UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROUNA 
 
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 School of Library 
 Science 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 II 
 
 00022094671 
 
 i2s?7l*/C^~Z>i) . 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
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THE CHILD'S FAVORITE 
 
THE 
 
 tllii^i »Af®»ttffI 
 
 A GIFT FOR THE YOUNG 
 
 1 17 A ILllfo 
 
 GEORGE S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT STREET 
 
 D . APPLETON & CO. 200 BROAD WA Y . 
 1647. 
 
THE 
 
 CHILD'S FAVORITE 
 
 A GIFT FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 BY A LADY- 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 GEO. S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT STREET. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETON & CO., 200 BROADWAY. 
 
 1847. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, 
 
 BY GEO. S. APPLETON, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and 
 for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 

 PREFACE. 
 
 To write for the entertainment and instruction 
 of children, in such a style as to he both useful and 
 agreeable to them, is one of those nice problems 
 which it has taken some of the most distinguished 
 authors of our times to solve in a satisfactory 
 manner. Children are pretty good critics in their 
 way. They are excellent judges of effect. Their 
 moral perceptions are unsophisticated. Their 
 sympathies are all alive. They enter into the 
 spirit of a story, without reserve, provided always, 
 that there is any spirit in it. They are wedded to 
 no system. They belong neither to the romantic 
 nor the classical school. They relish nature in her 
 simplicity ; and the common sense of mankind, 
 
8 PREFACE. 
 
 which is pronounced by high authority to be the 
 ultimate standard of taste, is precisely the standard 
 to which children refer the books which they read. 
 Their sense is common sense. Whoever really 
 pleases them is capable of pleasing the public of 
 grown up people — " the children of a larger 
 growth." 
 
 It is with a full understanding of this doctrine 
 that the editor of the "Child's Favorite" has 
 entered upon her duties. In the preparation of the 
 volume she has aimed at sterling merit. She has 
 chosen her stories with reference not only to their 
 moral effect, but their artistical effect on the per- 
 ceptions of children. How far she has succeeded 
 in this design the public, that is to say, the juvenile 
 public, will very promptly decide. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Proud Girl, 
 
 
 Page 
 9 
 
 The Pet Lamb, 
 
 . 
 
 18 
 
 November, 
 
 
 21 
 
 The Mouse's Petition, 
 
 . 
 
 27 
 
 The Last of the Giants, 
 
 . 
 
 30 
 
 The Captive, 
 
 . 
 
 71 
 
 The Governess; or, Pride will have a Fall, . 
 
 73 
 
 Madame Roland, 
 
 . 
 
 112 
 
 The Generous Brother, 
 
 . 
 
 . 144 
 
 Self-Conquest, 
 
 . 
 
 177 
 
 The Favorite Dog, 
 
 . 
 
 . 199 
 
 Christiana of Holstein, 
 
 
 214 
 
THE PROUD GIRL. 
 
 Little Annie Marsden, was the only 
 child of rich parents. Her mother was a 
 pious lady, and sought to instil into the mind 
 of her daughter those principles of Christian 
 humility and self-denial, which are necessary 
 to our being useful and contented in this 
 world, and happy in the world to come. But 
 her efforts were in a great measure rendered 
 
 2 
 
10 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 vain by the children with whom Annie was 
 permitted to associate, and the servants into 
 whose care she was frequently thrown, by 
 the occasional illness of her mother. She 
 was often told that she was rich, and destined 
 to be a great heiress ; that she must not take 
 notice of this or that person, because they 
 were her inferiors ; and, in short, she was 
 made to believe that she was a person of 
 great consequence, and entitled to look down 
 upon others with contempt. This was unfor- 
 tunate ; for her natural disposition was good, 
 and only such influence could have turned 
 her little head and made her see things in a 
 wrong light. Things at last came to such a 
 pass that she thought only rich people were 
 fit to be spoken to, and a mean or coarse 
 
THE PROUD GIRL. 11 
 
 dress was, in her opinion, a mark of degra- 
 dation. 
 
 One day, when the family was passing the 
 summer at their beautiful country seat on the 
 Delaware, not far from Philadelphia, an hon- 
 est farmer, who lived in the neighbourhood, 
 brought a supply of butter for the family, 
 and seeing the little girl, who was very beau- 
 tiful, sporting on the lawn in front of the 
 house, resolved to gratify her by making her 
 a little present. Accordingly, on his next 
 visit to the house, he brought her a basket of 
 fine cherries, and offered them to her himself 
 as soon as he saw her playing on the green. 
 The little lady, instead of evincing any 
 gratification at this mark of good will, re- 
 fused to accept the offered gift, telling the 
 
12 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 farmer that it was not for her to accept of 
 presents from such as he — that her father 
 was able to buy her all the cherries she 
 wanted, and that he had better give them to 
 some poor person. 
 
 The good farmer was more amused than 
 affronted, at the petulance of the spoiled 
 child, and merely said that she would pro- 
 bably live long enough to learn the value of 
 a poor man's good will. 
 
 The very next day Annie was playing in 
 the garden, at the foot of which ran a deep 
 brook, crossed by a rustic bridge, and emp- 
 tying into the Delaware. In the midst of 
 her play she saw some beautiful pond lilies 
 raising their modest head and diffusing their 
 sweet fragrance over the waters of the brook. 
 
THE PROUD GIRL. 13 
 
 She knew the flowers well ; for she had often 
 been presented with similar ones ; and she 
 longed to obtain one of them. Indeed such 
 was her impatience to possess one that, with- 
 out waiting to call one of the servants, she 
 seized a garden rake, which was lying in one 
 of the gravelled walks, ran down to the steep 
 banks of the brook, and reached out into the 
 water to gather one. She was so far suc- 
 cessful as to reach the flower and attach the 
 rake to it ; but in her eagerness to pull it to- 
 wards her she lost her balance, and plunged 
 headlong into the brook. When, after the 
 first plunge, her head came up out of the 
 water, she uttered a piercing shriek for help. 
 But she speedily sunk again, and would, un- 
 doubtedly, have been drowned, if her first 
 
14 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 cry had not caught the ear of a farmer, who 
 was crossing an adjoining field, and who ran 
 to her assistance, caught her in his arms, and, 
 by laying hold of a tree near the bank, soon 
 succeeded in bringing her safely to land. 
 
 She was carried into the house quite in- 
 sensible, and was ill for several days after 
 from the effects of the cold water and the 
 fright. Her pious mother, in the mean time, 
 had sought to impress upon her mind the 
 duty of humble thankfulness which she owed 
 to her Creator, for having rescued her from 
 a watery grave, and having thus, a second 
 time, blessed her with the gift of life. Nor 
 did she fail to impress upon her mind the 
 debt of gratitude which she owed to the wor- 
 thy farmer, who had so promptly come to her 
 
THE PROUD GIRL. 15 
 
 assistance ; and when Annie was sufficiently 
 recovered to see him her mother invited Mr. 
 Gray to come into the drawing-room, where 
 she lay, still weak and feeble, upon the sofa, 
 in order that he might see her and receive 
 her thanks in person. 
 
 But Mr. Gray made light of the matter, 
 said it was of no consequence ; it was a mat- 
 ter of course ; it was no more than he would 
 have done for any child, or any human being 
 in the same circumstances. So it was not 
 till Annie was fully recovered that she saw 
 the man who had saved her life ; and then it 
 was by accident. She was sitting with her 
 mother in the parlour, when Mr. Gray came 
 in to receive his pay for some butter, and then 
 the poor girl had the mortification to learn 
 
16 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 that he who had been instrumental in pre- 
 serving her, was no other than the very man 
 whom she had so grossly insulted by refusing 
 his little present. 
 
 She thanked him, however, very fervently, 
 and with a really humbled spirit. Mr. Gray, 
 worthy man, was somewhat embarrassed at 
 her emotion; but still he retained self-pos- 
 session enough to say, 
 
 "My dear little lady, the service which I 
 was so fortunate as to render you, cost me 
 but a very trifling exertion, and I really think 
 it of no importance so far as I am concerned ; 
 but it may be further useful to you by caus- 
 ing you to remember that what I said to you 
 before is very true — that the good will even 
 of a poor man is worth something." 
 
THE PROUD GIRL. 17 
 
 When he was gone, Annie's mother said 
 to her : " My dear child, the Scripture com- 
 mands us to ' honour all men.' In every one 
 there is something worthy of respect and rev- 
 erence. All are from God's creating hand. 
 All should be treated with Christian courtesy. 
 Politeness is due even to the humblest; and 
 those who are too proud to be polite, should 
 remember that pride will have a fall sooner 
 or later." 
 
 It was fortunate for Annie that her pride 
 had a fall so early in life ; for she was at 
 once and for ever cured of this fault. 
 
THE PET LAMB. 
 
 My pretty one, my pretty one, 
 
 I would not part with thee 
 For all the beauties of the land 
 
 Or treasures of the sea. 
 Thine eye is brighter than a star, 
 
 Thy fleece like driven snow ; 
 Thy voice, oh ! sweeter than the sound 
 
 Of rivers as they flow. 
 
 My pretty one, my pretty one, 
 
 I've sought through field and wood, 
 
 For honey-flowers and tender grass, 
 And clover for thy food ; 
 
THE PET LAMB. 19 
 
 I've some, like gold and silver cups, 
 
 All filled with dews for wine ; 
 Come, show thee thankful, and this feast, 
 
 My favorite, shall be thine. 
 
 No other little girl, I'm sure, 
 
 Would love thee half so dear, 
 Would strive to know what best thou lik'st, 
 
 And seek it far and near ; 
 Would bring thee water from the fount, 
 
 Clear, beautiful, and deep ; 
 Or make, at night, a bed so soft, 
 
 For thee, sweet lamb, to sleep. 
 
 Besides, thou knowest, 'twas I that saved 
 
 Thine innocent young life ; 
 The butcher-boy had tied thee down — 
 
 Had raised his cruel knife ! 
 I wept ! — my dear, my good mamma, 
 
 Could not behold me cry ; 
 So for her fond, her grateful girl, 
 
 Thee, beauteous lamb, did buy. 
 
20 the child's favorite. 
 
 Then come and love me very well ; 
 
 And when thy dinner's o'er, 
 We'll dance and play along the green, 
 
 Or by the bright sea shore ; 
 Now kiss me — kiss me prettily, 
 
 For very kind I am ; 
 And proud of thee, my beautiful, 
 
 My own dear little lamb. 
 
 Swain. 
 
NOVEMBER. 
 
 " At length it comes, among- the forest oaks, 
 With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high. 
 
 The scared hoarse raven in his cradle croaks, 
 And slack dove flutters in its terrors by, 
 While the blue hawk hangs o'er them in the sky. 
 
 The hedger hastens from the storm begun, 
 To seek a shelter that may keep him dry, 
 
 And foresters low bent the wind to shun ; 
 
 Scarce heard amid the strife the poacher's muttering gun." 
 
 Winter is coming ! Boreas with his loud 
 horn blows the leaves from the trees. Men s 
 and boys, wrap your cloaks or coats close 
 
22 the child's favorite. 
 
 around you. Now come gathering glooms 
 and fogs. Now come cold rains, as if the 
 earth required the cold water cure ; the trees 
 are dripping, the eaves are pouring, and the 
 torn ragged-skirted clouds, seemingly drag- 
 ged downwards, slantwise, by the threads of 
 dusky rain that descend from them, are all 
 mingled together in one blind confusion ; 
 while the few cattle that are left in the open 
 pastures, forgetful of their feeding, turn their 
 backs upon the besieging storm, and hanging 
 down their heads till their noses touch the 
 ground, stand out in the middle of the fields 
 motionless, like images. 
 
 Now the felling of wood for the winter 
 store — the measured strokes of the wood- 
 man's axe, heard far away in the thick forest, 
 
NOVEMBER. 23 
 
 bring with their sound an associated feeling 
 similar to that produced by a wreath of smoke 
 rising from out the same scene. The busy- 
 flail, too, which is now in full employment, 
 fills the air about the homestead with a plea- 
 sant sound, and invites little girls and boys 
 to look in at the open doors of the barn, and 
 see the wheat-stack reaching to the roof, on 
 either hand, the little pyramid of bright grain 
 behind the threshers, the scattered ears be- 
 tween them, leaping and rustling from their 
 fast falling strokes, and the flail itself flying 
 harmless round the labourer's head, though 
 seeming to threaten danger at every turn ; 
 while outside, the flock of barn-door poultry 
 ply their ceaseless search for food among the 
 knee-deep straw; and the cattle, all their 
 
24 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 summer frolics forgotten, stand ruminating 
 beside the half empty hay-rick, or lean with 
 inquiring faces over the gate that looks down 
 the village, or away towards the distant pas- 
 tures. 
 
 Of the birds that have hitherto made 
 merry, even at the approach of winter, now 
 all are silent — all, save that one who now 
 barns the title of the household bird, by 
 haunting the thresholds and window-sills, 
 and casting sidelong glances within doors, as 
 if to reconnoitre the positions of all within, 
 before the pinching frosts force him to lay 
 aside his fears, and flit in and out silently, 
 like a winged spirit — all are now silent ex- 
 cept him ; but he, as he sits on the pointed 
 palings beside the doorway, or on the top- 
 
NOVEMBER. 25 
 
 most twig of the apple tree, that has been 
 left growing in the otherwise closely-clipped 
 hedge, pipes plaintive ditties, with a low 
 inward voice ; while here and there a stray 
 grasshopper is found chirping to the creak- 
 ing houghs. 
 
 Now the farmer finishes all his out of door 
 work, before the frosts set in, and lays by his 
 implements till the awakening of spring calls 
 him to his hard labour again. 
 
 Now the sheep, all their other more natural 
 food failing, begin to be penned on patches 
 of the turnip field, where they first devour 
 the green tops joyfully, and then gradually 
 hollow out the juicy root, holding it firm with 
 their feet till nothing is left but the dry brown 
 husk. 
 
26 the child's favorite. 
 
 Now the herds stand all daylong hanging 
 their disconsolate heads beside the leafless 
 hedges, and waiting as anxiously, though 
 patiently, to be called home to the hay-fed 
 stall, as they do in summer to be driven to 
 the field. 
 
 Now t the rain-storm breaks up all the path- 
 ways, and makes home no longer home to 
 those who are not obliged to leave it, while 
 it becomes doubly endeared to those that 
 are. 
 
THE MOUSE'S PETITION. 
 
 Oh ! hear a pensive prisoner's prayer, 
 
 For liberty that sighs ; 
 And never let thine heart be shut 
 
 Against the wretch's cries. 
 
 For here forlorn and sad I sit, 
 
 Within the wiry gate ; 
 And trembling at the approaching morn, 
 
 Which brings impending fate. 
 
28 the child's favorite. 
 
 If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed, 
 And spurned a tyrant's chain, 
 
 Let not thy strong- oppressive force 
 A free-born Mouse detain. 
 
 Oh ! do not stain with guiltless blood, 
 
 Thy hospitable hearth ; 
 Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed 
 
 A prize so little worth. 
 
 The scattering gleanings of a feast 
 My frugal meals supply : 
 
 But if thine unrelenting heart 
 That gentle boon deny ; 
 
 The cheerful light, the vital air, — 
 Are blessings widely given ; 
 
 Let Nature's commoners enjoy 
 The common gifts of Heaven. 
 
the mouse's petition. 29 
 
 The well-taught, philosophic mind, 
 
 To all compassion gives ; 
 Casts round the world an equal eye, 
 
 And feels for all that lives. 
 
 Or, since this transient gleam of day- 
 Is all of life we share ; 
 
 Let pity plead within thy breast, 
 That little all to spare. 
 
 So may thy hospitable board 
 
 With health and peace be crowned ; 
 And every charm of heart-felt ease 
 
 Beneath thy roof be found. 
 
 So, when destruction lurks unseen, 
 Which men, like mice, may share, 
 
 May some kind angel clear thy path, 
 And break the hidden snare. 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Mr. Bull was a very respectable elderly 
 gentleman, well to do in the world, upright, 
 honest, and hospitable, but rather too fond 
 of money. To be sure, he had a large and 
 increasing family, and was naturally anxious 
 to provide a maintenance for them. But, to 
 say the truth, he was very fond of making 
 himself comfortable; and fell, like many 
 °thers, into the error of thinking that the 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 31 
 
 only way of doing so was by making himself 
 rich. 
 
 It was Mr. Bull's custom, after dinner, 
 when Mrs. Bull had withdrawn, to sit and 
 ruminate on things in general — such as the 
 price of funds, cattle, and corn — the state of 
 commerce — the glory and wealth of Eng- 
 land; then he would think how remarkable 
 it was that one Englishman could beat three 
 Frenchmen — and he would snap his fingers, 
 and cry " a fig for Bony !" and hum a verse 
 of his favorite song : — 
 
 " While by our commerce and arts we are able 
 To see the sirloin smoking hot on the table, 
 The French may e'en burst like the frog in the fable. 
 O, the roast beef of old England, 
 And 0, the old English roast beef!" 
 
 One evening, having finished his bottle, 
 
32 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 Mr. Bull proceeded to the drawing-room 
 rather earlier than usual. 
 
 Thomas, the man-servant, had just set out 
 the tea-things, and placed the kettle on the 
 lire — for they were old-fashioned times of 
 which we are speaking — and Mrs. Bull had 
 gone up stairs to see the children put to bed, 
 where she was detained rather longer than 
 usual, because little Dicky was naughty, and 
 would not have his hair combed. 
 
