorn on services that contribute to our comfort or convenience ; services, the rigour of which you should rather strive to soften, by a gentleness of manners in yourself. Therefore, since a shoe-black's trade is so disgraceful, be so kind as to enoble it, by being, for the future, your own shoe-black." Such a sentence turned his promised pleasure into sorrow. He was very eager for a ride on horse- back, it was such fine weather ; but — to clean his boots himself! he could not stoop to such an office. On the other hand, his pride would not permit him to go out with dirty boots, in which case every one he met would ridicule him. He applied succes- sively to every servant in the house, with offers of money to corrupt them ; but not one could be per- suaded to disobey his master's order. Thus, then, Fortunatus was obliged to stay at home, till in the end his pride permitted him to stoop so low as the conditions laid upon him. On the next day John resumed his office without bidding ; and the hum- y bled Fortunatus, having exercised it once, would never afterwards gratify his pride, by vilifying what was in itself so useful. I VOL. 2 •23 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. MRS. TORRINGTON PARTING FROM HER CHILDREN. 267 THE AFFECTIONATE MOTHER, LETTER I. TO MRS. TORRINGTON. MADAM, This address, perhaps, will cause you some surprise ; or possibly you may have looked for such a greeting. I, for my part, find it necessary ; and of course, without farther preface, pass to the sub- ject which extorts this letter from me. You may well remember, there was a time when I sincerely loved you, and when you appeared to merit my affection. That time is now past. You have found an object worthier of your love than I am ; and, since you act upon the idea of promo- ting your felicity by such a preference, I do not wish to thwart you. We are free. Do you retire where you think fit, while I live where I please ; and that is here. 1 grant you a week's time to make your choice. I go away to-morrow morning, -and shall stay from home till Monday next, that you may not be incommoded with my presence, or endure that trouble, of which it does not suit me to be a witness. . Respecting our three children, you may be at peace on their account. Their mother, after her behaviour, must no longer have the least commu- nication with them : and whenever I think fit to 268 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. make inquiry, I shall find some governess who will not be wholly unqualified to bring them up accord- ing to their station. Receive for ever my adieu. Enjoy in peace your new condition, and endeavour, as much as possible, to blot out the remembrance of that man, who formerly was proud to subscribe himself your loving husband, but is now no more than, &c. ARTHUR TORRINOTON. LETTER II. TO MR. TORRINGTON. SIR, I should in vain endeavour to describe the diffe- rent emotions raised in my soul, by the perusal of your letter. You resolve that a separation shall take place betweeaCus. Since you judge an open rupture needful, I submit to your good pleasure. If, when we were first united, any one had told me that all our mutual vows would come to this, I should certainly not have been persuaded that such an event was possible. Nevertheless, it has taken place. In my misfortunes, however, I have still one consolation left ; namely, that in heaven there is a God, who has the means of manifesting inno- cence. My conscience clears me of reproach. My heart has no idea of an object worthier of me, as you say, than you are. It has always been devoted to you only. I protest all this, not making use of oaths, but a simple affirmation, which my heart pronounces with assurance. 1 will make no effort to convince you of my innocence and of your in- AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. 269 justice. I shall patiently pursue the path which God's providence points out to me — God's provi- dence, I say, which has hitherto heaped its bless- ings upon me ; and, I hope, will still continue so to do. It is a cruel step, sir, to take all my children from me. I must think, the mother, who first gave them birth, has a greater title to them than a father ; and the laws would grant me the society of one, at least : but do not imagine that I have such a doubt of your paternal tenderness and wish to make them happy, as to have recourse to legal aid against you. I will with resignation imagine, that God's will has torn them from me by death, or that I am dead myself, and shall be very quickly followed by them. Farewel, and be at all times happy, most unjust, yet dearest husband. Every night and morning I will pray to God that, for your own repose, he may remove the mist of error from before your eyes, convincing you how faithful and affectionate a wife you are at present wronging, in the person of your desolate amelia torrington. • • • • SCENE I. Mrs. Torrington, Harriet, Sophia, and Caroline. Harriet. Here we are, mamma. Mrs. Torrington. Come hither, my dear children. Sit down by me ; I have something to tell you. Caroline. Take me on your knee, do, pray, mamma. ( Mrs. T. takes up Caroline and weeps.) 