ON THE OAK.
A DIALOGUE.

COME, my boys, let us ſit down awhile under yon ſhady tree. I don't [4] know how your young legs feel, but mine are almoſt tired.

I am not tired, but I am very hot.

And I am hot, and very dry too.

When you have cooled your⯑ſelf, you may drink out of that clear brook. In the mean time we will read a little out of a book I have in my pocket.

What an amazing large tree? How wide its branches ſpread! Pray what tree is it?

I can tell you that. It is an Oak. Don't you ſee the acorns?

Yes, it is an Oak—the nobleſt tree this country produces:—not only grand and beautiful to the ſight, but of the greateſt importance from its uſes.

I ſhould like to know ſomething about it.

Very well; then inſtead of read⯑ing, we will ſit and talk about Oaks. George, you knew the Oak by its acorns—ſhould you have known it if there had been none?

I don't know—I believe not.

Obſerve, then, in the firſt place, that its bark is very rugged. Then ſee in what manner it grows. Its great arms run out almoſt horizontally from its trunk, giving the whole tree a ſort of round form, and making it ſpread far on every ſide. Its branches are alſo ſubject to be crooked, or kneed. By theſe marks you might gueſs at an Oak even in winter, when quite bare of leaves. But its leaves afford a ſurer mark of diſtinction, ſince they differ a good deal from thoſe of other trees; being neither whole and even at the edges, not yet cut like the teeth of a ſaw, but rather deeply ſcolloped, and formed into ſeveral rounded diviſions. [6] Their colour is a fine deep green.

Then the fruit—

Fruit!

Yes—all kinds of plants have what may properly be called fruit, though we are apt to give that name only to ſuch as are food for man. The fruit of a plant is the ſeed, with what contains it. This, in the Oak, is call⯑ed an acorn, whch is a kind of nut, partly encloſed in a cup.

Acorn-cups are very pretty things. I have made boats of them, and ſet them a ſwimming in a baſon.

And if you were no bigger than a fairy, you might uſe them for drink⯑ing cups, as thoſe imaginary little be⯑ings are ſaid to do.

Are acorns good to eat?

No, that they are not. I have tried, and did not like them at all.

In the early ages of man, before he cultivated the earth, but lived upon ſuch wild products as nature afforded, we are told that acorns made a conſi⯑derable part of his food; and at this day I believe they are eaten in ſome coun⯑tries. But this is in warmer climates, where they probably become ſweeter and better-flavoured than with us. The chief uſe we make of them is to feed hogs. In thoſe parts of England where Oak woods are common, great herds of ſwine are kept, which are driven in⯑to the woods in autumn, when the acorns fall, and provide for themſelves plenti⯑fully for two or three months. This however, is a ſmall part of the praiſe of the Oak. You will be ſurpriſed when I tell you, that to this tree our country owes its chief glory and ſecurity.

Aye, how can that be?

I don't know whether in your reading you have ever met with the ſtory, that Athens, a famous city in [8] Greece, conſulting the oracle how it might beſt defend itſelf againſt its enemies, was adviſed to truſt to wooden walls.

Wooden walls!—that's odd—I ſhould think ſtone walls better, for wooden ones might be ſet on fire.

True; but the meaning was, that as Athens was a place of great trade, and its people were ſkilled in maritime affairs, they ought to truſt to their ſhips. Well, this is the caſe with Great Bri⯑tain. As it is an iſland, it has no need of walls and fortifications while it poſ⯑ſeſſes ſhips to keep all enemies at a diſ⯑tance. Now, we have the greateſt and fineſt navy in the world, by which we both defend ourſelves, and attack other nations when they inſult us; and this is all built of Oak.

Would no other wood do to build ſhips?

None nearly ſo well, eſpecially for men of war; for it is the ſtouteſt and ſtrongeſt wood we have; and there⯑fore [9] beſt fitted, both to keep ſound un⯑der water, and to bear the blows and ſhocks of the waves, and the terrible ſtrokes of cannon balls. It is a peculiar excellence for this laſt purpoſe, that Oak is not ſo liable to ſplinter or ſhiver as other woods, ſo that a ball can paſs through it without making a large hole. Did you never hear the old ſong,‘Heart of Oak are our ſhips, hearts of Oak are our men, &c.?’