 The old gentleman seated himself very 
 comfortably in his arm-chair, and placed his 
 feet on the fender, intending to await Mrs. 
 Bull's return : when — how it happened was 
 never exactly known— but as he was medi- 
 tating on the great increase of his family, 
 and the necessity of doing something for 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 33 
 
 them, he witnessed, between sleeping and 
 waking, the following extraordinary vision : 
 
 It appeared to him as though an unusual 
 volume of steam began to issue from the 
 spout of the tea-kettle, until it spread through 
 the whole room ; then collecting itself to- 
 gether, it gradually assumed the form of a 
 gigantic human figure. The figure was that 
 of a forge-man, or iron-founder; his shirt- 
 sleeves were tucked up, so as to display a 
 pair of muscular arms; on his head was 
 stuck a striped cotton night-cap; and a 
 rough leathern apron overspread the nether 
 part of his person. 
 
 Resting with one arm on an enormous iron 
 crow-bar, and sticking the other a-kimbo on 
 his hip, the figure thus addressed him : — 
 
34 the child's favorite. 
 
 " Mr. Bull, you see before you the Giant 
 Atmodes." 
 
 "The giant what?" said Mr. Bull, not in 
 the least alarmed ; for he had pretty good 
 nerves. 
 
 "The Giant Atmodes." 
 
 "That is a very odd name," said Mr. 
 Bull. 
 
 " I am called by some the Giant of 
 Steam," replied the figure. 
 
 " Oh ! now you speak English, I under- 
 stand you," said Mr. Bull ; " and pray Mr. 
 Giant, what may your business be with me ?" 
 
 "I am come," said the giant, "to offer 
 you my service." 
 
 "And what work are you able to do?" 
 inquired Mr. Bull. 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 35 
 
 " Able !" said the giant, with a contempt- 
 uous smile, extending his brawny arm, " I 
 am able to do any thing. I could move the 
 world, if I had a place to stand on." 
 
 " You seem able-bodied enough," said Mr. 
 Bull, "there is no denying that; and what 
 wages do you ask?" 
 
 The giant paused a moment ; and Mr. Bull 
 awaited his reply. 
 
 "Well, sir," said he at last, "I will tell 
 you what. Though I look so strong, I can- 
 not live without a good fire. My constitu- 
 tion requires a good deal of heat ; so if you 
 will keep me well in fuel out of your coal- 
 pits, I will engage to work for you." 
 
 " Well, I will think of a job for you," said 
 Mr. Bull, " if you will call again to-morrow ; 
 
36 the child's favorite. 
 
 or perhaps, you had better favor me with 
 your address." 
 
 " You have only to call me/' said the 
 giant, " and I shall be at your bidding 
 Whenever you want me, please to set a 
 kettle or boiler on the fire, and pronounce 
 the following words : — 
 
 " Fe fa, fum— come, giant, come, 
 With fire and smoke — with coal and coke, 
 Whizzing, fizzing — thumping, bumping, 
 Come, giant, come !" 
 
 " This is very strange," thought Mr. 
 Bull. " And pray, Mr. Giant/' he said, 
 " how do I know that this is all true ? — 
 what token can you give me that it is a 
 reality?" 
 
 " Oh, you want a token?" said the giant, 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 37 
 
 with a cunning look ; " let this be your 
 token :" and with that he raised his massive 
 crow-bar, which was red-hot, and gently 
 touching Mr. Bull's toe, vanished with a loud 
 laugh, amid a cloud of smoke and steam. 
 
 Mr. Bull started from his chair in an 
 agony of pain, and the giant was no where 
 to be seen ; only the tea-kettle had boiled 
 over, and was pouring from its spout a tor- 
 rent of scalding water, a portion of which 
 had fallen on Mr. Bull's foot. 
 
38 the child's favorite. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Mr. Bull sat pondering in his chair all 
 that evening, so that his wife complained she 
 could not get a word out of him. All night 
 he lay without a wink of sleep, first turning 
 to this side, and next to that, in great per- 
 plexity of mind. The next day he passed 
 partly in his study, and partly walking up 
 and down the gravel walk, with his hands in 
 his pockets, in deep meditation. When the 
 evening was come, and they were again alone 
 together at tea (a meal at which Mr. Bull 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 39 
 
 was accustomed to be more than usually 
 communicative), he thus abruptly addressed 
 his wondering spouse : — 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Bull," said he, " have you 
 ever seen a giant?" 
 
 "A giant!" answered Mrs. Bull; "no, 
 indeed, never." 
 
 " i" have" said Mr. Bull, with a very 
 marked emphasis. 
 
 " You don't say so," said Mrs. Bull ; " why 
 I thought they had all been destroyed in the 
 time of Jack the Giant Killer." 
 
 " Not all" said Mr. Bull in the same sig- 
 nificant tone. 
 
 "And pray," said his wife, "when and 
 where was it that you saw this giant ?" 
 
 " Yesterday evening, in this very room," 
 
40 the child's favorite. 
 
 answered Mr. Bull; "and if you like, you 
 shall sqe him too." 
 
 It was a hard struggle which took place 
 in the good lady's breast, between her fears 
 and her curiosity ; however, the latter pre- 
 vailed, and she signified her determination to 
 be introduced to the gigantic visiter. Ac- 
 cordingly, when the servant had removed 
 the tea-things from the table, Mr. Bull 
 said : — 
 
 " Thomas, you may leave the tea-kettle." 
 
 " Sir?" said Thomas, looking astonished. 
 
 " You may leave the tea-kettle, Thomas," 
 again said Mr. Bull, in rather a peremptory 
 tone. 
 
 As soon as Thomas was gone, and the 
 door fastened, Mr. Bull placed his wife in a 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 41 
 
 convenient situation to witness the scene, 
 and then proceeded with his incantation. 
 The steam poured from the kettle — the 
 awful words were spoken — and the giant 
 again appeared. Mrs. Bull uttered a slight 
 cry of terror at the suddenness of the appa- 
 rition, but otherwise conducted herself with 
 great propriety. 
 
 " Sir," said the giant, raising his hand re- 
 spectfully to his night-cap, and drawing back 
 one leg, "I have come at your bidding." 
 
 <"Tis well," said Mr. Bull; "I have 
 thought of a job for you." 
 
 " Only name it, and it shall be done," said 
 the giant. 
 
 " One of my coal-pits," continued the old 
 
 gentleman, "is full of water; and if you are 
 4 
 
42 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 really- as good a workman as you profess to 
 be, I shall thank you to empty it." 
 
 " To hear is to obey," said Atmodes ; " all 
 I shall want will be a good large kettle and a 
 few iron pipes." 
 
 Mr. Bull promised that they should be 
 provided ; and the giant vanished from the 
 room, much to the relief of the good lady. 
 
 Atmodes was as good as his word : the 
 apparatus was completed, and Mr. Bull soon 
 had the satisfaction to see the water disap- 
 pear from his coal-pit, and his men hard at 
 work again at the bottom. Unfortunately, 
 as the giant was working hard to finish his 
 job, the boiler burst, and the hot water and 
 fragments of the vessel were scattered far 
 and wide, scalding several men, and maiming 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 43 
 
 one for life. Mr. Bull was very angry, and 
 blamed the giant ; but Atmodes declared it 
 was no fault of his, for Mr. Bull should have 
 made the boiler stronger ; and to this Mr. 
 Bull had nothing to answer, but that the 
 boiler should be stronger the next time. 
 
44 THE CHILD S FAVORITE 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "Well, wife," said Mr. Bull, "what do 
 you think of our new servant?" 
 
 " Why, he is a useful sort of giant," said 
 Mrs. Bull. 
 
 " We must find another job for him, now 
 that he has cleared out the pit. What shall 
 it be?" 
 
 Mrs. Bull, who, like her husband, had an 
 eye to what was useful, said, " Don't you 
 think, dear, that the giant might make us a 
 good piece of broad-cloth for winter cloth- 
 ing?" 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 45 
 
 "I dare say he would," said Mr. Bull; 
 " suppose we ask hirn." The giant was sum- 
 moned, and had no objection, provided the 
 proper materials were prepared : " And I 
 shall want a few hands," he added, " to bring 
 me coke and other refreshments." 
 
 " Well, suppose we send to the work-house 
 — there are a good many idle fellows there ; 
 it will be a nice job for them." 
 
 So the giant set to work at weaving, and 
 soon produced a fine large piece of broad- 
 cloth, enough to clothe the whole family from 
 top to toe. 
 
 "I have been thinking," said Mrs. Bull, 
 " that now Watty is at work (for they had 
 got quite familiar with the giant, and used to 
 call him Atty, or more commonly Watty), I 
 
46 the child's favorite. 
 
 have thought that he might make a few more 
 pieces of cloth to sell to our neighbors. 
 What say you, Watty?'' 
 
 "Well," said the giant, "I must have a 
 few more hands to feed me : no giant can 
 work without victuals." 
 
 " That's rather awkward," said Mr. Bull, 
 " for all our hands are pretty well employed. 
 However, I suppose we must send for Joe 
 Carter from the field, and Will Ditcher. 
 That bit of draining may stand over for a 
 while." So the laborers were sent for out 
 of the field, and turned into stokers, and had 
 to supply coke and water to the giant. They 
 did not much like the job, for it made them as 
 black and dirty as colliers ; and they heartily 
 wished that Watty and his engine had been 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 47 
 
 at the bottom of the Red sea. However, 
 master would have it so, and they were 
 obliged to submit. So Watty worked away, 
 and made pieces of cloth one after another ; 
 and his master set up a great shop in the 
 town, and supplied all the neighbors round. 
 And so Mr. Bull began to get very rich, 
 though the farm was not so well looked after 
 as it had been, and he was obliged to borrow, 
 now and then, a few bags of wheat from his 
 neighbors for the consumption of the family, 
 which he did not quite approve of. 
 
48 the child's favorite. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 One day Mrs. Bull said to her husband, 
 "Our Watty is certainly an excellent ser- 
 vant, and can turn his hand to any thing. I 
 "wonder whether he could not make me a 
 piece of silk for a gown?" 
 
 " Let us try him," said Mr. Bull. So 
 Watty was sent for, and the question put to 
 him. 
 
 " Why, as to that," said he, " I can do any 
 thing where strength is required ; but," he 
 continued, extending a great horny hand, 
 which would have crushed an ox, " you see 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 49 
 
 these fingers of mine are not quite delicate 
 enough to manage threads of silk or cotton ; 
 but," he added, as if a bright thought had 
 struck him, " if you would just let some of 
 the children stand by, and keep the threads 
 right, I think it maybe done." 
 
 " Oh, the little dears," said Mrs. Bull, 
 " what a nice occupation for them ! I will 
 have them down from the nursery this min- 
 ute." Accordingly, the children were sent 
 for out of the nursery and school-room, and 
 set by the loom, and taught to tie the silk 
 threads. At first they liked it very much, 
 and thought it a nice thing to play at being 
 useful ; but in about half an hour little Mary 
 had had enough, and began playing with her 
 brother Dickey at something else, 
 
50 the child's favorite. 
 
 " Holloa !" roared out Watty, in a voice 
 of thunder, " this will never do, Mr. Bull. 
 What's the use of my working away in this 
 manner, if those children don't keep the 
 threads right?" 
 
 "Go on, go on!" said Mr. Bull, calling 
 out from his counting-house ; "I will send 
 some one to look after them." So he desired 
 Mr. Grumpy, the foreman, to step in and see 
 what the children were about ; and if they 
 forgot to tie the threads, just to remind them 
 what they had to do. So the foreman, who 
 was a cross sort of fellow, walked up and 
 down, and presently saw Miss Julia making 
 faces at her brother Tom. 
 
 " Mind your work, you young jade," said 
 Mr. Grumpy ; and gave her a blow with a 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 51 
 
 strap, that made a great black mark on her 
 back. 
 
 This gentle hint had the desired effect, and 
 the children kept very steadily to their work, 
 so that in a few days a beautiful piece of silk 
 was woven, out of which Mrs. Bull made a 
 gown — " the best," she declared, " she ever 
 had in her life ; so cheap too, being all of 
 home manufacture." 
 
 " We must have a few pieces of silk for 
 our shop," said Mr. Bull. 
 
 "But," said Mrs. Bull, "I don't think it 
 quite agrees with the children. Little Mary 
 is getting as thin as a whipping-post; and 
 they all come home so tired at night, really 
 it is shocking to see them; beside, they lose 
 
52 the child's favorite. 
 
 all their schooling, and on Sunday they were 
 too tired to go to church." 
 
 " Oh, fiddle-faddle," said Mr. Bull; "you 
 don't think I can afford to let Watty be idle 
 while the children go to school ? such a flou- 
 rishing business as we are getting up — sup- 
 plying all the country round !" 
 
 Mrs. Bull did not quite see why her chil- 
 dren should be made the slaves of all the 
 country round, when they might have lived 
 very comfortably by themselves : however, 
 her husband was hot upon his schemes of 
 making money, and would not have the chil- 
 dren taken from their work on any account ; 
 so the children worked on from morning to 
 night, and from one week's end to another ; 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 53 
 
 and Watty went on thumping, and bumping, 
 and stunning them with his incessant noise ; 
 
 and there was the terrible man with the strap, 
 
 i 
 
 or sometimes with a great heavy roller ; and 
 sometimes Watty himself would stretch out 
 one of his great hands — not meaning any 
 harm, but just to keep the children awake — 
 and would twitch a handful of hair from 
 their heads. It was a sad time for the poor 
 children, and all the family were kept in a 
 bustle. However, the shop throve, and was 
 the wonder of the whole neighborhood ; and 
 every body thought what a thriving family 
 Mr. Bull's was, and how rich he must be 
 getting ! 
 
54 the child's favorite. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 About this time Mr. Bull wanted to go to 
 London on business, and thought he might 
 indulge Mrs. Bull in a trip to the capital, 
 which she had never yet seen. So, as they 
 were talking over the plan, " I wonder," 
 said Mrs. Bull, "how I shall take all my 
 trunks and boxes ! Don't you think Watty 
 would carry them ? they will be so long 
 going by the canal." So Watty was sum- 
 moned, and asked if he could take the lug- 
 gage, 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 55 
 
 "Ay," said he ; " and you and master too, 
 if you like to go -with me." 
 
 "But I am afraid," said Mr. Bull, "you 
 will be a long time about it." 
 
 "Trust me for that; you have not seen 
 me with my seven-league boots on yet." 
 
 " Oh," said Mrs. Bull ; "have you got a 
 pair of seven-league boots ? What a useful 
 giant you are !" 
 
 "But how shall we manage," said Mrs. 
 Bull, apart to her husband, "when we get 
 to London, and want to go about shopping, 
 and visiting our friends ! I don't think it 
 would be quite fashionable to drive about 
 London with Watty. He is rather an awk- 
 ward servant, and might do mischief." 
 
 " Don't trouble yourselves," said Watty, 
 
56 the child's favorite. 
 
 who had overheard these family difficulties ; 
 " I'll take Thomas and the coachman too, 
 and the cook, and housekeeper, and all the 
 rest of them ; and what's more, I'll take the 
 horses into the "bargain." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bull were quite delighted 
 with this arrangement : so the old coach 
 was brought out for them to ride in, then 
 came a van with all the luggage, and the ser- 
 vants got into the tax-cart, and the horses 
 were put inside of the break. As soon as 
 they were all fastened in one long train, 
 " Now for it, Watty," said Mr. Bull ; " away 
 with you as fast as you like;" and away 
 went Watty with his seven-league boots, 
 scampering over hill and dale like a whirl- 
 wind. 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 57 
 
 Mrs. Bull felt rather giddy, and almost 
 lost her breath at first; but Mr. Bull, who 
 had no fears, was quite elated at the rapidity 
 of the motion. 
 
 " Well,' ? said he, " this is something like 
 travelling. I wonder how fast we are 
 going?" So he took out his watch — "I 
 declare," said he, " we went that last mile 
 in less than a minute." 
 
 " Look what a beautiful new church !" 
 said Mrs. Bull. 
 
 "Where?" said Mr. Bull, "I see no 
 church." 
 
 " Oh, you should have turned your head 
 sooner. It was gone while you were look- 
 ing round." 
 
 " What silly noodles our fathers and 
 
58 the child's favorite. 
 
 grandfathers must have been," observed Mr. 
 Bull, "creeping along at the rate of ten 
 miles an hour ! What would they have 
 thought of travelling in this way ? Well I 
 
 do declare our Watty is- " 
 
 What Mr. Bull would have added is un- 
 certain, for just at that moment there was a 
 crash, and a bang, and a scream, and Mr 
 and Mrs. Bull's heads were violently knocked 
 together. The only wonder was that both 
 their skulls were not fractured. 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 59 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 When Mr. Bull came to himself, he was 
 sensible of very intolerable pain. His limbs 
 ached violently, his nose was flattened, one 
 eye was bandaged up, and the other so 
 bruised that he could not open it. He en- 
 deavored to recover his scattered senses, 
 but could only call up a confused remem- 
 brance of a journey to London, and hedges, 
 trees, houses, windmills, and churches, all 
 passing by in rapid succession. As he lay 
 thus ruminating, he heard a gentle sigh ; and 
 managing, with difficulty, to open his eye, 
 
60 the child's favorite. 
 
 he beheld Mrs. Bull lying beside him in 
 much the same predicament as himself, and 
 assembled round the bed were all the little 
 Bulls, thin and pale as so many spectres. 
 
 The sight of this afflicted family brought 
 to Mr. Bull's mind the circumstances under 
 which he was placed; and he exclaimed, in 
 a voice not loud but deep, " If ever I get up 
 from this bed, I will call that rogue Watty 
 to account." 
 
 " Oh, the villain Watty !" responded Mrs. 
 Bull, in a plaintive tone. 
 
 "Oh, the cruel giant!" said all the little 
 Bulls at once. 
 
 Mr. Bull was as good as his word. After 
 a few weeks he was able to leave his bed ; 
 and, as soon as he found himself in his arm- 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 61 
 
 chair by the fireside, with his wife opposite 
 to him, and his family all around, he sum- 
 moned Watty to his presence. 
 
 "A pretty trick you have been playing us, 
 Mr. Watty," said he, "to use your master 
 and mistress in this way !" 
 