23* 270 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. Harriet. What is the matter, dear mamma 1 why do you cry ? Sophia. I have done nothing, at least that I know of, to displease you. Car. Nor I either, dear mamma. Children (while the mother cannot speak for tears.) Mamma ! dear, dear mamma ! Mrs. T. Do not be uneasy, my sweet children, I beseech you. Do not cry thus, or you will cer- tainly distract me. Harriet. Then why did you cry yourself first 1 Why did you weep so yesterday ? the day before 1 and every day since you received my papa's last letter ! Mrs. T. Do not ask me, my poor girl ! You will know all soon enough. All that I can tell you at present, my dear children, is, that I am forced to leave you to-morrow morning early. Sophia. And do not you intend then to take me this time, as I was promised 1 Harriet, you re- member, went with you last year. Mrs. T. I wish I could, my life ; and not you only, but your sisters also ; it is not, however, in my power. Harriet. At least, mamma, I hope you mean to return very soon. Sophia. And will you bring me something very pretty ? Caroline. And me too ? Harriet. What, sisters ! can you see how sad mamma is, and yet think of asking her for play- things ? If I durst — AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. 271 Mrs. T. Well 1 what, my dearest Harriet ? Harriet. You will never come back to us. I know it. You are always sorrowful when you quit us ; but yet you never wept so much as now, when you were going on a little journey. Mrs. T. Do not alarm yourself, Harriet. In about six weeks I shall come back and see you. Sophia. In about six weeks ! and what are we to do, so long, without you ? Caroline. I can never play so well, you know, mamma, as when you are with me. Mrs. T. Your papa will come back next Monday. Harriet. And not find you here then, to receive him ! Sophia. He will be very sorry, when he comes, to find you absent. Caroline. So pray stay at least till he comes back. Mrs. T. It will but give him greater pleasure, at the time of my return, to see me ; and six weeks will soon be past. Harriet. You will not inform us ; but I know very well that papa — Mrs. T. Dear child, you wound my heart ; and I have grieved enough already, at the thought of parting with you. Pray be comforted. We shall see each other again very soon. Receive this kiss as an assurance. Harriet [clinging round her neck.) Oh, if it were true ! Mrs. T. When six weeks are once past, you will see. I promise you, and you know I never yet deceived you. Take care of your health, dear girls, 272 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. and study to amuse yourelves till I return. (She embraces them.) Harriet and Sophia, you that are the eldest, take what care you can that nothing happens to poor little Caroline. Think frequently of me, and I will do so of you. Farewel, fare- wel I (She forces herself from them, and goes out. LETTER III. TO MRS. VILLARS. DEAR AND WORTHY FRIEND, I send you my three girls, and earnestly conjure you to bestow your tenderest care upon them, so that they may find a second mother in you. After the deplorable event that has deprived them of the mother who first gave them life, I look upon it as a special blessing that you so generously conde- scend to superintend their education. I am sensi- ble how great a burthen I wish you to undertake, and how utterly unable I shall ever be to show my gratitude for such a favour. But then what will not a father dare for his children 1 Condescend, there- fore, my dearest madam, for this reason, to pardon any paternal indiscretion, and dispose for ever both of me and every thing belonging to me. There is one particular which I cannot sufficient- ly recommend to your attention ; namely, the se- lection of a proper governess. Endeavour to se- cure one who accords with your principles and mine. There are few, madam, fit for any thing but dressing and undressing dolls ! and rather than deliver up my children to such creatures, I would AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. 273 leave them in a wilderness, to vegetate, without re- ceiving any education. But as souls,that afterwards prove worthy of each other, have a sort of reciprocal attraction, by a secret sympathy subsisting between them, I am not without the hope that, in so elegant a place as Bath, you will at least be able to pro- cure some lady of suitable behaviour, with sense and knowledge sufficient to bring up my children as I wish. I beg that you will consider yourself at liberty to enter into any terms with such a one as you think proper, since I mean to spare no cost upon a point of such importance. I am quite impatient for a letter from you. It would highly please me, if you would charge my eldest daughter Harriet with some part of the cor- respondence that will pass between us ; as by such means, she will early learn to write correctly, and to express herself with ease. It is in your power to render more supportable the great misfortune that I have undergone, and to give me in my chil- dren all the joy of which their mother has deprived me. In reality, I cherish such a hope, to drive away the uneasiness that otherwise would over- whelm me ; and subscribe myself, with every sen- timent of gratitude, esteem, and friendship, Yours, &C. ARTHUR TORRINGTON. SCENE II. enny the \ footman. Crape (entering.) Here is my lady Harbord's answer to your letter,madam,with her compliments. SCENE II. Mrs. Torrington, Jenny the maid, and Crape her footman. 