No.

It was made at a time when England was more ſucceſsful in war than had ever before been known, and our ſucceſs was properly attributed chiefly to our fleet, the great ſupport of which is the Britiſh Oak; ſo I hope you will henceforth look upon Oaks with due reſpect.

Yes—it ſhall always be my fa⯑vourite tree.

Had not Pope reaſon, when ſaid, in his Windſor Foreſt,

Theſe lines refer to its uſe as well for merchant ſhips as for men of war; and in fact all our ſhips are built either of native or foreign Oak.

Are the maſts of ſhips made of Oak?

No—it would be too heavy. Beſides, it would not be eaſy to find trunks of Oak long and ſtraight enough for that purpoſe. They are made of various kinds of fir or pine, which grow very tall and taper.

Is Oak wood uſed for any thing beſides ſhip-building?

O yes!—It is one of the prin⯑cipal woods of the carpenter, being em⯑ployed wherever great ſtrength and du⯑rability are required. It is uſed for door and window frames, and the beams that are laid in walls to ſtrengthen them. [11] Floors and ſtaircaſes are ſometimes made with it; and in old houſes in the coun⯑try, which were built when Oak was more plentiful than at preſent, almoſt all the timber about them is Oak. It is alſo occaſionally uſed for furniture, as tables, chairs, drawers, and bedſteads; though mahogany has now much taken its place for the better ſort of goods, and the lighter and ſofter woods for the cheaper: for the hardneſs of Oak ren⯑ders it difficult and expenſive to work. It is ſtill, however, the chief material uſed in mill-work, in bridge and water⯑works, for waggon and cart bodies, for large caſks and tubs, and for the laſt piece of furniture a man has occaſion for. What is that, do you think, George?

I don't know.

A coffin.

So it is.

But why ſhould that be made of ſuch ſtrong wood?

There can be no other reaſon, than that weak attachment we are apt to have for our bodies when we have done with them, which has made men in various countries deſirous of keeping them as long as poſſible from decay. But I have not yet done with the uſes of the Oak. Were either of you ever in a tanner's yard?

We often go by one at the end of the town; but we durſt not go in for fear of the great dog.

But he is always chained in the day-time.

Yes—but he barks ſo loud, and looks ſo fierce, that we were afraid he would break his chain.

I doubt you are a couple of cow⯑ards. However, I ſuppoſe you came near enough to obſerve great ſtacks of bark in the yard.

O yes—there are ſeveral.

Thoſe are Oak bark, and it is uſed in tanning the hides.

What does it do to them?

I'll tell you. Every part of the Oak abounds in a quality called aſtrin⯑gency, or a binding power. The effect of this is to make more cloſe and com⯑pact, or to ſhrivel up, all ſoft things, and thereby make them firmer and leſs liable to decay. The hide, then, when taken from the animal, after being ſteep⯑ed in lime and water to get off the hair and greaſe, is put to ſoak in a li⯑quor made by boiling Oak bark in wa⯑ter. This liquor is ſtrongly aſtringent, and by ſtiffening the ſoft hide, turns it into what we call leather. Other things are alſo tanned for the purpoſe of pre⯑ſerving them, as fiſhing nets, and boat⯑ſails. This uſe of the bark of the Oak makes it a very valuable commodity; and you may ſee people in the woods carefully ſtripping the Oaks when cut down, and piling up the bark in heaps.

I have ſeen ſuch heaps of bark, but I thought they were only to burn.

No,—they are much too valu⯑able for that. Well, but I have an⯑other uſe of the Oak to mention, and that is in dying.

Dying! I wonder what colour it can dye?