 " A pretty trick, indeed !" said Mrs. Bull 
 and all the little Bulls. 
 
 " Why," said Watty, rather doggedly, 
 " you ordered me to go as fast as I could — 
 and how could I tell that there was a broad- 
 wheeled wagon in the way?" 
 
 Mr. Bull could not deny that it was his 
 own fault for ordering Watty to go so fast. 
 " Well," said he, " we will take care not to 
 go so fast in future." 
 
 "Very well," said Watty, "only mention 
 
62 the child's favorite. 
 
 at what pace you wish to go, sir, and I will 
 keep to it." 
 
 "However, that's not all," said Mr. Bull, 
 sternly. " Look at these poor children. 
 Here's little Sally's back all black and blue, 
 and Tommy's knees are growing crooked ; 
 and see how thin they all are ! Are you not 
 ashamed, sir, to treat your master's children 
 in this way ?'* 
 
 " It was not I, sir, that beat the children. 
 It was Master Grumpy that you set over 
 them to watch them ; and as to their getting 
 thin, you know it was your own self that 
 would not let the mill stop." 
 
 Mr. Bull groaned, and acknowledged to 
 himself that it was his own love of money 
 that had been the cause of all this evil. 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 63 
 
 "Ah, Watty, Watty !" said he, " you have 
 plenty of excuses. I should not wonder if 
 you deny next that it was you that burnt 
 my toe, the first time I saw that precious 
 face of yours." 
 
 " Why, sir/' said Watty, grinning, " you 
 should not have gone to sleep with your feet 
 on the fender." 
 
 " Oh, you are a rogue, you are a rogue," 
 said Mr. Bull, shaking his head gravely, but 
 laughing at the same time ; for he was never 
 known to be out of temper for any length of 
 time. 
 
 " Well," said he, after a pause, "the long 
 and short of it is this — that we must come 
 to an understanding." 
 
 " You are not going to turn me off, I 
 
64 the child's favorite. 
 
 hope ?" said Watty. " However, if you do, 
 I daresay I can get another place." 
 
 " Why, no ; I don't intend to turn you 
 off; you are too useful for that ; but we 
 must get into more regular ways. Next 
 time you travel with me, or your mistress, 
 remember you are not to go more than 
 twenty miles an hour." 
 
 « Very well, sir," said Watty. 
 
 " And I shall not allow my children to do 
 any work," continued Mr. Bull, " until they 
 are twelve years of age, and then only nine 
 hours a day, with a whole holyday on Satur- 
 day; so that they may get some learning, and 
 be ready for church on Sundays." 
 
 ." Very well, sir," said Watty. 
 
 "And I won't have Ned Carter, or any 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 65 
 
 of the laborers taken off their work at the 
 farm. I don't think it's respectable to be 
 borrowing corn from one's neighbors ; be- 
 side, suppose they did not choose to let us 
 have any — we should be in a pretty way 
 then. So I am determined to have the farm 
 kept in proper cultivation." 
 
 "You will not get so much money by 
 your farm as by the factory." 
 
 "Perhaps not. But I have lived long 
 enough in the world to learn that money is 
 not the only thing to make a man happy. A 
 wiser man than you or I, Watty, has said — 
 ' There is that maketh himself rich, yet hath 
 nothing' — and ' riches profit not in the day 
 of wrath.' I begin to think that I have been 
 over-hasty to get rich, and have reaped more 
 
66 the child's favorite. 
 
 trouble than profit. Henceforth I intend to 
 look more to the education and religious 
 instruction of my family; and then, if God 
 gives us riches into the bargain, we shall 
 know how to make a good use of them. So 
 now, Watty, you may go down stairs, and 
 leave me to get a little rest." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, papa ; that is a 
 capital story," said all the children at once, 
 as soon as the tale of the Giant Atmodes 
 was ended. 
 
 " Well, and do you understand what it all 
 means?" 
 
 "Yes; I think we do— most of it," said 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 67 
 
 Annie. " The giant is meant, of course, to 
 represent the power of steam." 
 
 " And how was it first discovered?" 
 
 " I suppose by seeing the force with which 
 it drove water out of the spout of a kettle." 
 
 " Exactly; and do you know what use it 
 was first applied to ? Perhaps not. It was 
 first employed to pump water out of coal- 
 pits ; and after some time it came to be used 
 in cotton and silk factories ; and, at last, for 
 impelling boats and carriages." 
 
 " But is it really true," said little Mary, 
 "that the poor little children are made to 
 work so hard, and beaten, and their hair 
 pulled off?" 
 
 f*I am afraid it is too true," said Mr. 
 B , sorrowfully. " The invention of the 
 
68 the child's favorite. 
 
 steam-engine, and the great increase of our 
 manufactures, though it has added to our 
 national wealth, has been very far from con- 
 ducing to the comforts of the poor people 
 employed in them. Sometimes, when there 
 is a great demand for goods, they have to 
 work night and day to provide them : then, 
 when the demand ceases, they have no 
 work at all, and no wages, and are almost 
 starving." 
 
 "That is very sad." 
 
 " Another very bad feature in the factory 
 system is, that the children are employed to 
 do the work, instead of their parents; and, 
 though the work may seem light, yet the 
 length of time they are kept to it is most 
 distressing. And then they lose the oppor- 
 
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS. 69 
 
 tunity of education, and grow up, I am 
 afraid, in very bad ways." 
 
 "But cannot any thing be done to prevent 
 these evils?" said mamma. "It does seem 
 very hard indeed that such a number of poor 
 children should be made almost worse than 
 slaves, in order that we may have fine clothes, 
 and send goods to other parts of the world." 
 
 " It is indeed very hard, and unreasonable; 
 and I sincerely hope that something may be 
 done, before long, to lighten their labor, and 
 secure to them the blessings of a religious 
 education and a comfortable home. The 
 worst of it is, that old John Bull is rather 
 selfish and headstrong, and never thinks 
 about other people when all seems going on 
 prosperously. Perhaps one of these days 
 
70 the child's favorite. 
 
 something will happen that will make him 
 think more seriously." 
 
 This was spoken more to mamma than to 
 the young people, who did not quite under- 
 stand it ; though they were very sorry for the 
 poor children, and hoped that something 
 might be done for them. 
 
THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 Sweet little mistress, let me go, 
 Your little arms, they squeeze me so, 
 That in my struggle to get free, 
 Your tender hands may wounded be. 
 
 Indeed you know not what you do, 
 I'll tell you all, and tell you true, 
 You're keeping me from catching mice, 
 To carry to my bed so nice ; 
 
12 THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 Where in the sheltering straw are laid 
 My kittens ; and I'm sore afraid 
 With hunger they are suffering. So, 
 My gentle mistress, let me go. 
 
 But my sad notes have touched your heart, 
 Your open hand bids me depart ; 
 Blessings on thee, my mistress dear, 
 My darlings have no more to fear. 
 
 
THE GOVERNESS; 
 
 OR, PRIDE WILL HAVE A FALL. 
 
 My dear girls, pride is one of the very- 
 worst propensities of the human heart, and 
 I am very anxious that all who possess any 
 portion of it should get rid of it as fast as 
 they can ; it is a very common fault, for we 
 nearly all show some traces of it in early life, 
 till as we grow older we gain sense enough, 
 and virtue enough to dismiss it. Many, how- 
 ever, are the slaves of pride as they advance 
 
 
74 the child's favorite. 
 
 in age, and grow up into bad and unamiable 
 people. 
 
 Why I call it one of the worst of vices is, 
 because it leads to so many other sins and 
 often great crimes ; for pride is that entire 
 selfishness, which thinks every thing must 
 give way to its wishes, and therefore leads 
 its votaries to do many wicked things. There 
 are different degrees of pride ; and many 
 people are proud without being led into posi- 
 tive crime by it; but it is always a sinful 
 feeling, and therefore hateful in the sight of 
 God ; and in the eyes of our companions, it 
 certainly renders us more repulsive than any 
 other quality whatever. For as pride leads 
 a person to think herself better than other 
 people, and as we are all inclined to pride in 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 75 
 
 some degree, of course we naturally dislike 
 those who try to set themselves above us, or 
 seem to think themselves so. There is an- 
 other consideration also, which shall lead us 
 to repress this evil feeling; it is this : proud 
 people never meet with any pity when adver- 
 sity overtakes them, and sooner or later you 
 will find the old proverb nearly always comes 
 true that, " Pride will have a fall." The fol- 
 lowing story is one among the many instances 
 of the kind. 
 
 Mr. Everett was a gentleman of consider- 
 able fortune, and resided in London, in one 
 of the most fashionable streets at the west- 
 end of the town. His father had been a 
 merchant of eminence trading with India, 
 and the greater part of his property was 
 
76 the child's favorite. 
 
 vested in a large commercial firm in Cal- 
 cutta. Calcutta, you know, is the capital of 
 the British possessions in India. His wife 
 was a lady of great personal attractions and 
 amiability of character; elegant, virtuous, and 
 accomplished. They had a son, who died in 
 infancy, and their family now consisted of but 
 one daughter, whose name was Frances. 
 
 Frances Everett, like her mother, possess- 
 ed considerable beauty ; she was also a girl of 
 a quick and intelligent mind, and had many 
 other good qualities, but they were all ob- 
 scured by an overweening pride, and great 
 haughtiness of disposition. This evil propen- 
 sity seemed to gain strength as she grew 
 older, instead of giving way before the better 
 sense of increasing years ; to such an extent 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 77 
 
 indeed did she carry it, that the servants 
 hated doing any thing for her, and every one 
 who visited the house took a dislike to her. 
 She seemed to think no one worth any notice 
 who did not live in a fine mansion, and keep 
 a splendid equipage; and the only person 
 she condescended to be at all upon terms of 
 of intimacy with, was the daughter of Sir 
 George Selwyn, a wealthy baronet, who 
 lived in the same street as her father. This 
 Miss Selwyn was another foolish girl like 
 herself, and the two together encouraged 
 each other in their vain and foolish notions. 
 This evil disposition in their daughter 
 gave Mr. and Mrs. Everett much pain, and 
 they used every means to correct it; they 
 continually represented to her the ignorance 
 
78 the child's favorite. 
 
 and folly of so much presumption, as well as 
 the wickedness of it, and endeavored to 
 impress her with the advantage of a more 
 affable and gentle demeanor. But all their 
 efforts were in vain, and they at length 
 determined to send her from home ; a few 
 years of school discipline, they hoped, might 
 work a reformation. 
 
 When the proud young lady first heard 
 of this intention, she flew into a violent pas- 
 sion; she declared that it was behaving 
 cruelly towards her, and that she would not 
 stop at any boarding-school to herd, as she 
 called it, with all sorts of people's child- 
 ren. Then she burst into a violent flood of 
 tears, and used every entreaty to induce her 
 parents to alter their resolution ; but her re- 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 79 
 
 monstrances and entreaties were equally in 
 vain. Her father and mother were con- 
 vinced it would be for her benefit that she 
 should go, and they persisted in their deter- 
 mination. To school accordingly she was 
 sent. 
 
 As I have said before, Frances was not 
 destitute of good qualities, and she did not 
 want for natural affection. The tears there- 
 fore that she shed on the day of her departure 
 from home, were not all tears of passion, 
 although some were, for she really loved her 
 father and mother fondly, and was deeply 
 grieved at parting from them for the first 
 time in her life. This fondness, however, 
 would have led a good child to follow their 
 instructions, and submit patiently to their 
 
80 the child's favorite. 
 
 wishes, but I am sorry to say love for her 
 parents, in the case of Frances Everett, did 
 not have this effect. She was still obstinate 
 in her pride ; and she inwardly resolved to 
 make herself as disagreeable as possible at 
 school, by which means she also hoped she 
 might be kept at home again. 
 
 The school in which Frances was placed 
 was a highly respectable one; and Mrs. 
 Thelwall, the principal, was an excellent and 
 worthy lady. She was the widow of a clergy- 
 man who left behind him but little property, 
 and with the assistance of her friends she had 
 established a seminary ; she was in every way 
 qualified for the important and respectable 
 situation of an instructress of youth; and 
 Grassmere House, the name of her establish- 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 81 
 
 ment, was celebrated for the proficiency and 
 good conduct of its pupils. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Everett, in placing their 
 daughter under the care of Mrs. Thelwall, 
 had explained to that lady their motives 
 for putting her to school. She listened with 
 great attention to the instances recounted of 
 her new pupil's pride, and promised to direct 
 her efforts, mainly, to the correction of so 
 bad a fault. She treated Frances with the 
 same kindness as she did the rest of her 
 scholars ; but she never failed to correct her 
 when she found it necessary. 
 
 This unfortunately was very often ; Miss 
 Everett was always getting into trouble with 
 some of her young companions; and as it 
 was nearly always on account of the airs and 
 
82 the Child's favorite. 
 
 graces she gave herself, she met with fre- 
 quent reprimands. Even the governesses 
 she would constantly treat with the greatest 
 scorn; and it was only for Mrs. Thelwall 
 herself that she preserved the least appear- 
 ance o/ respect. The frequency of the repro- 
 vals she thus subjected herself to, made her 
 think that she was treated with harshness, 
 and she began to hate school more than 
 ever. 
 
 Mrs. Thelwall was very sorry to see how 
 unsuccessful all her efforts were to correct 
 the besetting sin of her new pupil. She was 
 the more grieved because she found her 
 talents to be really considerable, and that she 
 wanted nothing but an amiable disposition 
 to make her an ornament to society. Pre- 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 83 
 
 vious to leaving home she had made good 
 progress in her learning ; and now with in- 
 dustry she promised to be a clever and 
 accomplished girl. But the task of curing 
 her of her silly and offensive pride seemed a 
 hopeless one. 
 
 Mrs. Everett had kept up a frequent cor- 
 respondence with Mrs. Thelwall, and both 
 herself and her husband had heard with deep 
 regret that no improvement had taken place 
 in their daughter's disposition. Indeed, Mrs. 
 Thelwall, in her last letter, had told her that 
 she feared nothing but some sudden and 
 severe misfortune to Frances would bow her 
 stubborn and haughty spirit. The anxious 
 parents, therefore, began once more to dis- 
 cuss what the best method would be of pro- 
 
84 the child's favorite. 
 
 ceeding with her, and it was resolved to have 
 her home again, and see what her mother's 
 earnest exhortations would do, joined to the 
 instructions of a firm but amiable governess. 
 
 Accordingly, after spending a year and a 
 half at Grassmere House, Frances returned 
 to the parental roof. Her mother took an 
 early opportunity to inform her that she did 
 not intend to send her to school again, and 
 to lecture her seriously upon her haughty 
 disposition. She pointed out to her the sin- 
 ful nature of pride, under all circumstances ; 
 but especially of that ridiculous feeling which 
 she possessed — the pride of wealth. 
 
 " To be proud of superior mental endow- 
 ments," she said, " was sinful and foolish 
 enough, for we are not indebted to ourselves 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 85 
 
 for them ; but to be proud of mere worldly- 
 weal th, which a reverse of fortune may 
 deprive you of in a moment, is absurd in the 
 extreme, and is sure to bring down the con- 
 tempt of all who know you. You, in com- 
 mon with all human beings, are subject to 
 such reverses ; think then what your feelings 
 would be were you treated with the same 
 contempt you now treat others. If you 
 have any just reason to be proud, I, as your 
 mother, and therefore your superior, must of 
 course have a still better reason ; but you do 
 not find me behave towards people in the 
 same way that you do, and do you see that I 
 am the less loved, or the less respected for 
 it? No, my child! but the contrary. Think 
 then, Frances, of what I say to you ; lay it 
 
86 the child's favorite. 
 
 to heart, and if you would not provoke the 
 wrath of your Maker, and the contempt of 
 your fellow-creatures, dismiss from your 
 heart this blot upon your disposition." 
 
 This, and much more to the same effect, 
 did the good and sensible Mrs. Everett 
 endeavor to impress upon her daughter's 
 mind. Frances, as I have said before, was 
 not without some good points in her cha- 
 racter, and she seemed for a time to feel her 
 mother's earnest address; but pride had 
 become so much a habit with her that it pro- 
 duced no permanent effect. 
 
 The first governess selected by Mrs. Eve- 
 rett to superintend the remainder of her 
 daughter's education, was a young widow- 
 lady named Martin. She was a woman of 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 87 
 
 sense and spirit, and Mrs. Everett took care 
 to explain to her the principal fault she would 
 have to contend with in the character of her 
 pupil. Frances learned what was set before 
 her readily enough ; but her demeanor to- 
 wards Mrs. Martin was as offensive as it had 
 been to others. 
 
 This lady put up with it for some time, 
 and endeavored, by strong remonstrances, 
 to correct it. She, however, found the task 
 too disagreeable to continue it long, and one 
 morning, after a speech of unpardonable 
 insolence from Frances, she entered Mrs. 
 Everett's room, and told her that really the 
 treatment she met with from Miss Everett 
 was so insufferable, that she must, for the 
 future, decline the office of instructress to 
 
88 the child's favorite. 
 
 her. Mrs. Everett was very sorry for this, 
 for she had a great regard for Mrs. Martin ; 
 hut she could not wonder at it, for she had 
 herself seen instances of her daughter's dis- 
 respectful treatment of her teacher, and had 
 had to reprove her for it. 
 
 About this time, an old acquaintance of 
 Mr. Everett's, a naval officer, died, leaving 
 nothing behind him but a spotless reputation 
 and an orphan daughter. Miss Champion, for 
 such was her name, who had been brought 
 up in comfort, was thrown upon the world to 
 get her own living. She was an amiable and 
 well-educated girl, in her twentieth year; 
 and Mrs. Everett, hearing of her situation, 
 was anxious to offer her an asylum. She 
 thought, too, that Frances might be induced 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 89 
 
 to pay her more respect as a governess, from 
 the knowledge that her own father, and the 
 father of Miss Champion, had been on terms 
 of friendship. This young lady was accord- 
 ingly installed in the office vacated by Mrs. 
 Martin. 
 