274 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. Mrs. T. That is well. Is Benjamin in the house 1 Bid him come up : and come you with him likewise. Mrs. T. [having read the letter.) Thank heav- en ! I have succeeded. — (To her maid) Hold, Jenny : it is meant for you. Jenny [reading.) " I am quite happy, madam, to receive the chambermaid that you recommend. One, of whom you speak so very handsomely, must be a valuable servant ; and 1 thank you for the preference that you have afforded me on this occa- sion. She may come whenever she thinks fit." (Giving back the letter with a trembling hand.) Alas, my dear mistress ! what have I done, that you send me away ? In what have I deserved dismission ? Mrs. T. You have not deserved it, Jenny. You have, at all times, been a dutiful girl ; and if, here- after, Providence should otherwise dispose my lot, I will have none but you to wait upon me. But at present, it is impossible that you should longer continue with me. We must absolutely part. Be comforted ; it will not be long, I persuade myself, before I come back. I would, till then, have given you wherewithal to live, but that I feared the danger that might threaten your youth and inexperience. You will be, with Lady Harbord, no less happy than you were with me, and I have recommended you to her protection in a very earnest manner. Take this little present as a token of remembrance. There is likewise, in the bottom drawer of my bureau, a quantity of clothes and linen, which I AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. MiO give you. Go, Jenny, and do not cry thus. My eyes have enough of tears already. Go; and,when you have put all your things together, I will see you once more. Jenny. And must I quit you then, my dearest lady ? I cannot live away from you ; I will follow you wherever you are going. Mrs. T. Let me beg, dear Jenny, if you love me, not to hurt my mind at present with your lamenta- tions : leave me to myself. I want to be alone. I have already mentioned that I would see you once again before we part. Jenny (going out.) My worthy mistress ! Enter Benjamin, her coachman, and Crape, her footman. Benjamin. Do you want me, madam ? Are you going out this morning ? Mrs. T. Wait a little, Benjamin. — Crape, how much may be owing to you 1 Crape. Only a quarter, madam. Mrs.T. There it is, besides a half year more ; that you may have a trifle for your subsistence till you find another place, as my affairs will oblige me to leave home. I have been pleased with your behaviour in my service, and have drawn up this character, which you may show, wherever you may apply for employment. You are young and know your business, and will easily procure a place. Farewel, and God be with you. ( The footman sorrowfully leaves the room. 276 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. Benjamin. I would fain believe, madam, that my turn is not coming 1 Mrs. T. It is with great reluctance I inform you that we must part. Benjamin. What, I leave you, madam 1 I, that saw you almost as soon as you were born, and fol- lowed you, when you were married, from your father's ! I whom you considered a part of your dowry, and declared that you did so ; will you send me off when 1 have been so many years your ser- vant 1 Do you think me less attached to you at pres- ent on account of my age, than I was formerly 1 Alas ! I have no wife nor child. I have no friend but you, my dearest mistress ! what will become of me, if I must now be parted from you 1 Mrs. T. Benjamin, you may easily believe me, when I tell you that this parting cannot but af- flict me. But you see, I have dismissed my maid and footman, and you may judge, I cannot have oc- casion for ,a coachman. Benj. Cannot have occasion ! Are my master's affairs in confusion then ? I have wherewithal to feed your horses many years to come — your bounty gave it me. Pray, then, let me die in my seat, and still continue with you. 3Irs. T. Such a proof of your attachment can- not but affect me, and I feel it at my heart ; but be comforted. Your master manages his fortune as a man of prudence should do ; and his wife is not in want of any thing : in proof of which, I give you my three horses, and a trifle every year for your support. ** AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. 277 Benj. What me, so much, my dear mistress? What use can I make of your bounty ? I should but die the sooner, after I had it. in grief for having lost the worthy giver. Never,, therefore, never Mrs. T. I insist on your acceptance of it, for my own, though not your satisfaction. I would wil- lingly be happy at the thought of having given you peace and comfort for the rest of your old age. Go then, my friend : you will distress me, should you stay a minute longer. Benj. Let me wish you then at least, a thousand blessings. I am old ; yet were I younger, should not have sufficient time to weep for having lost you. SCENE III. Mrs. Villars, Mrs. Torrington, in disguise, under the feigned name of Lambert. Mrs. T. Pardon me, madam, the liberty of this intrusion. I have been informed that you desire a governess for three young ladies. Though 1 am far from thinking that I have all the necessary qualifica- tions for such an arduous undertaking, yet my situ- ation induces, me to beg that you would have the goodness to make trial of me. Mrs. V. May I ask you, madam, who you are. and your name ? Mrs. T. Lambert, madam ; I am the unhappy widow of a man whom I loved, and still love better than myself. In the affliction that besets me, I should look upon it as a consolation, could I fill up my time with the education of your young ladies ; vol.2. 