Oak ſaw-duſt is a principal in⯑gredient in dying ſuſtians. By various mixtures and managements it is made to give them all the different ſhades of drab and brown. Then, all the parts of the Oak, like all other aſtringent ve⯑getables, produce a dark blue or black by the addition of any preparation of iron. The bark is ſometimes uſed in this way for dying black. And did you ever ſee what boys call an Oak⯑apple?

Yes—I have gathered them myſelf.

Do you know what they are?

I thought they were the fruit of the Oak.

No—I have told you that the acorns are the fruit. Theſe are ex⯑creſcences formed by an inſect.

An inſect—how can they make ſuch a thing?

It is a ſort of fly, that has a power of pie cing the outer ſkin of the Oak boughs, under which it lays its eggs. The part then ſwells into a kind of ball, and the young inſects, when hatched, eat their way out. Well; this ball or apple is a pretty ſtrong aſtrin⯑gent, and is ſometimes uſed in dying black. But in the warm countries, there is a ſpecies of Oak which bears round excreſcences of the ſame kind, called galls, which become hard, and are the ſtrongeſt aſtringents known. They are the principal ingredients in the black dyes, and common ink is made with them, together with a ſub⯑ſtance [16] called green vitriol or copperas, which contains iron.

I have now told you the chief uſes that I can recollect of the Oak; and theſe are ſo important, that whoever drops an acorn into the ground, and takes proper care of it when it comes up, may be ſaid to be a benefactor to his country. Beſides, no ſight can be more beautiful and majeſtic than a fine Oak wood. It is an ornament fit for the habitation of the firſt nobleman in the land.

I wonder, then, that all rich gentlemen who have ground enough, do not cover it with Oaks.

Many of them, eſpecially of late years, have made great plantations of theſe trees. But all ſoils do not ſuit them; and then there is another circum⯑ſtance which prevents many from being at this trouble and expence, which is, the long time an Oak takes in grow⯑ing, ſo that no perſon can reaſonably [17] expect to profit by thoſe of his own planting. An Oak of fifty years is greatly ſhort of its full growth, and they are ſcarcely arrived at perfection under a century. However, it is our duty to think of poſterity as well as ourſelves; and they who receive Oaks from their anceſtors, ought certainly to furniſh others to their ſucceſſors.

Then I think that every one who cuts down an Oak ſhould be oblig⯑ed to plant another.

Very right—but he ſhould plant two or three for one, for fear of acci⯑cidents in their growing

I will now repeat to you ſome verſes deſcribing the Oak in its ſtate of full growth, or rather of beginning decay, with the various animals living upon it—and then we will walk.

THE YOUNG MOUSE.
A FABLE.

A YOUNG Mouſe lived in a cupboard where ſweetmeats were kept; ſhe dined every day upon biſcuit, marmalade, or fine ſugar. Never any little Mouſe had lived ſo well. She had often ven⯑tured to peep at the family while they ſat at ſupper; nay, ſhe had ſometimes ſtole down on the carpet, and picked up the crumbs, and nobody had ever hurt her. She would have been quite hap⯑py, but that ſhe was ſometimes fright⯑ened [19] by the cat, and then ſhe ran trem⯑bling to her hole behind the wainſcot. One day ſhe came running to her mo⯑ther in great joy; Mother! ſaid ſhe, the good people of this family have built me a houſe to live in; it is in the cupboard: I am ſure it is for me, for it is juſt big enough: the bottom is of wood, and it is covered all over with wires; and I dare ſay they have made it on purpoſe to ſcreen me from that terrible cat, which ran after me ſo of⯑ten: there is an entrance juſt big enough for me, but puſs cannot follow; and they have been ſo good as to put in ſome toaſted cheeſe, which ſmells ſo deliciouſly, that I ſhould have run in directly and taken poſſeſſion of my new houſe, but I thought I would tell you firſt, that we might go in together, and both lodge there to-night, for it will hold us both.

My dear child, ſaid the old Mouſe, it is moſt happy that you did not go in, [20] for this houſe is called a trap, and you would never have come out again, ex⯑cept to have been devoured, or put to death in ſome way or other. Though man has not ſo fierce a look as a cat, he is as much our enemy, and has ſtill more cunning.