 The new governess was treated with the 
 greatest kindness by both Mr. and Mrs. 
 Everett, who did every thing they could to 
 lighten her grief for her loss ; this did not 
 fail to inspire the poor girl with feelings of 
 the deepest gratitude ; and she looked for- 
 ward to a more peaceful and happy home 
 than she had at first any reason to expect. 
 Her gentleness and amiability, too, won upon 
 every one, and even the servants treated her 
 
90 the child's favorite. 
 
 with as much respect and kindness as if she 
 had heen one of the family. 
 
 Frances was the only person whom Miss 
 Champion's pleasing qualities failed to soften 
 and to win ; she alone made her feel the bit- 
 terness of her change of circumstances. This 
 proud and haughty girl possessed the greatest 
 contempt for every one, who had to get their 
 own living ; and for governesses in particular, 
 she seemed to feel more than usual scorn. 
 Silly girl that she was ! she did not then 
 know, that in the eyes of the good and sensi- 
 ble, the most useful and respectable members 
 of society are those who contribute towards 
 the general stock of labor. She was also 
 growing old enough now, as she thought, to 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 91 
 
 do without a governess altogether ; and she 
 looked upon Miss Champion as a poor, 
 dependent creature, whom her mother kept 
 more out of charity than any thing else. 
 
 These feelings led her to behave towards 
 her new instructress even more contemptu- 
 ously than towards her late one. She took 
 every opportunity of showing how superior 
 she considered herself in rank ; and poor 
 Miss Champion soon found her situation any 
 thing but a pleasant one. She continued, 
 however, to bear with it for a long while, out 
 of gratitude to her pupil's parents; but Mrs. 
 Everett observing that she was not happy, 
 at last procured her another situation, where 
 she found herself much happier. 
 
 Frances was now considered to be suffi 
 
92 the child's favorite. 
 
 ciently advanced in her studies, as to require 
 no longer the care of a governess ; she was 
 nearly sixteen years of age, and from her 
 good natural abilities was well versed in the 
 leading branches of female education. She 
 still took lessons in music, singing, and draw- 
 ing, but for these she had masters. No new 
 preceptress was therefore provided for her. 
 
 Accordingly, she had plenty of time to 
 devote to the fashionable amusements of the 
 day; dress, the opera, the parks, balls, and 
 routs, occupied all her thoughts. At these 
 Miss Selwyn was her constant companion, 
 and the two haughty girls scarcely deigned 
 to notice any acquaintance whose father could 
 not write Sir or Lord before his name. 
 
 Things went on in this way for about three 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 93 
 
 years ; and the pride of Frances Everett 
 was at its height, when a sudden stop was 
 put to her dashing career. The property of 
 Mr. Everett, I have already told you, was in 
 the hands of a mercantile house in Calcutta ; 
 and one morning he received the dreadful 
 news, that the firm had failed, and that he 
 was a ruined man. 
 
 This was a terrible blow to Frances; 
 directly she was informed of it by her father, 
 she fixed her eyes upon him, and looked as if 
 scarcely able to comprehend his meaning. A 
 moment afterwards it seemed as though a 
 consciousness of all she would have to sacri- 
 fice broke in upon her mind, and she became 
 the image of utter despair. Tears soon came 
 to her relief, and she burst into an uncon- 
 
94 THE CHILD S FAVORITE. 
 
 trollable fit of sorrow ; her father tried to 
 reason her into calmness, although scarcely 
 equal to the task, for he himself felt his loss 
 most keenly. Frances, however, was incon- 
 solable, for she now felt in all its bitterness, 
 the truth of the proverb that " Pride will 
 have a fall." 
 
 But this was not all, severer trials were 
 yet in store for her. Mr. Everett was, at 
 the time, laboring under a complaint which, 
 although not immediately serious in itself, 
 was liable to be increased by any extraordi- 
 nary excitement; grief for his reverse of 
 fortune was more than sufficient to cause this 
 excitement, and in a few weeks from the date 
 of his misfortune, he died : his wife, who 
 was devotedly attached to him, was broken- 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 95 
 
 hearted by her double loss. In less than a 
 year she joined her husband in the grave, 
 and Frances was reduced to the same deso- 
 late condition as the orphan girl, who had 
 been introduced into her father's house as 
 her governess, and whom she had looked 
 down upon with so much contempt. A 
 thought of this kind sometimes struck Fran- 
 ces, and she had more than once felt repent- 
 ance for having treated poor Miss Champion 
 with so much unkindness. 
 
 The condition of the once proud and 
 dashing Miss Everett was now wretched in 
 the extreme ; many were the mortifications 
 she had had to endure since the change in 
 her father's circumstances. She had met 
 Miss Selwyn three or four times in the street 
 
96 the child's favorite. 
 
 while walking ; but that young lady, once so 
 friendly with her, had passed her on each 
 occasion with a cold stare ; some of the 
 young companions of her prosperous days, 
 whom she had then hardly condescended to 
 notice, even went farther, and turned up their 
 noses as they passed her, with scorn. This 
 was very wrong and cruel ; but it is what 
 such people as Frances Everett subject 
 themselves to, and they have no right to 
 complain ; indeed, although every one who 
 knew them pitied Mr. and Mrs. Everett, all 
 alike regarded the fall of the daughter as a 
 just retribution for her excessive pride. 
 
 Frances had felt most acutely the loss of 
 her father; but now that her mother was 
 also taken from her, her grief knew no 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 97 
 
 bounds. She was indeed effectually humbled, 
 and broken spirited; for days she did nothing 
 but weep and sigh continually; and even 
 those who had been most wounded by her 
 scorn in former times, would have pitied her 
 if they could have seen her misery on the 
 day her mother's remains were committed to 
 the tomb, and shut for ever from her sight. 
 
 Two or three friends had still clung to 
 Mrs. Everett in spite of her misfortunes; and 
 when the last sad duties were paid to her, 
 they began to think of what would become of 
 the daughter. The poor girl was now almost 
 in a state of destitution ; and it was abso- 
 lutely necessary that something should be 
 done for her. Accordingly it was thought 
 that the situation of a governess would be 
 
98 the child's favorite. 
 
 the best thing for her, as she had received a 
 good education; and as one of the parties 
 knew a lady who then wanted one, it was 
 resolved to propose it to Frances. 
 
 It seemed a terrible humiliation that the 
 once scornful Miss Everett should be re- 
 duced to the necessity of filling the situation 
 of a governess, an office she had formerly 
 regarded with so much contempt ; but poor 
 Frances was much changed. Severe and 
 bitter as her misfortunes had been, they at 
 least produced one good result. The blow 
 which Mrs. Thelwall had spoken of, as ne- 
 cessary to cure her of her pride, had fallen 
 upon her, and it had cured her. She Lad 
 often, during the latter days of her mother, 
 confessed to her her former errors, and 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 99 
 
 expressed her regret for them ; and then she 
 would go down upon her knees before her 
 Maker, and with tears of repentance in her 
 eyes, ask of him pardon for the past, and an 
 improved disposition for the future. 
 
 Accordingly, when her friends made their 
 proposal to her, she acceded to it willingly 
 and gratefully, and in about a fortnight's 
 time she was introduced to her new scene of 
 action. Her pupils w r ere two little girls, the 
 one six and the other five years of age. They 
 were pretty, interesting, and affectionate 
 children, and soon became much attached to 
 her ; for having subdued her pride, the good 
 qualities of her disposition were no longer 
 obscured, and she was now as gentle, as she 
 had once been haughty. 
 
100 THE CHILD S FAVORITE. 
 
 But poor Frances had yet to endure many 
 mortifications. Mrs. Hamlin, the lady into 
 whose family she had entered, was the wife 
 of a rich banker, and was purse-proud, im- 
 perious, and passionate. She had not the 
 good sense and the good feeling to know, 
 that the instructress of her children ought 
 to be treated with every respect ; and the 
 little indignities she would put upon Frances 
 often cut her to the heart. It led her to 
 think, too, of what the feelings of those must 
 have been she used once to treat in the same 
 manner ; and fresh tears of penitence would 
 flow at the reflection. She bore every thing, 
 however, with great patience and resignation, 
 and the endearing ways of her little pupils 
 would often soothe her amidst her trouble. 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 101 
 
 There was one thing among others that 
 Mrs. Hamlin very much disliked, and that 
 was to see any particular attention paid to 
 her governess; the misfortunes of Frances 
 had impaired none of her beauty; on the 
 contrary, they had imparted a mournful in- 
 terest to her features which rather increased 
 it. She was still, therefore, a handsome, 
 elegant, and accomplished girl, and the gen- 
 tlemen who visited the house would fre- 
 quently pay her such little attentions as are 
 common in society ; this Mrs. Hamlin took 
 every opportunity to repress. 
 
 Upon one occasion she was sitting at the 
 dinner-table, silent and reserved, when a gen- 
 tleman present observing her, and thinking 
 she seemed neglected, politely asked her to 
 
10.2 the child's favorite. 
 
 take wine. He had scarcely finished speaking 
 when Mrs. Hamlin interposed; and hefore 
 Frances could answer for herself she rudely 
 and vulgarly said, 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Everett does not take wine." 
 The blood rose to the cheeks of the poor 
 girl at the insult, but she was obliged to bear 
 it in silence. 
 
 At another time a small party of friends 
 were assembled at the house ; on such occa- 
 sions the musical talents of Frances w r ere 
 greatly in request; but Mrs. Hamlin gene- 
 rally took care to make her feel the differ- 
 ence between her situation and that of the 
 visitors ; and that it was not as one of the 
 party, but as a person paid for it, that she 
 was called upon to entertain the company. 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 103 
 
 Frances had been asked to play one of the 
 beautiful pieces with which she had so often 
 delighted her listeners. A gentlemanly 
 young man, a nephew of Mrs. Hamlin, was 
 one of the party, and he immediately rose to 
 conduct her to the instrument; he did so, 
 but upon resuming his seat, his aunt said to 
 him, in a voice loud enough to be heard by 
 all present : 
 
 " Miss Everett can in future find her way 
 to the piano without your assistance, sir." 
 
 These, and many similar mortifications, at 
 last made poor Frances so unhappy, that she 
 began to think of changing her situation; 
 but she did not like to throw up what the 
 kindness of her friends had procured her, 
 and she was undecided as to what to do ; 
 
104 the child's favorite. 
 
 she was in this state of mind, and had been 
 with Mrs. Hamlin for nearly a year and a 
 half, when one morning she received a letter 
 from the country. She gazed upon it with 
 surprise, wondering who it could come from, 
 and then opening it read as follows : 
 
 " My dear Miss Everett, 
 " Do not mistake the motives which 
 prompt me to write to you ; I am influenced, 
 I assure you, only by the most affectionate 
 solicitude. I always entertained the greatest 
 respect and regard for your dear mother and 
 your father also. I shall never cease to 
 remember with gratitude all their kindness 
 towards me ; and any little pang which my 
 volatile and high-spirited pupil, their daugh- 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 105 
 
 ter, may have caused me to feel, has long 
 since been forgotten. It is only within the 
 last few days that I have heard of the 
 severe afflictions which have befallen you, 
 and most deeply and sincerely do I sym- 
 pathize with you in the irreparable loss you 
 have sustained. 
 
 "'"I know not, my dear girl, what your 
 present engagements may be, but I long 
 to make some return to the daughter for 
 the benefits I have received at the hands 
 of the parents. Indeed it is to them I 
 owe all my present happiness. Will you 
 come then and share it with me, and enjoy 
 with me the delights of a country life ? I 
 am no longer Miss Champion ; but my 
 
 husband will be as glad to welcome you 
 
 8 
 
106 the child's favorite. 
 
 as I shall. Come then, and be to me that 
 which I have so often ardently wished to 
 possess — a sister. 
 
 " Ever your's affectionately, 
 
 "Emily Langton." 
 
 " P. S. I have two sweet little children, a 
 boy and a girl, whom I shall teach to love 
 you — so do not refuse me. Mr. Langton will 
 have occasion to go to London soon upon 
 business, and I shall accompany him. When 
 we arrive, which will be in about a week, 
 I will write to you again that we may meet. 
 
 "E. L." 
 
 Upon reading this letter, Frances was 
 overwhelmed with mingled feelings of de- 
 light, admiration, and gratitude. It was 
 
THE GOVERNESS. 107 
 
 so noble and generous, she thought, of her 
 former instructress to forgive all the con- 
 temptuous treatment she had met with from 
 her haughty pupil. The manner in which 
 she had written too, was so delicate, so 
 beautiful, so touching — especially at the con- 
 clusion of her letter; and Frances, once so 
 proud, now felt that it would be a pleasure 
 to lie under an obligation to so good and 
 excellent a woman, as the formerly despised 
 governess. 
 
 She wrote to her in the overflow of a 
 grateful and purified heart, giving her an 
 account of the latter years of her life, and 
 of her penitent and altered character. Mrs. 
 Langton was affected, even to tears, by the 
 letter of Frances, for there were in it many 
 
108 the child's favorite. 
 
 expressions of bitter self-reproach in refer- 
 ence to her past conduct ; but she was over- 
 joyed at this proof of her reformation, for she 
 now felt that the daughter of her benefactress 
 was indeed worthy of being loved for herself 
 alone. 
 
 She arrived in town soon afterwards with 
 her husband, and an interview of the most 
 affecting nature took place between the 
 friends. Frances was then introduced to 
 Mr. Langton, whom she found to be a most 
 agreeable, polished, and amiable man. He 
 possessed an independent fortune, and had 
 been a visitor at the house where Miss 
 Champion had last filled the situation of 
 governess. Struck with the superiority of 
 her manners, her talents, and her amiable 
 
THE GOVERNESS. - 109 
 
 disposition, he had fallen in love with her, 
 and married her. They had then retired to 
 Langton Hall, his seat in the north of Eng- 
 land, where they had since lived in compara- 
 tive seclusion, happy in each other's society. 
 
 It was through a friend of Mr. Langton's 
 on a visit from London, that Mrs. Langton 
 first heard of the misfortunes of the Eve- 
 retts; she then immediately spoke to her 
 husband upon the subject, and wrote to 
 Frances the letter which has been given. 
 
 Few words were necessary between the 
 friends, and it was soon arranged that 
 Frances should take up her abode at Lang- 
 ton Hall. Here amidst the sylvan beauties 
 and quiet seclusion of the place, and in the 
 affectionate friendship of Mrs. Langton, she 
 
110 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 found a balm for all her sorrows, and she 
 felt within herself that she was in every 
 respect a wiser, better, and happier girl than 
 she had been in the height of her prosperity. 
 She only wished her dear parents were alive 
 to witness the full extent of her reformation; 
 her poor father especially, for her mother 
 had lived to see a great improvement in her 
 character. 
 
 The children, as Mrs. Langton had pro- 
 mised, became very much attached to Frances 
 in a very short time, and she insisted upon 
 taking their education more particularly under 
 her charge. It was one of the happiest house- 
 holds in the kingdom ; the two friends lived 
 like sisters, and were frequently taken for 
 such by strangers. At last they became as 
 
THE GOVERNESS. Ill 
 
 nearly sisters as it was possible for them to 
 become. Mr. Henry Langton, a younger 
 brother of Mr. Langton's, who often visited 
 the house, was so much impressed with the 
 beauty, the amiability, and the history of 
 Frances, that he offered her his hand and 
 heart, and in about a year from her taking 
 up her residence at Langton Hall, they were 
 united together by the sacred rites of the 
 church. 
 
 The union was a most happy one, and 
 Frances never ceased to feel grateful to her 
 Heavenly Father for the afflictions with 
 which he had visited her; for it was to 
 them that she owed her present amiability 
 of character, her peace of mind, and her 
 happiness. 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 A revolution is a great change in the 
 government of a country. There was a 
 very great one in England in the time of 
 Charles I., nearly two hundred years ago, 
 when that unfortunate king was beheaded ; 
 and a system of government called the Com- 
 monwealth, was established. The famous 
 Oliver Cromwell, you will remember, was 
 the chief person in it. 
 
 Well, something very like this occurred in 
 
M-AliAMK ROI.ANW 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 113 
 
 France about fifty years ago. The cause 
 was this. The country had been very badly 
 governed for a long while, and the kings and 
 nobles had oppressed the poor people in the 
 most cruel manner. At last they could bear 
 it no longer, and so they beheaded their king, 
 as the English had done before. This king, 
 however, who was Louis XVI., was not a bad 
 man; but the people were furious, and they 
 wanted to have a commonwealth also, or a 
 Republic as it was called. 
 
 After the people had cut off the king's 
 head, they served a great many of the nobles 
 in the same way. But even this did not 
 content them. They grew more fierce and 
 cruel, the more blood they shed ; and they 
 began to kill every one whom they thought 
 
114 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 at all favorable to the former mode of govern- 
 ment. By degrees, a more brutal and op- 
 pressive tyranny was established than had 
 ever been exercised before, even by the worst 
 of tyrants. The foremost actors in these 
 wicked scenes, were three bad and blood- 
 thirsty men, whose names were Robespierre, 
 Danton, and Marat; and all of whom were 
 killed in their turn. 
 
 Among the victims of this dreadful time 
 was Madame Roland. Her name before she 
 was married to Monsieur Roland, was Manon 
 Jeanne Phlipon. She was born at Paris in 
 the year 1754, and was the daughter of an 
 engraver and jeweller. Her mother, w r ho 
 was a most excellent woman, brought her 
 up in the most admirable manner ; and such 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 115 
 
 was the good behaviour of Madame Roland 
 as a child, that Madame Phlipon would often 
 say that Manon was the only one of her 
 children that had never caused her a mo- 
 ment's sorrow or regret. She was very 
 clever too, and neat and elegant in her 
 appearance ; and these qualities, although 
 nothing without virtue, being united to a 
 good disposition in Manon, gave her parents 
 increased pleasure. 
 