24 , 278 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. I conjure you, madam, to bestow this favor on me, if you have not yet engaged any one. I dare per- suade myself you will be satisfied with my solicitude to please. I desire no salary, I am above the possi- bility of want. It is only employment that I re- quest, to drive away the thought of my misfortunes. Mrs. V. So affecting is your motive, that it in- terests me in your favour. You have then no chil- dren, madam ? Mrs. T. I had three, that constituted all my hope and satisfaction ; but, alas ! cruel fortune has deprived me of them. Mrs. V. I sincerely pity you ! You seem a very tender mother ; and deserve that they should have lived to recompense your feeling and affection. Mrs. T. Ah, madam ! they are still, still living. But, on that account (however strange my story) not less lost to me. Mrs. V. I cannot comprehend you, madam ; either your affliction has impaired your understand- ing, or you stifle iu your heart some very great mis- fortune. Would you fear to trust me with it ? Pos- sibly, I might be able to afford you some consola- tion. Mrs. T. Yes, madam ; you only can afford me consolation. Mrs. V. What ! I only ? Let me know then what I can do for you ? There is nothing that I would not with cheerfulness perform to comfort you. Mrs. T. Then make me governess of your young ladies. Mrs. V. Is that all? AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. 279 Mrs. T. I can have nothing else to ask ; but what I ask will make me happy, if you grant it. I\Jrs. \ r . I cannot express my astonishment at what you say. All this conversation is in some sort like a vision. Though you do not think me worthy of your confidence, I feel a desire to give you mine. 1 will bring in the three young ladies. Will you un- dergo a slight examination of your abilities to dis- charge the employment you solicit? If, as I have not a doubt, you justify the idea that I have formed concerning them, I promise to intrust you with their education. Mrs. T. O my noble benefactress ! then I have your promise ? Mrs. V. Yes, madam ; but on such conditions as I mentioned. Mrs. T. Madam, I desire no better; and thank Heaven and you I have again recovered my three children ! Mrs. V. Your three children, madam ! What three children ? Mrs. T. Those that you have undertaken to protect, the three Miss Torringtons. You see be- fore you their unhappy, but guiltless mother, whom her husband has parted from them. I have left my property behind me, and disguised my name and circumstances, to procure an introduction to my children. I was fearful of discovering who I was, till I had obtained your promise. I am sensible my husband has written to you about something which he imagines I have done amiss : but yet, I dare persuade myself, my present conduct has al- 280 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. ready proved how innocent I must be of his accusa- tion. A good mother cannot surely be a wicked wife ! Mrs V. [embracing her.) O most affectionate, and courageous woman! 1 want words to show my joy and admiration. Could it possibly have come into my head, that Mrs. Torrington was hid beneath this sorrowful disguise ? Mrs. T. The metamorphosis has not been pain- ful to me ; and, in future, I am seriously determined to support it. No one, madam, except yourself, shall ever be acquainted who I am. Confide upon my promise. By whatsoever you conceive most sacred, not a word shall ever escape me, to reveal the secret. Mrs. V. And on my part, 1 promise the same discretion. But your daughters 1 Mrs. T. I shall find it a hard task, indeed, to keep myself a stranger, as it were, to them, and to suppress the workings of my motherly affection : But no other way is left me. Only aid me while I personate my part. As soon as the deception is once established, it will support itself. I should be quite without anxiety on that head, if it were not for my eldest daughter, Harriet. She, I am afraid will know me. I must persevere, however, in the pious imposition. Mrs. V. I can bear no longer this scene, but will be gone and bring in the children. (She goes out, and almost instantly returns, ?vith Harriet and her sisters ; who all curtsey to Mrs. Torrington, AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. 281 considering her with great attention and embarrass- ment.) Mrs. V. My dear little girls, it is to let you see this lady, whom I have chosen to be with you, as your governess. I dare engage you will be happy under her. I think [ may assure you of her care and friendship ; and expect that you, on your part, will obey and love her, just as if you thought her your mamma. Harriet, [falling into her arms.) It is our mam- ma ! It is she herself! Sophia and Caroline. Mamma! mamma! You are returned then 1 ( They all cling to her, but she keeps up a reserved and serious countenance.) Mrs. V. Truly, I was thinking that you would all be much deceived. I had myself the same idea of the lady ; I fancied, 1 know not for what reason, that she was your mamma. Har. And so she is ; my heart informs me so, as truly as my eyes. Soph. And have you brought me any thing? Car. Ay, where is the doll that you promised me, mamma ? Pray let me have it. Mrs. T. My dear little ladies, I am sorry to see you all in such an error. You know that your moth- er is a great way