THE WASP AND BEE.
A FABLE.

A WASP met a Bee, and ſaid to him, Pray, can you tell me what is the reaſon that men are ſo illnatured to me, while they are ſo fond of you? We are both very much alike, only that the broad golden rings about my body make me much handſomer than you are: we are both winged inſects, we both love ho⯑ney, and we both ſting people when we are angry; yet men always hate me, [21] and try to kill me, though I am much more familiar with them than you are, and pay them viſits in their houſes, and at their tea-table, and at all their meals: while you are very ſhy, and hardly ever come near them: yet, they build you curious houſes, thatched with ſtraw, and take care of, and feed you, in the win⯑ter very often:—I wonder what is the reaſon.

The Bee ſaid, Becauſe you never do them any good, but, on the contrary, are very troubleſome and miſchievous; therefore they do not like to ſee you; but they know that I am buſy all day long in making them honey. You had better pay them fewer viſits, and try to be uſeful.

TRAVELLERS' WONDERS.

ONE winter's evening, as Captain Compaſs was ſitting by the fire-ſide with his children all round him, little Jack ſaid to him, Papa, pray tell us ſome ſtories about what you have ſeen in your voyages. I have been vaſtly entertain⯑ed whilſt you were abroad, with Gul⯑liver's Travels, and the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor; and I think, as you have gone round and round the world, you muſt have met with things as won⯑derful as they did.—No, my dear, ſaid the Captain, I never met with Lillipu⯑tians or Brobdingnagians, I aſſure you, nor ever ſaw the black loadſtone moun⯑tain, or the valley of diamonds; but, to be ſure, I have ſeen a great variety of people, and their different manners and ways of living; and if it will be any entertainment to you, I will tell you [23] ſome curious particulars of what I ob⯑ſerved.—Pray do, Papa, cried Jack and all his brothers and ſiſters; ſo they drew cloſe round him, and he began as follows.

Well then—I was once, about this time of the year, in a country where it was very cold, and the poor inhabitants had much ado to keep themſelves from ſtarving. They were clad partly in the ſkins of beaſts made ſoft and ſmooth by a particular art, but chiefly in gar⯑ments made from the outer covering of a middle-ſized quadruped, which they were ſo cruel as to ſtrip off his back while he was alive. They dwelt in ha⯑bitations, part of which was ſunk under ground. The materials were either ſtones, or earth hardened by fire; and ſo violent in that country were the ſtorms of wind and rain, that many of them covered their roofs all over with ſtones. The walls of their houſes had holes to let in the light; but to prevent [24] the cold air and wet from coming in, they were covered with a ſort of tranſ⯑parent ſtone, made artificially of melted ſand or flints. As wood was rather ſcarce, I know not what they would have done for firing, had they not diſ⯑covered in the bowels of the earth a very extraordinary kind of ſtone, which when put among burning wood, caught fire and flamed like a torch.

Dear me, ſaid Jack, what a wonder⯑ful ſtone! I ſuppoſe it was ſomewhat like what we call fire-ſtones, that ſhine ſo when we rub them together.—I don't think they would burn, replied the Cap⯑tain; beſides, theſe are of a darker co⯑lour.