 Her eagerness to learn was so great, that 
 nothing came amiss to her. She learned 
 Latin ; and masters for geography, writing, 
 music, and drawing, were also provided for 
 her. Riding also was one of her ac- 
 complishments. Amidst all this she still 
 found time for he** other lessons, and for 
 
116 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 reading. She would rise at five o'clock, 
 when everybody else in the house was asleep, 
 and creep softly into her mother's room, in a 
 corner of which stood a table with her books. 
 Here she would sit, and either read or repeat 
 and copy her lessons, with the greatest in- 
 dustry. This diligence, and her rapid pro- 
 gress, made her a great favorite with her 
 masters, and they felt a double pleasure in 
 teaching her. 
 
 When she was about sixteen years of age 
 she lost her mother. This was a great grief 
 to her. It threw her into a serious fit of ill- 
 ness, and for some time her life was despaired 
 of. Youth, and a good constitution, how- 
 ever, enabled her to recover. To add to her 
 misfortune, her father became dissipated in 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 117 
 
 his habits, and squandered a great deal of 
 his own, and his daughter's property. But 
 she contrived to save a portion of it; and 
 with this she retired into a convent. Here 
 she remained in retirement till her marriage 
 with Monsieur Roland. 
 
 Monsieur Roland was an honest and up- 
 right man ; he was also a clever man, and 
 devotedly attached to his wife. At the begin- 
 ning of the Revolution, before the people 
 became so violent, the King chose him for 
 one of his Ministers of State ; but in the 
 changes of those unsettled times his situation, 
 in a few months, was given to some one else. 
 Soon after this, the poor king's head was 
 struck off. The moderate party, to which 
 Monsieur Roland belonged, had done what 
 
118 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 they could to prevent it, but it was of no use. 
 The republican party had appointed him 
 minister again ; but he was a great deal too 
 mild and honest for the cruel people then in 
 power, and many threats were uttered, and 
 plots formed, to take away his life. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Roland were, ac- 
 cordingly, in a good deal of fear, and their 
 friends persuaded them to leave their home 
 every night, lest they should be surprised 
 during sleep Two or three times they did 
 this, but they soon got tired of removing 
 every day, so they resolved to brave all risks 
 and stop at home. Madame Roland always 
 remained with her husband, that she might 
 share his danger ; and she kept a pistol under 
 her pillow, to save herself from the- attacks 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 119 
 
 of assassins. In this situation they passed 
 three weeks, during which their residence 
 was twice beset. 
 
 At length, about half-past five o'clock one 
 evening, six armed men appeared at their 
 house, and one of them read an order from 
 some of the Revolutionists to arrest Mon- 
 sieur Roland. The warrant, however, was 
 an illegal one, and he refused to obey it. So 
 the man went away to get further orders, 
 leaving the others as a guard. 
 
 Madame Roland, with the courage of an 
 ancient Roman heroine, thought it would be 
 best to denounce this unlawful attempt upon 
 her husband, in the most public manner. So 
 she went directly to the Convention, which 
 was an assembly of men something like a 
 
120 the child's favorite. 
 
 House of Commons, that at this time gov- 
 erned France. She jumped into a hackney- 
 coach, and ordered it to drive as fast as pos- 
 sible to the Carousel, the place where they 
 were sitting. Having arrived at the doors of 
 the outer halls, she found them all closed, and 
 sentinels placed at the entrance, who allowed 
 no one to pass, and who sent her by turns 
 from door to door. 
 
 At length she gained admittance, and asked 
 for one of the members whom she knew, 
 named Vergniaux. After some time he came, 
 and spoke to her for seven or eight minutes. 
 He then w r ent back again to the hall, but in 
 a little while returned. 
 
 " In the present state of the Assembly," 
 said he, " I dare not natter you : you have 
 
I MADAME ROLAND. 121 
 
 no great room to hope. You may obtain, if 
 you get admission to the bar, a little more 
 favor as a woman ; but the Convention is no 
 longer able to do any good." 
 
 "It is able to do any thing it pleases," 
 replied Madame Roland, quickly. " The 
 majority of the people only want to know 
 how they ought to act. If I am admitted to 
 the Assembly, I will venture to say what you 
 cannot utter without danger to yourself. As 
 to me, I fear nothing ; and if I cannot save 
 my husband, I will speak some home truths, 
 which may be of some use to the people." 
 
 " But you cannot be heard for some hours," 
 
 continued Vergniaux ; " think what a tedious 
 
 time you will have to wait." 
 
 " I will go home, then," rejoined Madame 
 9 
 
122 the child's favorite. 
 
 Roland, " and see what is passing there, but 
 I will return immediately. Tell our friends 
 of my intention." 
 
 With these words, the courageous wife 
 quitted the member of Convention, and 
 springing into a coach, ordered it to drive 
 home. But, the horses going too slowly to 
 keep pace with her feelings, she jumped out 
 of the coach and hurried home on foot. 
 Having reached- her house, the porter whis- 
 pered to her that her husband was at the 
 landlord's, at the bottom of the court. She 
 hastened to the spot in a moment, and found 
 her husband at liberty, for the men who 
 were guarding him had withdrawn them- 
 selves, after demanding. in writing his protest 
 against being arrested. She was delighted 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 123 
 
 to see him, and she informed him of the mea- 
 sures she had taken to provide for his safety. 
 She then hastened back to the Convention. 
 
 From the solitude of the streets, she per- 
 ceived it was late. Still she proceeded; 
 but on approaching the Carousel, she found 
 the sitting was at an end. So she went 
 thence to call upon a friend named Pasquier, 
 and arrange with him some means of saving 
 her husband. He had retired to bed; he 
 rose, however, and Madame Roland sub- 
 mitted her plan to him. He listened atten- 
 tively to what she said, and it was agreed 
 that they should meet again the next day. 
 She once more stepped into her coach, and 
 was proceeding home, when she was stopped 
 by the sentinel, who stood at his post. 
 
124 the child's favorite. 
 
 " Have a little patience," said the coach- 
 man in a whisper, turning round upon his 
 seat, "it is the custom at this time of night." 
 
 The sentry advanced and opened the door. 
 
 "Who have we here?" said he. 
 
 "A woman," was the reply. 
 
 " Whence come you?" he rejoined. 
 
 "From the Convention," answered Ma- 
 dame Roland again. 
 
 "It is very true," added the coachman, as 
 if he was afraid the sentry might not believe 
 her. 
 
 "Whither are you going?" again demanded 
 the sentinel. 
 
 "Home." 
 
 " Have you any bundles ?" 
 
 " None, as you may see." 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 125 
 
 " But the Assembly is broken up." 
 
 " Yes ; to my sorrow, for I had a petition 
 to present." 
 
 The sentinel still seemed dissatisfied, and 
 continued to question her. 
 
 " A woman at this hour ! It is very strange, 
 very imprudent." 
 
 " It certainly is not a very common occur- 
 rence, nor is it, with me, a matter of choice : 
 I must have had strong reasons for it." 
 
 "But, Madame, alone?" 
 
 "How, Sir, alone? do you not see that 
 I have Innocence and Truth for my com- 
 panions?" replied the high-spirited lady. 
 
 " Well, I must be content with your rea- 
 sons." 
 
 " You are quite right," once more answered 
 
126 THE CHILD S FAVORITE. 
 
 Madame Roland in a gentler tone, " for they 
 are good ones ;" and the dialogue concluded. 
 
 Having at length reached her home, she 
 had ascended eight or ten steps, when she 
 was suddenly addressed by a man who was 
 close behind her, and who had slipped in, 
 unperceived by the porter. He begged her 
 to conduct him to Monsieur Roland. 
 
 "To his apartment with pleasure," she 
 replied, " if you have anything favorable to 
 say ; but to him it is impossible." 
 
 " I came to let him know," said the man, 
 "that they have absolutely determined on 
 confining him this very evening." 
 
 " They must be wise if they accomplish 
 their purpose," replied his heroic wife. 
 
 " I am happy to hear it," added the 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 127 
 
 stranger, " for it is an honest citizen to whom 
 you are speaking." 
 
 " Well and good," said Madame Roland 
 in reply once more, and she proceeded up 
 stairs, hardly knowing what opinion to form. 
 
 You may perhaps wonder why Madame 
 Roland returned to the house when there 
 was so much danger, and why she did not 
 also try to escape as her husband had gone. 
 The reason was this; Madame Roland, as 
 you have already partly seen, was a noble- 
 minded and courageous woman; her dis- 
 position also was so open and generous, that 
 she could not bear the idea of hiding herself 
 anywhere, even from injustice ; and I dare 
 say she could hardly believe her husband's 
 enimies would be so wicked and cruel as 
 
128 the child's favorite. 
 
 to take her life away, if she was quite 
 innocent of all wrong; we shall see. 
 
 Having, on her return home, quieted the 
 fears of her family, she took up a pen for the 
 purpose of writing a note to her husband. 
 Scarcely had she seated herself at her desk, 
 when she was disturbed by a loud knocking 
 at the door ; it was about midnight, a num- 
 ber of people appeared, and inquired for 
 Monsieur Roland. 
 
 " He is not at home," said his wife. 
 
 "But where can he be?" said a person 
 having the appearance of an officer, " when 
 will he return, you are acquainted with his 
 habits and can doubtless tell about what time 
 he will be back?" 
 
 " I know not whether you have any autho- 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 12 9 
 
 rity to ask such questions ; but this I know, 
 nothing can compel me to answer them : as 
 my husband left the house while I was at the 
 Convention, he had it not in his power to 
 make me his confidante ; this is all I have to 
 say." 
 
 The party then withdrew, much dissatis- 
 fied, leaving a sentry at the door of Madame 
 Roland's apartment, and a guard at that of 
 the house. Overcome with fatigue, and de- 
 termined to brave the worst, she ordered 
 supper; she then finished her letter, and 
 having entrusted it to the care of a faith- 
 ful servant she retired to rest. She slept 
 soundly for about an hour, when she was 
 awakened by a servant and told that some 
 
130 the child's favorite. 
 
 gentlemen requested her to step into an 
 adjoining room. 
 
 " I understand what it means," replied she 
 calmly; "go, child, I will not make them 
 wait." 
 
 Having sprung from the bed, she was dress- 
 ing when her maid came in and expressed 
 surprise that she should be at the pains of 
 putting on more than a morning robe. 
 
 " When people are going abroad," she 
 replied, " they should at least be decent." 
 
 The poor woman, looking in the face of 
 her mistress, seemed to guess her meaning; 
 and burst into tears. Madame Roland being 
 ready, walked into the next apartment. 
 
 " We come," said one of the party to her 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 131 
 
 directly, " to take you into custody, and to 
 put seals upon your property." 
 
 A warrant was then produced from the 
 Revolutionary Committee, ordering the arrest 
 of both Monsieur and Madame Roland ; but 
 it did not say what they were to be arrested 
 for ; it was consequently not lawful. Madame 
 Roland therefore replied that she had a right, 
 like her husband, to resist their order for 
 taking her; but thinking the brutal people 
 might treat her with violence and indignity, 
 she calmly submitted to her fate. 
 
 She then sat down, and while the officers 
 were sealing up her property, she wrote a 
 letter to a friend, telling of her situation, and 
 recommending her daughter to his care ; she 
 was folding up the letter, when the officer 
 
132 the child's favorite. 
 
 informed her he must see what she had 
 written, and know to whom the letter was 
 addressed. 
 
 "I have no objection to read it to you," 
 she said, "if that will satisfy you." 
 
 " No," replied the officer, " it will be better 
 to let us know to whom you are writing." 
 
 "I shall do no such thing," Madame Ro- 
 land rejoined, " the title of my friend is too 
 dangerous a one at present, to induce me to 
 name the person on whom I bestow it." 
 
 With these words she tore the letter in 
 pieces. As she turned from them, the offi- 
 cers gathered up the fragments in order to 
 seal them up, and afterwards discover, if 
 possible, to whom they had been written. 
 But the letter had no address, and she smiled 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 133 
 
 at their useless caution. At seven in the 
 morning, she left her daughter and her domes- 
 tics, after exhorting them to calmness and 
 patience. 
 
 " You have people here who love you," 
 said one of the party with her, observing the 
 tears of her family. 
 
 " I never had any about me who did not," 
 replied Madame Roland, as she walked down 
 the stairs. 
 
 From the bottom of the stairs to the coach, 
 which was drawn up on the opposite side of 
 the street, stood two ranks of armed citizens. 
 She proceeded gravely, and with measured 
 steps, while her eyes were fixed on those 
 deluded men, who seemed not to know that 
 the tyranny of those who now oppressed the 
 
134 the child's favorite. 
 
 country was worse than that of any of their 
 kings. The armed force followed the coach 
 in two files, or ranks, while a mob of people, 
 attracted by the sight, stopped to gaze as it 
 passed. 
 
 " Away with her to the guillotine !" ex- 
 claimed several ferocious women; for the 
 women at this dreadful time were as bad and 
 cruel as the men. The guillotine is the in- 
 strument of death by which criminals are 
 executed in France. By it the victim's head 
 is chopped off, and a dreadful thing it is. 
 
 " Shall we draw down the blinds ?" said 
 one of the men civilly to Madame Roland, 
 upon hearing the fierce cry of these women. 
 
 "No, gentlemen," she replied, "inno- 
 cence, however oppressed, should never put 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 135 
 
 on the guise of criminality. I fear not the 
 eye of any one, nor will I conceal myself 
 from any person's view." 
 
 " You have more strength of mind than 
 many men ;" again remarked the officer. 
 " You wait patiently for justice." 
 
 " Justice !" she rejoined. " Were justice 
 done, I should not now be in your hands. 
 But even if I should be sent to the scaffold, 
 I shall walk to it with the same tranquillity 
 and firmness as I now go to prison. I never 
 feared any thing but guilt : injustice and 
 death I despise." 
 
 At length she reached her prison, where 
 she was obliged to put up with the most 
 wretched accommodation. But her fortitude 
 did not desert her. Indeed, she says herself, 
 
136 the child's favorite. 
 
 she would not have exchanged the moments 
 that followed, for those which might have 
 been thought by others, the happiest of her 
 life. Her situation made her deeply sensible 
 of the value of integrity, virtue, and an 
 approving conscience. These were the reflec- 
 tions that engaged her mind. She thought 
 indeed more of other people's miseries than 
 her own ; and although she could have had 
 better food if she had chosen, she actually 
 contented herself with bread and water that 
 she might relieve her wretched fellow-pri- 
 soners. 
 
 While in prison, Madame Roland had 
 written a letter to the Convention, complain- 
 ing of the ill-treatment she had met with, 
 and demanding justice. Her cruel enemies 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 137 
 
 seemed to think she was in the right, and 
 ordered her to be set at liberty ; but, as you 
 will see presently, it was only a cruel mockery. 
 Upon being set free, she immediately drove 
 home to leave a few things there, and then 
 went to the house of the kind friends who had 
 taken care of her daughter. She jumped 
 lightly from the coach, and then flew, as on 
 wings, under the gateway. 
 
 " Good morrow, Lamarre," said she to the 
 porter cheerfully, as she passed. 
 
 But she had scarcely proceeded up four or 
 five stairs, when she heard herself called by 
 two men, who had kept close behind her. 
 
 " What do you want?" said she, turning 
 round and addressing them. 
 
 " We arrest you in the name of the law." 
 
 10 
 
138 THE CHILD S FAVORITE. 
 
 Her feelings, at this moment, it is impossi- 
 ble to describe. You must imagine them. 
 You may think how bitter a shock it must 
 have been to find herself a prisoner again just 
 as she was congratulating herself upon her 
 recovered liberty. Still she behaved with her 
 accustomed fortitude. She desired the.order 
 for her arrest to be read to her ; and taking 
 an immediate resolution, stepped down stairs, 
 and walked hastily across the yard. 
 
 " Whither are you going ?" said one of the 
 men. 
 
 " To my landlord's, where I have business ; 
 follow me thither," she replied. 
 
 The mistress of the house opened the door 
 with a smile of pleasure and of welcome. 
 
 " Let me sit down and breathe," exclaimed 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 139 
 
 Madame Roland ; "but do not rejoice at my 
 being set at liberty ; it is only a cruel artifice. 
 I am no sooner released from one prison than 
 I am ordered to another. However, I am 
 determined to put myself under the protec- 
 tion of the section to which I belong, and I 
 will beg you to send thither for me." 
 
 Paris was at this time divided into sections, 
 or parts, and the part to which Madame 
 Roland belonged, had lately objected strongly 
 to the cruel and unjust acts of the Govern- 
 ment. She thought, therefore, her section 
 might assist her. The landlord's son, with 
 all the honest and generous feeling of youth, 
 accordingly offered to go. For no other 
 crime than this, the poor young man was 
 afterwards dragged to the scaffold and mur- 
 
140 the child's favorite. 
 
 dered, and his father died of grief. Such 
 were the savage deeds of the Revolutionary 
 Government. 
 
 Madame Roland's attempt to procure pro- 
 tection was of no avail. The people of her 
 section had not power enough to save her, 
 and she once more resigned herself to her 
 fate. The prison she was conveyed to was 
 even worse than the other ; but she did not 
 allow her courage to sink. She divided her 
 days with as much order as she could in a 
 dungeon, and employed her time in various 
 ways. Reading and drawing were her prin- 
 cipal amusements. 
 
 At length her enemies began to long for 
 her death. She was accordingly brought 
 before the Revolutionary tribunal, and, after 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 141 
 
 the mockery of a trial, sentenced to be guil- 
 lotined. On the day of her condemnation, 
 she was neatly dressed in white, her long black 
 hair flowing loosely to her waist. She would 
 have melted the most savage nature ; but her 
 cruel enemies seemed to have no hearts. 
 After sentence had been passed upon her, she 
 walked away with a light, cheerful step, and 
 made a sign for her friends to signify that she 
 was condemned to die. 
 