off. Har. No, no ; you are our dear mamma. We cannot be deceived. You have not such a charming dress as she wears, but then you have her face, and her shape, and her sweet voice. Mrs. T. Is it possible that I should resemble 24* 282 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. your mamma so much ? If so, I am very glad, on your account, as well as my own : it will make us so much better friends : will it not, young ladies ? I dare say you begin to love me a little already, don't you? Soph. O! much, much, mamma. Car. And I too. If you did but know — Harriet, [weeping.) What have we done, mam- ma, that you should grieve us thus 1 that you should tell us you are not our mother ? Yet, however, we are all of us your children. Mrs. V. Come, good madam, you must be what they would have you ; and since they resolve to call you mother, take that name upon you; it will give them pleasure. And, young ladies, if you like it, you may call me mother likewise. Har. We do not wish to affront you, but though you love us, you can never be our mother. Mrs. T. Well, my dear young ladies, if you wish to make me your mamma, I wish it likewise ; and will have as much affection for you, as if I really were so. My dear Harriet, and my dear Sophia, and my dear, sweet, little Caroline. (Site embraces them with transport.) Har. How happy we all are, in having our mamma again! we thought continually of you, in your absence : and did hardly any thing but cry since you first left us. Mrs. T. {whispering Mrs. V.) I foresaw that Harriet would discover me ; and therefore I must make her of my party, by discovering ray intention AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. 283 to her. Then take away her sisters for a moment, if you can. Mrs. V. {whispering Mrs. T.) Yes, I understand you. ( To Sophia and Caroline.) Come, my little ones, I will let you have the play-things that your mamma, as you would have her called, has brought you. {She goes out with Sophia and Caroline.) Mrs. T. We are now alone, my dear Harriet ; I may indulge the happiness that I feel in pressing you to my heart. Harriet, {falling into her arms) Ah, now you are my good mamma indeed. But pray never, for the future, tell us that you are not. Mrs. T. Be it so, my dearest Harriet : but there is one thiug I insist on, in my turn. Har. O any thing in the world, mamma. Mrs. T. Then, if you love me, Harriet, do not tell any one that I am your mother. Call me only Mrs. Lambert; you understand. It is of the great- est consequence to my affairs ; and for a reason, which I have not time to tell you now. it is neces- sary that I should be unknown. Har. How, would you have me cease to call you my mamma ? you that I love so much? Mrs. T. And do you think that my love consid- ers it less painful, to deny myself the only name, which can at all times make me happy ? Har. Well then, I obey ; but every time it comes not from my lips, when I am speaking to you, sup- pose me to pronounce it in my heart. 84 AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. LETTER IV. To Mr. Torrington. Dear Papa, I have so many things to write to you, that I can- not tell with which I should begin my letter. We are no longer at Mrs. Villars's, but have removed to Mrs. Lambert's, our governess' house ; it is in the Circus, and a very pleasant situation. You cannot possibly conceive how happy we are all of us in being with her. She is such a charming woman ! quite as kind as our mamma ! She loves us just as if we were her children, and we love her also just as if she were our mother ! There is no need of sending your money to have masters come and teach us ; she knows every thing that we ought to learn. You would imagine she considered it her happiness to teach us ; and she does it in so kind a way, that we are all delighted with her instruction. Sophia and little Caroline already read quite charm- ingly, so much attention Mrs. Lambert has paid them ! As for me, I have begun a course of geog- raphy and history with her: this, with a little cy- phering, and a few choice pieces in verse and prose, which I take care to learn by heart, employs our morning. In the afternoon, for recreation sake, I go to drawing, dancing, and the piano ; and when evening comes, take my needle, at the use of which you cannot imagine how clever Mrs. Lambert is ; and lastly, to complete myself in cyphering, and acquire a little knowledge of the expenses of a house, she gives me all the bills to overlook, and makes me set down every little sum of money that AFFECTIONATE MOTHER. 285 she expends. By these means I begin to know the price of many things, and as she tells me, may be- come your little stewardess when I return. With so much on my hands to do all day, you will per- haps imagine that I am tired at night ; not at all, papa. I am happy, on the contrary, to think that I have so well rilled up my time, and should have reason to complain, if any one deprived me of such charming occupations. I have put a little trick on Mrs. Lambert, and mean to tell you what it is. She went the other day with Caroline to visit Mrs. Villars, and left me at home with Sophia. I thought it would divert her if I read a little ; so I took a book that we have, called the Theatre of Education, from the French, and read the Poor Blind Woman. I could not re- frain from crying very much ; but, to my great sur- prise, Sophia did not. This quite vexed me, as you mc