Well—but their diet too was re⯑markable. Some of them eat fiſh that had been hung up in the ſmoke till they were quite dry and hard; and along with it they eat either the roots of plants, or a ſort of coarſe black cake made of powdered ſeeds. Theſe were the poorer [25] claſs: the richer had a whiter kind of cake, which they were fond of daubing over with a greaſy matter that was the product of a large animal among them. This greaſe they uſed, too, in almoſt all their diſhes, and when freſh, it really was not unpalatable. They likewiſe devoured the fleſh of many birds and beaſts when they could get it; and eat the leaves and other parts of a variety of vegetables growing in the country, ſome abſolutely raw, others variouſly prepared by the aid of fire. Another great article of food was the curd of milk, preſſed into a hard maſs and ſalt⯑ed. This had ſo rank a ſmell, that per⯑ſons of weak ſtomachs often could not bear to come near it. For drink, they made great uſe of the water in which certain dry leaves had been ſteeped. Theſe leaves, I was told, came from a great diſtance. They had likewiſe a method of preparing a liquor of the ſeeds of a graſs-like plant ſteeped in [26] water, with the addition of a bitter herb, and then ſet to work or ferment. I was prevailed upon to taſte it, and thought it at firſt nauſeous enough, but in time I liked it pretty well. When a large quantity of the ingredints is uſed, it becomes perfectly intoxicating. But what aſtoniſhed me moſt, was their uſe of a liquor ſo exceſſively hot and pun⯑gent, that it ſeems like liquid fire. I once got a mouthful of it by miſtake, taking it for water, which it reſembles in appearance; but I thought it would inſtantly have taken away my breath. Indeed, people are not unfrequently killed by it; and yet many of them will ſwallow it greedily whenever they can get it. This, too, is ſaid to be pre⯑pared from the ſeeds above-mentioned, which are innocent and even ſalutary in their natural ſtate, though made to yield ſuch a pernicious juice. The ſtrangeſt cuſtom that I believe prevails in any na⯑tion I found here, which was, that ſome [27] take a mighty pleaſure in filling their mouths full of ſtinking ſmoke; and others, in thruſting a naſty powder up their noſtrils.

I ſhould think it would choke them, ſaid Jack. It almoſt did me, anſwered his father, only to ſtand by while they did it—but uſe, it is truly ſaid, is ſe⯑cond nature.

I was glad enough to leave this cold climate; and about half a year after, I fell in with a people enjoying a delicious temperature of air, and a country full of beauty and verdure. The trees and ſhrubs were furniſhed with a great va⯑riety of fruits, which, with other ve⯑getable products, conſtituted a large part of the food of the inhabitants. I particularly reliſhed certain berries grow⯑ing in bunches, ſome white and ſome red, of a very pleaſant ſouriſh taſte, and ſo tranſparent, that one might ſee the ſeeds at their very centre. Here were whole fields full of extremely odorifer⯑ous [28] flowers, which they told me were ſucceeded by pods bearing ſeeds, that afforded good nouriſhment to man and beaſt. A great variety of birds enli⯑vened the groves and woods; among which I was entertained with one, that without any teaching ſpoke almoſt as articulately as a parrot, though indeed it was all the repetition of a ſingle word. The people were tolerably gentle and civilized, and poſſeſſed many of the arts of life. Their dreſs was very various. Many were clad only in a thin cloth made of the long fibres of the ſtalk of a plant cultivated for the purpoſe, which they prepared by ſoaking in water, and then beating with large mallets. Others wore cloth wove from a ſort of vegeta⯑ble wool, growing in pods upon buſhes. But the moſt ſingular material was a fine gloſſy ſtuff, uſed chiefly by the richer claſſes, which, as I was credibly in⯑formed, is manufactured out of the webs of caterpillars—a moſt wonderful cir⯑cumſtance, [29] if we conſider the immenſe number of caterpillars neceſſary to the production of ſo large a quantity of the ſtuff as I ſaw uſed. This people are very fantaſtic in their dreſs, eſpecially the women, whoſe apparel conſiſts of a great number of articles impoſſible to be deſcribed, and ſtrangely diſguiſing the natural form of the body. In ſome in⯑ſtances they ſeem very cleanly; but in others, the Hottentots can ſcarce go beyond them; particularly in the ma⯑nagement of their hair, which is all matted and ſtiffened with the fat of ſwine and other animals, mixed up with powders of various colours and ingre⯑dients. Like moſt Indian nations, they uſe feathers in the head-dreſs. One thing ſurpriſed me much, which was, that they bring up in their houſes an animal of the tyger kind, with formi⯑dable teeth and claws, which, notwith⯑ſtanding its natural ferocity, is played [30] with and careſſed by the moſt timid and delicate of their women.

I am ſure I would not play with it, ſaid Jack. Why you might chance to get an ugly ſcratch if you did, ſaid the Captain.