 Upon preparing for execution, this noble- 
 minded woman behaved still with the greatest 
 calmness and fortitude. She suffered her 
 hair to be cut off, and her hands to be bound 
 without a murmur or a complaint. There 
 was a man named Lamarche also left for exe- 
 
142 the child's favorite. 
 
 cution, and who was to die with her. She 
 saw that he was dejected, and tried to cheer 
 him by her own example. She even insisted 
 upon being the first to suffer, that she might 
 show him how easy it was to die ; and finally 
 met her fate with the most heroic firmness. 
 
 Such was the end of the celebrated Ma- 
 dame Roland. Her husband, when he heard 
 of her death, was overwhelmed with grief and 
 despair; and he resolved not to survive her. 
 Accordingly, he retired from the friend's 
 house, at which he lay concealed, and put an 
 end to his existence with a sword he had pro- 
 vided for the purpose. He plunged it into 
 his breast, and was found the next day sitting 
 and leaning against a tree, quite dead, but as 
 
MADAME ROLAND. 143 
 
 calm and composed as if in slumber. Their 
 daughter, whom I have mentioned, afterwards 
 became the wife of a gentleman named 
 Champagneux, one of the most faithful friends 
 of her parents. 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 
 
 My dear young readers, there is no lesson 
 more important for you to learn and practise, 
 than the necessity of forgiving injuries, and 
 returning good for evil. Without doing so, 
 you mu^i not expect to be looked upon as a 
 Christian, for the practice of this virtue is 
 one of the chief foundations of the Christian 
 character. Our blessed Saviour has made 
 particular reference to it in that beautiful 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 145 
 
 prayer, known by the name of the Lord's 
 Prayer. This prayer you are in the constant 
 habit of offering up to your Maker, night and 
 morning ; — at least I should be very sorry to 
 think you are not so. In it you say, "for- 
 give us our trespasses, as we forgive them 
 that trespass against us." So you see that 
 you actually pray to God to forgive you your 
 own sins and offences only, if you have al- 
 ready forgiven every one who may at any 
 time have injured you. Now this is a very 
 awful thing to think of, and it is quite plain, 
 that whenever you kneel down to say this 
 prayer, you ought to ask yourself whether 
 you have any ill-feelings towards any one. 
 If you have, you should pause and refrain 
 from saying it until, upon reflection, you have 
 
146 the child's favorite. 
 
 dismissed such feelings from your heart; 
 otherwise, you will only be uttering your own 
 condemnation. 
 
 It must often happen, I know, in the 
 course of your daily doings, that little 
 quarrels and disagreements will take place 
 between you and some of your young com- 
 panions. And very often you may be alto- 
 gether in the right; some one may hurt you 
 and annoy you, without any cause whatever; 
 but this is no reason why you should be 
 sullen and obstinate, and refuse to forgive 
 whoever it may be. Sometimes, if you look 
 fairly into your own conduct, the fault will 
 be with yourself; and you would think it 
 very bad in others, who from some ill-tem- 
 pered word or act of yours, that you might 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 147 
 
 afterwards be sorry for, should begin to hate 
 you, and do all they could to show it. 
 
 I fear that this resentment is sometimes 
 thought to show spirit, but this is a very sad 
 mistake, and a very sinful one too. As you 
 grow older you will find that nothing is 
 thought so really high-spirited, and so noble- 
 minded as to forgive injuries. Such a dis- 
 position is universally beloved and admired, 
 even by those who have not virtue enough to 
 practise it; and the example of it has often 
 been known to convert the wicked, where 
 punishment and all other means would have 
 failed. I will now tell you a little story I 
 once heard, which is quite true, to prove 
 what I say. 
 
 George and Frederick Stanley were the 
 
148 the child's favorite. 
 
 sons of a gentleman of good fortune, in the 
 North of England. Mr. Stanley had for- 
 merly been engaged in trade; hut by strict 
 attention and integrity he had amassed suffi- 
 cient wealth to retire from its cares. He 
 therefore bought a pretty little estate, and 
 withdrew to it to spend the rest of his days 
 in peace, and to superintend the education of 
 his two sons. He had married rather late in 
 life, and his children were still young when 
 he left business. He had, however, been 
 married twice; but his first wife had died 
 about a year after their union, leaving a little 
 boy to the care of her sorrowful husband. 
 Afterwards, he married again, when he had 
 the second son; the two boys were conse- 
 quently half-brothers. 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 149 
 
 George, the elder of the two, was a boy of 
 small stature, and sickly in appearance. His 
 features were also very plain, and having had 
 the misfortune in infancy, to be severely at- 
 tacked by the small-pox, his face was deeply 
 pitted. Altogether, therefore, his person was 
 not such as to prepossess people in his favor, 
 at first sight. But all these defects were 
 amply compensated by the goodness of his 
 disposition, and the superior excellence of his 
 mind. He was mild, amiable, affectionate, 
 studious and learned. He was also charita- 
 ble to the poor, bestowing his pocket money 
 on the blind beggar at the door, while 
 Frederick expended all his in toys and sweet 
 meats. 
 
 Frederick, the younger brother, was the 
 
150 the child's favorite. 
 
 opposite of George, in every respect. Nature 
 had bestowed upon him every advantage of 
 form and face ; and his disposition was very 
 lively, which is too often mistaken in children 
 for sense. But he was vain, proud, idle, igno- 
 rant, and obstinate. In spite of these bad 
 qualities, however, he was, while a child, a 
 general favorite, on account of the beauty of 
 his person. Even his father, till he dis- 
 covered his evil disposition, looked upon him 
 with more affection than upon his brother ; 
 although he was too sensible a man to make 
 any difference in his treatment of them. But 
 his mother, who was a vain and foolish 
 woman, lavished all her tenderness upon 
 him, while she regarded poor George, with 
 all the harshness of a step-mother. What- 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 151 
 
 ever the latter did was sure to be wrong 
 with her ; and he was loaded with reproaches, 
 and even cruelly upbraided for his personal 
 defects. On the contrary, whatever Frede- 
 rick did was sure to be right in the eyes of 
 his mother, who could see nothing wrong 
 in her beautiful boy as she called him ; and 
 if any difference ever arose between the 
 brothers, she always took. the part of the 
 youngest, without inquiring into the cause ; 
 no matter how unjust it might be. 
 
 This treatment produced the effect, which 
 such treatment always must produce. Frede- 
 rick became quite a spoilt child. He grew 
 more vain, obstinate, passionate, and capri- 
 cious, every day ; and by degrees began to 
 tyrannize over his elder brother. He would 
 
152 the child's favorite. 
 
 torment him and annoy him in every way 
 possible, and sometimes go and tell tales of 
 him to his mother, who believed every thing 
 he said. Poor George bore it all with the 
 greatest meekness and patience ; but it made 
 him very unhappy. For although his father 
 behaved much more kindly to him, and 
 would often reprove his brother, he felt there 
 was not that warmth in his manner which 
 his heart yearned for; and he often bitterly 
 lamented the want of a mother's love. He 
 often remonstrated calmly with his brother, 
 upon his unkindness towards him ; but the 
 only return Frederick ever made, was to 
 laugh at him and ridicule him. 
 
 All this time George was making rapid 
 progress in learning, under the tuition of his 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 153 
 
 father. Indeed, his love of study was so 
 great, that nothing came amiss to him ; and 
 the delight he found in books was one of his 
 chief sources of consolation, under his trials. 
 Frederick, on the contrary, got on very 
 slowly ; and when his brother could read and 
 write well, and was beginning to learn Latin, 
 he could scarcely spell a word of two syllables. 
 There was, however, as I said before, a live- 
 liness of disposition about him, and some- 
 times a degree of fun and drollery in what he 
 said, that his parents still thought he was 
 clever, and that some day he would start for- 
 ward in his learning all at once. 
 
 At length their father thought it better to 
 send them both to school, that Frederick, 
 
 removed from his mother's over fondness, 
 11 
 
154 the child's favorite. 
 
 and treated like the rest of the boys, might 
 pay more attention to his lessons. This 
 news, when he first heard of it, filled him 
 with great grief. He cried bitterly, and 
 begged and entreated of his father not to 
 send him away ; but George's love of learn- 
 ing, and wish to improve himself, added to 
 his uncomfortable situation at home, made 
 the idea of going to school, very agreeable to 
 him. Mrs. Stanley was very loth to part 
 with her darling boy; but although she 
 behaved so ill to poor George, and quite 
 spoilt the other by her foolish partiality, she 
 was not so foolish as not to know that it 
 was for his good that he should be sent to 
 school ; so she consented to the arrangement, 
 although not without many tears, and tried 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 155 
 
 to persuade Frederick to submit quietly to 
 his father's decision. He was, however, so 
 obstinate and passionate, and made such an 
 outcry about it, that it was not till his father 
 had threatened to flog him, and even began 
 to put his threat into execution, that he be- 
 came pacified. 
 
 When, at length, the time of their depar- 
 ture arrived, George received a single kiss, 
 and a cold good-bye from his step-mother, 
 and hastened to take his place in the car- 
 riage. Frederick then came forward, al- 
 though very much against his will, and his 
 mother seized him, and clasped him in her 
 arms, almost devouring him with kisses, 
 and shedding torrents of tears. At last she 
 was obliged to take her last look of him, and 
 
156 the child's favorite. 
 
 Mr. Stanley then stepped into the carriage, 
 and the party drove off. 
 
 The journey was passed on the part of the 
 younger boy, in tears, and sullen silence ; 
 while his brother, with great amiability, tried 
 all he could to cheer him. Mr. Stanley also 
 endeavoured to soothe his sorrow; but in 
 spite of his affection for him, he could not 
 help being struck with the great superiority 
 of George's heart and mind ; and every day 
 his attachment towards his elder son was 
 growing stronger and stronger. After a ride 
 of about fourteen miles, they arrived at the 
 school. It was a fine large house, and ap- 
 parently surrounded by extensive grounds. 
 The name of it was Eskdale Hall. The Rev. 
 Mr. Chambers, the master, who was a very 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 157 
 
 excellent and clever man, attended, and Mr. 
 Stanley and his two sons were ushered into a 
 large and handsome parlor, where they were 
 treated with the greatest politeness. Mr. 
 Chambers, seeing Frederick's spirits so de- 
 pressed, spoke in a kind and soothing tone 
 to him, and introduced some of his pupils, 
 in the hope of dispelling his gloom ; and in 
 a little while the sulky boy was induced to 
 join their amusements. 
 
 Mr. Stanley took this opportunity to de- 
 part unobserved, for he wished to spare 
 both Frederick and himself the pain of a 
 parting ; George, he knew, could bear it 
 better. He first of all, however, made Mr. 
 Chambers acquainted with the different dis- 
 positions of his two new pupils, and gave 
 
158 the child's favorite. 
 
 him a few general directions to guide him as 
 to his treatment of them, and then taking an 
 affectionate farewell of George, he set off for 
 home. 
 
 Frederick, by his prepossessing appear- 
 ance, his lively disposition, and fondness of 
 play, soon made his way among his school- 
 fellows. The masters also regarded him 
 with favor at first sight, while poor George 
 seemed still doomed to be neglected ; but 
 this did not last long. Frederick, before 
 many days, disgusted several of his young 
 companions by his overbearing, quarrelsome 
 disposition, and his masters by his idleness 
 and ignorance. The evil effects of his mo- 
 ther's indulgence were now very plain, for 
 as he had never been accustomed to learn, 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 159 
 
 he found it the most disagreeable thing- 
 possible. He was often confined during 
 play-hours and compelled to be at his tasks, 
 after all the other boys had done their's ; 
 and even then he could do very little without 
 his brother's assistance. 
 
 George, on the contrary, grew more and 
 more in favour every day, especially with 
 the masters, who were delighted with his 
 quick parts, his desire to learn, and his 
 amiability. With Mr. Chambers he was 
 a particular favorite, who looked upon him 
 as one of the most promising boys in his 
 school, and one who hereafter would confer 
 credit upon it. His behaviour towards his 
 brother was of the same kind and generous 
 nature as it had always been, although 
 
160 the child's favorite. 
 
 Frederick often taunted him with being a 
 mere book-worm, and jeered him for not 
 joining in the usual sports of the boys ; 
 sometimes he even joined with some of the 
 worst of his young companions in calling 
 him a spy and other nicknames, merely 
 because he was so great a favorite with 
 the masters. Still George bore it all with 
 the greatest good-nature, caring for nothing 
 so that he did his duty, and hoping that as 
 his brother grew older he would come to 
 know better. 
 
 Month after month passed away quickly 
 enough as it seemed to George, for being 
 always occupied and happy in the good graces 
 of his master, he had no reason to quarrel 
 with the course of time. With Frederick, it 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 161 
 
 was quite different ; each week seemed to him 
 wretchedly slow and dreary, as he took note 
 of them, one by one, in his anxious long- 
 ing for the approach of the holydays. At 
 last, however, the much wished for period 
 did arrive, and while preparing to go home, 
 he determined to do all he could to persuade 
 his parents not to send him back to school 
 again. On the day of breaking up, their 
 father sent the carriage and a servant to 
 bring them home. Upon its driving up 
 to the door, the boys quickly took their 
 seats in it, although with different feelings ; 
 and before two hours they once more found 
 themselves under their paternal roof. 
 
 Mr. Stanley had from time to time re- 
 ceived from Mr. Chambers accounts of the 
 
162 the child's favorite. 
 
 progress of his two sons ; in these accounts 
 their conduct had been fairly set forth by 
 their master, who dwelt with great praise 
 upon the numerous excellencies of George, 
 and seemed to regret that he could not 
 speak in the same way of his brother. Mr. 
 Stanley had accordingly been much grieved 
 by the bad behaviour of his younger son, 
 although he was greatly soothed by the 
 pleasure he felt in the good behaviour of 
 George. Upon their return home, however, 
 he received them both in the most affec- 
 tionate manner, while his wife flew to Fre- 
 derick, and almost overwhelmed him with 
 kisses and questions. 
 
 George, although he longed very much 
 to see his father, had not anticipated much 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 163 
 
 happiness from the holydays. He did not 
 expect to find his step-mother's feelings to- 
 wards him changed, and he now found that 
 he had farther mortifications to endure from 
 her disregard of him ; but the kindness and 
 affection of his father very much delighted 
 him ; indeed his good qualities had long 
 been working their effect in his father's heart ; 
 and it was apparent from many little things 
 that he was now his favorite. 
 
 Nor is there anything wrong in the feeling 
 in such a case ; for although it is not right 
 for parents to show any difference of feeling 
 towards their children, on account of personal 
 appearance, it is quite different with regard 
 to their dispositions. It is very right and 
 very necessary to make a distinction between 
 
164 THE CHILD'S FAVORITE. 
 
 the bad and the good, and to let the virtuous 
 child know that his virtues will render him 
 more beloved than the vicious one. 
 
 Mrs. Stanley, however, was very much 
 vexed to see the increasing affection of her 
 husband towards his eldest son, and it made 
 her treat him with still more harshness and 
 severity. When the time came round, there- 
 fore, for the boys to go back to school, 
 George was quite glad. Frederick, however, 
 was as sullen and silent as before, for all 
 his tears and entreaties to be permitted to 
 remain at home were in vain ; they accord- 
 ingly returned to Eskdale House. 
 
 Things went on in this manner for some 
 few years, when at length, in consequence of 
 a fall from his horse while riding, Mr. Stan- 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 165 
 
 ley died. Upon opening his will it was 
 discovered &at, after making an ample pro- 
 vision for his widow, he had divided the 
 rest of his property equally between his two 
 sons ; he also left his dying injunctions to 
 Frederick to live upon more harmonious 
 • terms with his brother. 
 
 The death of his father was a. sad blow to 
 poor George, for it was only from him that 
 he received any return to the affections he 
 felt glowing within his own breast. He had 
 also always stood by him in the quarrels 
 which took place between him and his brother 
 and step-mother, and he felt that his home 
 would be miserable enough now. It is true 
 the treatment he met with was not of the 
 same kind as that which he had received in 
 
166 the child's favorite. 
 
 childhood, for the boys had now grown to be 
 young men ; but it was as unjujt, and to his 
 warm heart, as bitter. His anticipations 
 were true enough, for being no longer con- 
 trolled by the presence of Mr. Stanley, their 
 bad conduct knew no check. For some time 
 he bore it with his usual patience, till, indeed, • 
 he could bear it no longer, and was compelled 
 to leave his home. Accordingly, each took 
 their respective shares of their father's pro- 
 perty, and the brothers separated. 
 
 Mrs. Stanley soon began to suffer the 
 penalty of her foolish fondness for one brother 
 and her bad conduct towards the other. The 
 fortunefthat fell to Frederick's share was suffi- 
 cient, with prudence, to have maintained him 
 comfortably through life ; but he was a spoilt 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 167 
 
 child from his hirth, and he had no sooner got 
 so much mgney into his power, than he 
 plunged into every kind of excess. He drank 
 to intoxication, attended horse-races and the 
 gaming-table, and indulged in many other 
 vices, so that in a few years he found himself 
 nearly destitute. This conduct occasioned his 
 mother a great deal of trouble; but what 
 grieved her most was, that with his losses his 
 disposition seemed to grow worse, and he now 
 began to treat even her with harshness and 
 passion. 
 
 This was, perhaps, no more than she de- 
 served; but she felt it very hard that her 
 punishment should come from Frederick, as 
 all her misconduct had grown out of her 
 over-fondness for him. He would often come 
 
168 the child's favorite. 
 
 home after remaining away for some days, 
 and demand money of her. ^fie, to pacify 
 him, was obliged to give it him. This she 
 had done so often as seriously to injure her 
 own property ; hut the reckless Frederick 
 consoled her and himself with the expecta- 
 tion of a large increase of fortune upon the 
 death of a rich uncle. This uncle was his 
 godfather, and he expected to inherit a great 
 portion of his property, and as he was far 
 advanced in years, and in a bad state of 
 health, he thought he could not have to wait 
 long. 
 