The language of this nation ſeems very harſh and unintelligible to a fo⯑reigner, yet they converſe among one another with great eaſe and quickneſs. One of the oddeſt cuſtoms is that which men uſe on ſaluting each other. Let the weather be what it will, they un⯑cover their heads, and remain unco⯑vered for ſome time, if they mean to be extraordinarily reſpectful.

Why that's like pulling off our hats, ſaid Jack. Ah, ha! Papa, cried Bet⯑ſey, I have found you out. You have been telling us of our own country and what is done at home all this while. But, ſaid Jack, we don't burn ſtones, nor eat greaſe and powdered ſeeds, nor [31] wear ſkins and caterpillars' webs, nor play with tygers. No? ſaid the Cap⯑tain—pray what are coals but ſtones; and is not butter, greaſe; and corn, ſeeds; and leather, ſkins; and ſilk the web of a kind of caterpillar; and may we not as well call a cat an animal of the tyger-kind, as a tyger an animal of the cat-kind? So, if you recollect what I have been deſcribing, you will find, with Betſey's help, that all the other wonderful things I have told you of are matters familiar among ourſelves. But I meant to ſhow you, that a foreigner might eaſily repreſent every thing as equally ſtrange and wonderful among us, as we could do with reſpect to his country; and alſo to make you ſenſible that we daily call a great many things by their names, without ever enquiring into their nature and properties; ſo that, in reality, it is only the names, and not the things themſelves, with which we are acquainted.

ALFRED,
A DRAMA.

• ALFRED, King of England.
• GUBBA, a Farmer.
• GANDELIN, his Wife.
• ELLA, an Officer of Alfred.

How retired and quiet is every thing in this little ſpot! The river winds its ſilent waters round this retreat; and the tangled buſhes of the thicket ſence it in from the attack of an enemy. The bloody Danes have not yet pierced into this wild ſolitude. I believe I am ſafe from their purſuit. But I hope I ſhall find ſome inhabitants here, otherwiſe I ſhall die of hunger.—Ha! here is a narrow path through the wood; and I think I ſee the ſmoke of a cottage riſing between the trees. I will bend my ſteps thither.

Good even to you, good man. Are you diſpoſed to ſhew hoſ⯑pitality to a poor traveller?

Why truly there are ſo many poor travellers now a days, that if we entertain them all, we ſhall have no⯑thing left for ourſelves. However, come along to my wife, and we will ſee what can be done for you.

Wife, I am very weary; I have been chopping wood all day.

You are always ready for your ſupper, but it is not ready for you, I aſſure you: the cakes will take an hour to bake, and the ſun is yet high; it has not yet dipped behind the old barn. But who have you with you, I trow?

Good mother, I am a ſtran⯑ger; and entreat you to afford me food and ſhelter.

Good mother, quotha! Good wife, if you pleaſe, and wel⯑come. But I do not love ſtrangers; and the land has no reaſon to love them. It has never been a merry day for Old England ſince ſtrangers came into it.

I am not a ſtranger in Eng⯑land, though I am a ſtranger here. I am a true born Engliſhman.

And do you hate thoſe wick⯑ed Danes, that eat us up, and burn our houſes, and drive away our cattle?

I do hate them.

Heartily! He does not ſpeak heartily, huſband.

Heartily I hate them; moſt heartily.

Give me thy hand then; thou art an honeſt fellow.

I was with King Alfred in the laſt battle he fought.

With King Alfred? hea⯑ven bleſs him!

What is become of our good King?

Did you love him, then?

Yes, as much as a poor man may love a king; and kneeled down and prayed for him every night, that he might conquer thoſe Daniſh wolves; but it was not to be ſo.

You could not love Alfred better than I did.

But what is become of him?

He is thought to be dead.

Well, theſe are ſad times; heaven help us! Come, you ſhall be welcome to ſhare the brown loaf with us; I ſuppoſe you are too ſharp ſet to be nice.