 All this time George had been conducting 
 himself in the same sensible and amiable 
 manner as he had always done. He had re- 
 moved to no great distance from his home, 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 169 
 
 in case anything should happen to require his 
 presence, for he still retained an attachment 
 for his cruel relatives, in spite of all their ill- 
 treatment. , Every one in the neighborhood 
 loved and admired him for his general good 
 character and his benevolence. Even Mrs. 
 Stanley, as she thought of Frederick's un- 
 kindness, began to repent of having treated 
 her step-son so unworthily. George was 
 also a great favorite with the rich uncle be- 
 fore mentioned, who liked him the best on 
 account of his good qualities, notwithstanding 
 his brother was his god"-son. 
 
 At last the old gentleman died, and Fre- 
 derick, as soon as he heard of it, hastened to 
 the house to learn the disposition of his 
 property. He found George there, who had 
 
 12 
 
170 the child's favorite. 
 
 attended his uncle in his last moments, and 
 who received his brother with his usual kind- 
 ness. He, however, was thinking of nothing 
 but the riches which he hoped to find left 
 him, and he demanded of his brother to be 
 made acquainted with his uncle's will. George 
 told him he could not do so at present, but that 
 he should see the will in a few days. 
 
 The truth is, that the good old man had 
 been so much offended by the vicious career 
 of his younger nephew, that he had left him 
 nothing ; to George he had bequeathed the 
 great bulk of his wealth, as a tribute of 
 his admiration and respect for his virtues; 
 this the generous young man knew, and he 
 was anxious to put his brother off till he 
 could arrange a plan for transferring a portion 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 171 
 
 of the property to him. His excuses, how- 
 ever, only irritated Frederick and made him 
 insist more eagerly upon knowing the con- 
 tents of his uncle's will ; such was his passion 
 that he even accused his brother of dishonesty, 
 and taunted him with wishing to rob him of 
 a portion of his share. George was accord- 
 ingly obliged to give way to him, and it was 
 agreed that the will should be read at the 
 lawyer's on the following day. 
 
 When the appointed time arrived, Frede- 
 rick, full of impatience, with his mother and 
 George repaired to the lawyer's ; the will 
 was then brought out and read in the presence 
 of all of them. It had evidently been made a 
 good many years ; after various bequests of 
 small amount to different friends and depen- 
 
172 the child's favorite. 
 
 dents ; the first part of the will went on to 
 divide his property between his two nephews ; 
 this was done pretty equally, with the excep- 
 tion of a particular bequest to Frederick, on 
 account of his being the testator's god-son. 
 Frederick seemed full of glee ; but this was 
 not all ; the lawyer went on to read a codicil 
 which had afterwards been added, and what 
 was the astonishment and mortification of 
 the younger brother when he heard the 
 following words : 
 
 " My nephew Frederick having by his mis- 
 conduct rendered himself utterly unworthy of 
 me and of the benefits I had intended to con- 
 fer upon him, I hereby formally disinherit 
 him ; virtue, on the contrary, deserves every 
 reward, and I hereby constitute my dear 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 173 
 
 nephew George sole heir of the property- 
 above, bequeathed to his unworthy brother 
 Frederick, in addition to what I have pre- 
 viously left him." 
 
 This was a dreadful blow to Frederick, who 
 now saw nothing but ruin and the gaol be- 
 fore him; for besides having spent all his 
 own money he was considerably in debt. 
 He turned deadly pale, and despair seemed 
 imprinted on every feature of his face ; he 
 sat quite silent, for he seemed too much over- 
 come to be passionate ; in a few minutes he 
 rose from his seat as if to depart, and it seemed 
 as though he was now for the first time made 
 sensible of the folly and guilt of his past con- 
 duct; for he murmured in a low tone, "I 
 have deserved it — I have deserved it." 
 
174 the child's favorite. 
 
 The noble-hearted George was cut to the 
 heart at beholding his brother's emotion; 
 at the same time he could not help feeling 
 pleased at what he said, since it seemed to 
 bespeak a repentant spirit. He hastened up 
 to him and endeavored to soothe him. 
 
 " Dear brother," said he, " do not be 
 so depressed; I have already told you that 
 you shall have your full share of our uncle's 
 property. If he could see you now, I am 
 sure he would allow his first will to stand ; 
 you appear to feel you have done wrong. 
 Oh, Frederick ! there is no shame in owning 
 it — there is no want of spirit in repentance. 
 Your misfortunes have chiefly sprung from 
 our disagreements ; be yourself, then ; you 
 have allowed the better qualities of your 
 
THE GENEROUS BROTHER. 175 
 
 disposition to be obscured, for I am sure 
 you possess them. Let us, Frederick, be 
 brothers in spirit as we are by nature ; let 
 us live united, and happiness must be ours.'' 
 Frederick could bear it no longer; tho- 
 roughly penetrated with a sense of his bro- 
 ther's nobility of character, he burst into a 
 flood of tears, and threw himself into his 
 arms ; he could say nothing, but he sobbed as 
 though his spirit would pass away. And in 
 part it was so ; for all that was evil in his 
 spirit did pass away. From that moment he 
 was a changed and reformed man ; he took 
 his brother for an example in everything, 
 looking up to him as to something superior, 
 and ever afterwards the most perfect union 
 and cordiality existed between them. 
 
176 the child's favorite. 
 
 Mrs. Stanley also was equally struck with 
 the virtue and generosity of her step-son. 
 Her ill-treatment of him had arisen, not 
 so much from real cruelty of disposition, 
 as from her jealousy and over-fondness for 
 her own son. She had also heen led by the 
 latter to think a great deal of George's good- 
 ness being only sly pretence to secure his 
 father's principal regards ; but now like 
 Frederick she became convinced of his truly 
 noble disposition. She therefore ran to him 
 and embraced him fondly ; and during the 
 rest of her life she endeavored, by the 
 greatest kindness, to drive from George's 
 memory, all recollection of the harshness 
 with which she had treated him in childhood 
 and in youth. 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 
 
 In the opposite picture you behold the 
 opposite effects of virtue and vice. The 
 artist has exhibited the slave of sin, chained 
 to a rock, unsheltered from the storm, but 
 seemingly defying his fate with an air of 
 passion and sullenness. The virtuous and 
 religious person, on the the other hand, is 
 raised to heaven by the hands of angels. 
 Her countenance is full of hope and rap- 
 turous joy, and her eyes are raised in thank- 
 
178 
 
 fulness towards heaven, the dwelling of her 
 Redeemer. 
 
 The contrast thus presented is no exagger- 
 ation — no fiction — but a true representation 
 of the consequences which result from the 
 opposite courses pursued by those who culti- 
 vate, and those who neglect to cultivate the 
 better part of their being — the immortal soul. 
 In the preceding parts of this volume we have 
 endeavored to mingle serious instruction with 
 entertainment. We have endeavored to en- 
 force various precepts of virtue. There are 
 many more things of the same kind conducive 
 to your moral training which should claim 
 your attention while young. One of the chief 
 of these is, the manner in which you should 
 conduct yourselves towards those with whom 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 179 
 
 you associate ; and as I am desirous of com- 
 pressing within this little volume as much as 
 possible of useful and interesting information 
 to suit different dispositions, I will devote a 
 few pages to the subject, leaving it to your 
 own good sense to read what I say, and if 
 you feel it to be right, to practise it. 
 
 Indeed in everything you read you should 
 have a better object in view than merely being 
 able to say that you know such and such a 
 thing, and to pass for a clever person. You 
 should seek to improve your own character 
 by comparing it with that of those whom you 
 read about ; for we all have some evil qualities 
 to repress, and some good ones to cultivate. 
 By doing this you will gain the esteem and 
 affection of every one who is acquainted with 
 
180 the child's favorite. 
 
 you, and this, after all, is the main object 
 with a great majority of us. We all wish to 
 be loved by those we mingle with, although 
 passion and ill-temper often prevent our 
 taking the right method to obtain our wish. 
 
 Next to these virtues, without which no 
 character can be called good, there are no 
 qualities which gain us so much the affections 
 of our fellow creatures as an amiable deport- 
 ment and an even temper. Even the most 
 admirable virtues unaccompanied by these 
 qualities fail of effect, for they are obscured 
 by rude or ill-mannered behaviour. 
 
 Politeness, therefore, should always be ob- 
 served in your conduct towards others, both 
 in your own families and with strangers. 
 Nothing is so strong a recommendation on a 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 181 
 
 slight acquaintance, nor does it lose its value 
 by time or intimacy, for it would prevent 
 many breaches of friendship if always acted 
 upon. Politeness it is true cannot be taught 
 by rules. It springs from the union of good 
 sense and kind feeling ; but she who is de- 
 sirous to please, will take care to cultivate 
 good dispositions. 
 
 To be perfectly polite, one must have pre- 
 sence of mind, and be able to understand 
 what is most proper to do or say upon all 
 occasions. This of course you can only arrive 
 at by degrees, through observation and a wish 
 to improve ; and you should not be disheart- 
 ened because you do not all at once attain to 
 it. If you have good sense and a kind heart, 
 you are sure to succeed, for the principles of 
 
182 the child's favorite. 
 
 politeness are always the same. Wherever 
 there are human beings, it must be rude and 
 wrong to hurt the temper or wound the feel- 
 ings of those you are mixed up with. 
 
 At your age, too, people are generally ready 
 to make allowance for any want of good man- 
 ners, if they see that it does not spring from 
 bad feeling, and that you are willing and 
 obliging. Sensible persons will not condemn 
 you for want of knowledge, because that may 
 be remedied as you grow older and learn 
 more ; but ill-temper and passion will always 
 make you enemies. The indulgence of such 
 a disposition makes you also your own worst 
 enemy, for it is impossible for a bad-tempered 
 person to be happy. In such a state of mind 
 you are even a greater burthen to yourself 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 183 
 
 than to others. A fit of ill-humour will spoil 
 the finest entertainment, and is as real a tor- 
 ment as a painful disease. 
 
 You must not suppose either, in indulging 
 such a fit, that as soon as the thing is over 
 it passes away. No ; each succeeding fit 
 leaves its traces upon the mind, until, at last 
 the disposition becomes one of confirmed ill- 
 temper, and whatever the other merits of the 
 person may be, she is universally disliked. 
 
 The good-natured person, on the contrary, 
 is almost sure to find a friend in every one. 
 Whatever faults she may have, they will be 
 treated with more kindness than in another : 
 she will find an advocate in every heart; her 
 errors will be lamented rather than hated, and 
 her virtues will be viewed in the most favor- 
 
1S4 the child's favorite. 
 
 able light. Good-humour, even if you pos- 
 sess no great talents and accomplishments, 
 will make your company more liked than that 
 of the most clever people, who have not the 
 same amiable quality. Indeed, it is almost 
 impossible that you can gain the love and es- 
 teem ©f any one without this engaging pro- 
 perty, whatever other excellencies you may 
 possess ; but with it you will scarcely fail of 
 finding some friends and favorers, even 
 though you should want almost every other 
 advantage. 
 
 Perhaps some may say, " all this is very 
 true, but our tempers are not in our own 
 power; we are made with different disposi- 
 tions, and if mine is not amiable it is rather 
 my misfortune than my fault." This is very 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 185 
 
 often said by those who will not take the 
 trouble to correct themselves. But all who 
 say so, deceive themselves very much, and the 
 excuse will be of no. good to them when 
 summoned before Him who searcheth and 
 knoweth all hearts. It is true we are not all 
 equally happy in our disposition ; but as I 
 told you before, every one has some evil 
 qualities to keep under, and some good ones 
 to bring forward, and it is in doing this that 
 virtue consists. 
 
 It is also quite plain, from experience, that 
 the most ill-tempered people can command 
 themselves when they have a motive strong 
 enough to make them do so. For instance, 
 if you are in the presence of any one you 
 are particularly desirous to please, whatever 
 
 13 
 
186 the child's favorite. 
 
 your temper* may be, you will, I dare say, 
 take care not to show it, so as to make your- 
 self disagreeable. It is, therefore, no excuse 
 to persons whom you have injured by unkind 
 words or vulgar speeches, to tell them you 
 were in a passion ; because allowing yourself 
 to treat them with passion is a proof of your 
 want of respect towards them ; and this, 
 even the humblest have a right to resent. 
 
 If your temper is unfortunately of so vio- 
 lent a nature, the best way is, when you feel 
 it rising, to leave the room. Resist the incli- 
 nation you may feel to say something illna- 
 tured and wounding to the feelings of the 
 person who may have offended you, because 
 you may be sure that it is unjust. And it 
 will be unjust for this reason ; that your mind 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 187 
 
 will not be in a fit state to reason calmly, or 
 to hear reason from others. Retire, then, I 
 say, altogether, until you grow cool. By thus 
 accustoming yourself to conquer and control 
 your anger, you will find by degrees how easy 
 it is to keep it within proper bounds. Such 
 a sphere of conquest is open to all ; to girls 
 and women as well as to boys and men ; and 
 it is a nobler one than any in which heroes 
 and warriors shine conspicuous. 
 
 But more than this, to restrain our passion 
 and ill-temper is a positive Christian duty. 
 Young people do not seem to be sufficiently 
 aware of this, or of the great sin they are 
 guilty of in not practising it. But hear what 
 our blessed Saviour says upon the subject. 
 In the Sermon on the Mount you will find 
 
188 the child's favorite. 
 
 these words : " I say unto you that whoso- 
 ever is angry with his brother without a 
 cause (which means without sufficient cause) 
 shall be in danger of the judgment ; and 
 whomsoever shall say to his brother, Kaca, 
 shall be in danger of the council : but who- 
 soever shall say, thou fool, shall be in danger 
 of hell-fire." 
 
 Now you know that when the Bible men- 
 tions the word brother, as it is here put, it 
 has the same sense as neighbor, and means 
 that all mankind are brothers. You see, 
 therefore, what a terrible sentence is pro- 
 nounced against those who put themselves 
 into a passion with their companions without 
 just cause, and call them names. 
 
 Lay these things, then, well to heart : and 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 189 
 
 to show you that such faults may easily be 
 corrected, and are therefore without excuse, 
 I will tell you a little tale. It is an anecdote 
 of a very sensible lady, who received a well- 
 deserved rebuke for her ill-temper in good 
 part, and did not fail to profit by it. 
 
 This lady, along with a gentleman and 
 some other ladies, went one day to visit the 
 British Museum. You have all heard of the 
 British Museum, I suppose; and some of 
 you, I dare say, have been there. It is a very 
 large building in London, where there are a 
 great many curiosities, and other things, to 
 be seen. The well-known Dr. Ayscough 
 was one of the gentlemen whose duty it was 
 to attend upon the visitors to this place, and 
 show them about the rooms ; and he hap- 
 
190 the child's favorite. 
 
 pened to accompany this lady and her party 
 for the purpose of explaining to them what 
 they saw. Every one of the party but her- 
 self seemed disposed to be highly delighted 
 with all they beheld ; but she was continually 
 teazing them to come away, and making light 
 of what appeared to please them. 
 
 " Oh, trumpery !" every now and then she 
 said; "come along. Lor' I see nothing- 
 worth looking at!" 
 
 These and such like exclamations she kept 
 continually addressing to her friends, urging 
 them to make haste. It so happened that 
 this lady was the handsomest of the party ; 
 and Dr. Ayscough, although an old bachelor, 
 being a great admirer of beauty, had at first 
 selected her to pay the most attention to. 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 191 
 
 Seeing her so disagreeable, however, he soon 
 transferred his attention to one of her com- 
 panions, who, though less handsome, was 
 much more amiable. At last he was so 
 annoyed with her continuing to speak so 
 contemptuously of every thing she came to, 
 that he turned towards her and said : 
 
 " My sweet young lady, what pains you 
 kindly take to prevent that pretty face of 
 yours from killing half the beaux in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 He then directed his conversation again to 
 the other members of the party, explaining 
 to them the different objects that they saw. 
 
 So much influence, however, did this lady 
 seem to possess over her friends that they 
 hastened from one thing to another quicker 
 
192 the child's favorite. 
 
 than they otherwise would have done. At 
 length they reached the last room, and having 
 seen all they wished, Dr. Ayscough prepared 
 to bid them adieu. Just before he made his 
 parting bow, however, he turned to the lady 
 who had made herself so disagreeable, and 
 with an easy politeness of manner thus smil- 
 ingly addressed her : 
 
 " Why, what a cross little puss you are ; 
 nothing seems to please you. Here are ten 
 thousand curious and valuable things brought 
 at a vast expense from all parts of the world, 
 and you turn up your nose at the whole of 
 them. Do you think with these airs that that 
 pretty face will ever get you a husband ? Not 
 if he knows you half an hour first. Almost 
 every day of my life, and especially when 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 193 
 
 attending ladies through these rooms, I regret 
 being an old bachelor, for I see so many 
 charming, good tempered women, that I re- 
 proach myself for not trying to persuade one 
 of them to bless me with their company. 
 But I can't fall in love with you, and I'll 
 honestly tell you, I shall pity the man that 
 does, for I am sure that you'll plague him 
 out of his life." 
 
 During this singular farewell address, the 
 gentleman who was of the party looked first 
 at the speaker and then at the lady, but it 
 was delivered in such a pleasant manner that 
 no one could take offence at it. The lady, 
 however, you may be sure, did not altogether 
 like it, and her fine dark eyes flashed rather 
 fiercely at the good doctor as he spoke ; but 
 
194 the child's favorite. 
 
 nothing was said, and the whole party then 
 went away. 
 
 Somewhat more than a year afterwards 
 the Doctor conducted a similar party upon 
 the round again. He was particularly pleased 
 with one lady of the party, and as she was 
 the prettiest, he devoted himself, according to 
 his usual custom, to her. She displayed the 
 most anxious desire to be made acquainted 
 with every thing she saw, and in the most 
 amiable manner begged the Doctor to explain 
 to her what she did not understand. She 
 also drew the attention of her friends to 
 many objects they would otherwise have 
 passed by, and seemed anxious that they 
 should be as much gratified as herself. 
 
 In short, this lady was disposed to be 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 195 
 
 pleased, and therefore every thing did please 
 her. Dr. Ayscough was equally delighted ; 
 and while he admired the beauty of her form, 
 he was still more struck with the charms of 
 her mind. At length, having shown them all 
 that was to be seen, he was about to make 
 his best bow, when his pretty and amiable 
 companion, with an arch smile, asked him if 
 he remembered her ? 
 
 " No, madam, " said he ; "but I shall not 
 easily forget you." 
 
 Then linking her arm in that of a gentle- 
 man who was one of the party, she asked, in 
 the same engaging manner, whether he re- 
 membered him ? 
 
 " Yes, I think I do," replied the Doctor; 
 
196 the child's favorite. 
 
 " but the gentleman looks better now than he 
 did before." 
 
 " Now, sir/' continued the lady, " don't 
 you recollect once, in this very room, giving a 
 lady, who was pleased with nothing, and dis- 
 pleased with every thing, a smart lecture for 
 her caprice and ill temper?" 
 
 "Yes, Madam, I do." 
 
 "Well, Sir, I am that lady; or I should 
 rather say I was; for you have been the 
 means, in the hands of Divine Providence, 
 of making me a totally different being to 
 what I then was, and I am now come to 
 thank you for it. Your half-in-jest, half-in- 
 earnest mode of reproof caused me to know 
 myself, and was of far more use than all that 
 
SELF-CONQUEST. 197 
 
 had been done before in correcting a spoilt 
 temper. After we had left you I said to 
 myself: 'If I appear thus unamiable to a 
 stranger, how must I appear to my friends, 
 especially to those who are destined to live 
 constantly with me V You asked me, Sir, 
 if I expected ever to get a husband ; I then 
 had one, this gentleman, who was present at 
 your just reproof; and I dare say he will 
 join with me in thanking you for giving it so 
 frankly and successfully." 
 
 The husband then expressed his thanks to 
 Dr. Ayscough in the most cordial manner for 
 having added so much to the happiness of 
 both himself and his wife. He then left his 
 address with the good Doctor, and telling 
 him that they should be most happy to see 
 
198 the child's favorite. 
 
 him at their house, they shook him by the 
 hand and departed. 
 
 Now here, my dear young readers, was 
 surely a noble triumph over ill-temper ; and 
 as the wise King Solomon says: "greater" 
 does this sensible and candid woman seem, 
 "in ruling her spirit, than he that taketh a 
 city." 
 
THE FAVORITE DOG. 
 
 My little boy, I am very glad to see you 
 making a pet of your dog. He tosses the 
 biscuit from his nose, and catches it at the 
 word of command, quite cleverly. Pray 
 what are you sprinkling water on his nose 
 for ? Probably it is to try his patience. Well, 
 you may take much greater liberties with the 
 dog than with the cat, who would instantly 
 resent such a proceeding as that. 
 
 The dog is the most reasonable, the most 
 
200 the child's favorite. 
 
 knowing, and the most noble animal that 
 God has made ; and all his services are given 
 to man. In many things he is superior to 
 man. Where shall we find a man always 
 grateful, never ungrateful ; always affection- 
 ate, never selfish ; without gain ; devoted till 
 death; without ambition; rendering every 
 service ; in short, forgetful of injuries, and 
 only mindful of benefits received ? Seek him 
 not, it will be a useless task; but take the 
 first dog you meet, and from the moment 
 that he adopts you for his master, you will 
 find in him all these qualities. 
 
 If we trace the early history of the dog, 
 it will, I fear, not be much to his advantage. 
 The word Cynic, among the Greeks, is taken 
 from the name of a dog ; and the Romans 
 
THE FAVORITE DOG. 201 
 
 were not more complimentary. And to come 
 at once to our own time, we have the French 
 canaille and cagnard, both derived from the 
 Latin canis (a dog) ; the first signifying the 
 lowest of the population, and the second an 
 idle and slothful man, who only cumbers the 
 earth. St. Chrysostom also speaks of the 
 dog as fawning upon you, when you approach 
 him, and biting your heels when your back 
 is turned. But, with all due reverence to 
 this saint, I think he has libelled the dog. 
 
 The dog was unclean to the Jews, because 
 he was not cloven-footed ; but the heathens 
 made a religion of that which was impiety to 
 Israel. The Romans sacrificed him to their 
 gods ; and whipped him annually for a crim- 
 inal, and then impaled him, because his an- 
 
 14 
 
202 THE CHILD S FAVORITE. 
 
 cestors had slept on the night on which the 
 Gauls attempted to seize the capitol. 
 
 The sacrifice of the dog, if legends are to 
 be trusted, led to his being eaten. Porphyry 
 states, that a part of his carcase having fallen 
 from the altar, the priest picked it up ; and 
 burning his fingers with the smoking flesh, 
 put them suddenly to his mouth. The taste 
 was so savoury, that, the ceremony ended, 
 he ate his fill of the dog, and he took the rest 
 to his wife. However this may be, the dog 
 found his way into the larder. Hippocrates 
 says, he was eaten by the Greeks ; and the 
 Romans considered him so great a delicacy, 
 that a puppy was prominent at some of their 
 most sumptuous feasts. In China, it is well 
 known that he is fattened upon vegetables, 
 
THE FAVORITE DOG. 203 
 
 like an ox or a pig, and publicly sold in the 
 butchers' shops. The sale of dogs' flesh for 
 human food is carried on secretly in Paris, 
 although forbidden by the government, who 
 extend a formal sanction to the traffic in 
 horse-flesh. 
 
 In England there is a tax upon dogs, 
 which keeps them down ; but in some other 
 countries, nearly all the dogs that are born 
 are suffered to grow up ; and, running about 
 the streets mangy and half-starved, they are 
 a great nuisance. In France the chiffonniers 
 are commissioned to knock the wanderers 
 on the head. A few years ago, the govern- 
 ment of Bombay was obliged to send out a 
 cargo of dogs to be destroyed out at sea, in 
 order to rid the city of their numbers, with- 
 
£04 the child's favorite. 
 
 out giving offence to the Parsees, a religious 
 sect, who regard them with reverence. But, 
 in some eastern cities, a man armed with a 
 heavy bludgeon drags a dead dog about the 
 street, which bringing to him all the curs of 
 the neighborhood, he mows them down, right 
 and left, without pit}'. 
 
 The physicians of former days employed 
 the dog in a most revolting manner, to the 
 cure of disease. He was opened alive, and 
 applied warm to assuage pain. They had 
 sometimes the mercy to cut his throat, and 
 wait the expiration of life, before he was 
 applied as a plaister. He, however, entered 
 largely into the preparations of the phar- 
 macopoeia : his bones were pounded for 
 powder, his feet melted for ointments, and 
 
THE FAVORITE DOG. 205 
 
 his carcase distilled for liquors of extraordi- 
 nary virtue. 
 
 Black dogs were considered in early times 
 to be the agents of magicians, and the earthly 
 form of the Evil One himself. Even so late 
 as 1702, the French soldiers who defended 
 Landaic against the. arms of the Imperialists, 
 were firmly persuaded that the dog of their 
 general was a familiar spirit, the real author 
 of all their victories. It is said, also, that 
 the dogs refused the bread that was thrown 
 them by the assassins of Thomas a Becket. 
 
 The dog was at a very early period trained 
 for the purposes of war, where, from his 
 vigilance and bravery, he answered all the 
 purposes of an armed sentinel ; and this 
 mode of defence is asserted to have ccn- 
 
206 the child's favorite. 
 
 tinued till the introduction of regular armies. 
 They were long used by the Turks to guard 
 outposts. At the present moment the French 
 videttes, in Algiers, are always preceded by 
 a couple of dogs. Anciently they were con- 
 spicuous in the action itself. After Marcus 
 had defeated the Cimbri, his legions had to 
 renew a deadlier battle with the women and 
 the dogs. The Celts deemed their dogs of 
 such importance in war, that they armed 
 them with collars of pointed iron, and put a 
 plate of steel over their backs. Some dogs 
 accoutred with the latter piece of defensive 
 armor, form the subject of a bronze discover- 
 ed at Herculaneum. Certain Gauls not only 
 made the dog discharge the duty of a soldier 
 in their wars, but a squadron of 200 formed 
 
THE FAVORITE DOG. 207 
 
 the body-guard of their king. This appears 
 to have been imitated in Ireland ; as Queen 
 Elizabeth sent no less than 600 with the 
 army of Essex. Columbus, also, in St. 
 Domingo, with a force of 200 foot, twenty 
 horse, and fifty dogs, routed a great number 
 of the natives ; and the terrible wounds in- 
 flicted upon the native savages by the bites 
 of dogs, created such a panic, that hence- 
 forth they became generally used in Ameri- 
 can warfare. 
 
 In 1795, a hundred bloodhounds were 
 landed at Jamaica, under English colours, 
 to attack the Maroons. When a trial was 
 made of them, by a sham fire, they rushed 
 forward with the greatest impetuosity, drag- 
 ging along their keepers, who held them 
 
208 the child's favorite. 
 
 back by ropes, and even running, in their 
 ferocity, to bite their muskets, till they tore 
 pieces from their stocks. 
 
 There are some strange stories upon 
 record of dogs. The story told by Pliny of 
 a dog, belonging to Alexander the Great, 
 who conquered, one after the other, a lion 
 and an elephant, is probably a fable ; and 
 particularly the addition, that his tail, his 
 legs, and his head were severally cut off, 
 without making him loose his hold. But 
 there are better grounds for believing that a 
 dog engaged the king of beasts, in the reign 
 of Henry VII., who absurdly ordered him 
 to be hanged for his presumption. 
 
 The dog is variously employed at St. 
 John's, in Newfoundland. About two thou- 
 
THE FAVORITE DOG. 209 
 
 sand of the fine dogs, who take their name 
 from the place, transport heavy goods of 
 wood and provisions ; and, in return for 
 their labour, are left, the half of the year in 
 which they are not required, without a single 
 morsel beyond what their own exertions can 
 procure. On the Continent of Europe, also, 
 the dog is slavingly employed in the smug- 
 gling trade; and in this arduous service, 
 which is constantly fatal to him, he shows a 
 wonderful sagacity. Loaded with goods, he 
 sets out in the night, scents the custom-house 
 officer, and attacks him, if he can take him 
 at, an advantage, and conceals himself, if 
 escape is difficult, behind some bush or tree. 
 On his arrival at his place of destination, he 
 will not show himself till he has first ascer- 
 
210 the child's favorite. 
 
 tained that the coast is clear; and while he 
 remains, gives warning of the approach of 
 the common enemy. 
 
 The memory of the dog can also be at- 
 tested by a number of stories. The first is 
 told by Plutarch, who made his army defile 
 before a dog, who for three days^ guarded a 
 murdered corpse, without eating or drinking, 
 and who seized the culprit as he passed 
 along. The most notorious is the story of 
 the dog of Montargis ; who dragged his 
 master's friend to the spot where he was 
 buried, flew on the assassin whenever he 
 met him, and finally overcame him in a 
 single combat, which took place by order of 
 Louis VIII. 
 
 Benvenuto Cellini gives an account of an 
 
THE FAVORITE DOG. 211 
 
 incident which happened to himself. A thief 
 one night broke into his shop. The dog con- 
 tended with the culprit, although he was 
 armed with a sword ; and next running into 
 the journeymen's chamber, awoke them by- 
 drawing off the bed-clothes. The men not 
 comprehending the cause of his impetuosity, 
 drove him from the room, and locked the 
 door. Nothing daunted, he returned to the 
 charge ; and overtaking the thief, who had 
 retreated from the street, he held him by the 
 cloak. The fellow had the wit to cry out 
 " Mad dog," which brought the loiterers to 
 his assistance ; and for this time he escaped. 
 After a considerable interval, as Cellini was 
 walking in one of the squares of Rome, his 
 dog flew at a young man, and endeavored to 
 
212 THE CHILD S FAVORITE. 
 
 tear him to pieces, in spite of the sticks that 
 belabored him. The dog was got off; but 
 as the man was retiring, he dropped a bundle 
 of papers, from which fell a ring of the 
 artist's. "This is the villain," said Cellini, 
 " which broke into my shop, and my dog 
 knows him again." And he once more let 
 loose the animal ; but the thief immediately 
 fell on his knees, and confessed his crime. 
 
 One of the most extraordinary facts re- 
 lating to the dog, is that wonderful instinct 
 which enables him to find his way by a road 
 which he has never yet traversed. Sir Wal- 
 ter Scott took a dog from Edinburgh to 
 Inverness, by sea ; and being lost there, he 
 found his way back to Edinburgh in two 
 days. A French writer also gives an ac- 
 
THE FAVORITE DOG. 213 
 
 count of a person who took a terrier from 
 Rochefort to Paris, in a bag, which returned 
 the next day to his old home. 
 
 Dogs are also very affectionate to animals 
 brought up with them. A Newfoundland 
 dog, at loose, has been known to take bones 
 to a dog tied up. Perhaps, on some future 
 occasion, I may tell you more about the dog ; 
 but for the present must refrain : in the hope, 
 however, that my young friend will always 
 treat dogs kindly. 
 
CHRISTIANA OF HOLSTEIN, 
 
 In the little town of Oranienbaum lived a 
 woman, bordering on ninety, by name Chris- 
 tiana, a native of Holstein. A little cottage 
 was her sole possession, and the supplying 
 of necessaries to a few ship-masters, coming 
 over from Cronstadt to go to Petersburgh 
 by land, when the wind was unfavorable for 
 sailing up, constituted her only livelihood. 
 
 Several Dutch ship-masters having one 
 evening supped at her house, on their depar- 
 
CHRISTIANA OF HOLSTEIN. 215 
 
 ture she found a sealed bag of money under 
 the table. Her surprise at this unexpected 
 discovery was naturally very great. Some 
 one of the company just gone must certainly 
 have forgotten it ; but they had sailed over 
 to Cronstadt, and were perhaps at sea, the 
 wind being fair ; and, therefore, there was 
 no hope of the guests returning. The good 
 woman put the bag in her cupboard, to keep 
 it till called for. However, nobody called 
 for it. Full seventeen years did she care- 
 fully keep this deposit, often tempted by 
 opportunities, still oftener pressed by severe 
 want, to employ this treasure to her own 
 use ; but her honesty overcame every temp- 
 tation, and every command of want. 
 
216 the child's favorite. 
 
 Seventeen years had elapsed, when some 
 ship-masters again stopped at her house, 
 to take what refreshment they could find. 
 Three of them were Englishmen, the fourth 
 a Dutchman. Conversing of various mat- 
 ters, one of the former asked the Dutchman 
 if he had ever before been at Oranienbaum. 
 " Yes, sure I have," returned he ; " I know 
 the place but too well ; my being here once 
 cost me seven hundred rubles." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Why, in one or other of these wretched 
 hovels I once got rather tipsy, and left be- 
 hind me a large bag of rubles, which I never 
 regained." 
 
 " Was the bag sealed ?" asked old Chris- 
 
CHRISTIANA OF HOLSTEIN. 217 
 
 tiana, who was sitting in one corner of the 
 room, and had been roused to attention by 
 what she had heard. 
 
 " Yes, it was sealed, and with 'this very 
 seal at my watch-chain." 
 
 The woman looked at the seal, and knew 
 it directly. " Well, then," said she, " by 
 that I should think you may be able to re- 
 cover what you lost." 
 
 " Recover it, mother ! no ; I am rather 
 too old to expect that. The world is not 
 quite so honest as that comes to." 
 
 While the four gentlemen were engaged 
 
 in conversation, the old woman had slipped 
 
 out, and was now waddling in with the bag. 
 
 " See here, perhaps you may be convinced 
 15 
 
21 S the child's favorite. 
 
 that honesty is not so rare as you imagined," 
 said she, putting the bag upon, the table. 
 
 The guests were overcome with astonish- 
 ment ; and the reader may imagine to him- 
 self their several expressions of commenda- 
 tion and gratitude. The Dutchman seized 
 the bag, tore open the seal, took — one ruble 
 out ! and laid it on the table, with a civil 
 thanksgiving for the trouble his hostess had 
 taken. 
 
 If the astonishment of the other three was 
 great before, it was now effaced by a still 
 greater. They stood looking at one another 
 for a minute, as silent as statues. " By my 
 faith," at last exclaimed one of the English- 
 men, striking his fist upon the table, " that 
 
CHRISTIANA OF HOLSTEIN- 219 
 
 bag, there, my lad, you shall not carry off so. 
 May I never stir, but the old woman shall 
 have a hundred rubles out of it, as a reward 
 for her honesty." His two countrymen, 
 who had been mute till now, added their 
 hearty concurrence to his proposal. 
 
 After a long debate, the Dutchman agreed 
 to part with fifty rubles. The Englishmen 
 insisted on a hundred. This proposal seem- 
 ed to him so unreasonable, that he declared 
 he would never comply with it. 
 
 "Avast, my lads !" cried the captain, who 
 had made the first attack upon the Dutch- 
 man's generosity, " I have somewhat to say. 
 The bag does not belong to us, it is true ; but 
 a Briton will never stand by and not see jus- 
 tice done; and, in good truth, the woman 
 
220 the child's favorite. 
 
 here has acted nobly. Give me hold of the 
 bag. I will count out the hundred rubles. " 
 No sooner said than done. The Dutch- 
 man, thunderstruck at this summary way of 
 proceeding, had not time to recover himself 
 before the hundred rubles were fairly count- 
 ed upon the table, and handed to the honest 
 old Christiana. 
 
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