Ay, come with us; you ſhall be as welcome as a prince! But hark ye, huſband; though I am very willing to be charitable to this ſtranger (it would be a ſin to be otherwiſe), yet there is no reaſon he ſhould not do ſomething to maintain himſelf: he looks ſtrong and capable.

Why, that's true. What can you do, friend?

I am very willing to help you in any thing you chooſe to ſet me about. It will pleaſe me beſt to earn my bread before I eat it.

Let me ſee. Can you tie up faggots neatly?

I have not been uſed to it. I am afraid I ſhould be awkward.

Can you thatch? There is a piece blown off the cow-houſe.

Alas, I cannot thatch.

Aſk him if he can weave ruſhes: we want ſome new baſkets.

I have never learned.

Can you ſtack hay?

No.

Why, here's a fellow! and yet he hath as many pair of hands as his neighbours. Dame, can you em⯑ploy him in the houſe? He might lay wood on the fire, and rub the tables.

Let him watch theſe cakes, then: I muſt go and milk the kine.

And I'll go and ſtack the wood, ſince ſupper is not ready.

But pray obſerve, friend! do not let the cakes burn; turn them often on the hearth.

I ſhall obſerve your direc⯑tions.

For myſelf, I could bear it; but England, my bleeding country, for thee my heart is wrung with bitter anguiſh!—From the Humber to the Thames the rivers are ſtained with blood!—My brave ſoldiers cut to pieces!—My poor people—ſome maſ⯑ſacred, others driven from their warm homes, ſtripped, abuſed, inſulted:—and I, whom heaven appointed their ſhep⯑herd, unable to reſcue my defenceleſs flock from the ravenous jaws of theſe devourers!—Gracious heaven! if I am [38] not worthy to ſave this land from the Daniſh ſword, raiſe up ſome other hero to fight with more ſucceſs than I have done, and let me ſpend my life in this obſcure cottage, in theſe ſervile offices: I ſhall be content, if England is happy.

O! here comes my blunt hoſt and hoſteſs.

Help me down with the pail, huſband. This new milk, with the cakes, will make an excellent ſup⯑per: but, mercy on us, how they are burnt! black as my ſhoe; they have not once been turned: you oaf, you lubber, you lazy loon—

Indeed, dame, I am ſorry for it; but my mind was full of ſad thoughts.

Come, wife, you muſt forgive him; perhaps he is in love. I remem⯑ber when I was in love with thee—

You remember!

Yes, dame, I do remem⯑ber [39] it, though it is many a long year ſince; my mother was making a kettle of furmety—

Pr'ythee, hold thy tongue, and let us eat our ſuppers.

How refreſhing is this ſweet new milk, and this wholeſome bread!

Eat heartily, friend. Where ſhall we lodge him, Gandelin?

We have but one bed, you know; but there is freſh ſtraw in the barn.

If I ſhall not lodge like a king, at leaſt I ſhall lodge like a ſoldier. Alas! how many of my poor ſoldiers are ſtretched on the bare ground!

What noiſe do I hear? It is the trampling of horſes. Good huſ⯑band, go and ſee what is the matter.

Heaven forbid my misfor⯑tunes ſhould bring deſtruction on this ſimple family! I had rather have pe⯑riſhed in the wood.

Mercy defend us, a ſword!

The Danes! the Danes! O do not kill us!

My Liege, my Lord, my Sovereign; have I found you!

My brave Ella!

I bring you good news, my Sovereign! Your troops that were ſhut⯑up in Kinwith Caſtle made a deſperate ſally—the Danes were ſlaughtered. The fierce Hubba lies gaſping on the plain.

Is it poſſible! Am I yet a king?

Their famous ſtandard, the Daniſh raven, is taken; their troops are panic ſtruck; the Engliſh ſoldiers call aloud for Alfred. Here is a letter which will inform you of more particulars.

What will become of us! Ah, dame, that tongue of thine has undone us!

O, my poor dear huſband! [41] we ſhall all be hanged, that's certain. But who could have thought it was the King?

Why, Gandelin, do you ſee, we might have gueſſed he was born to be a King, or ſome ſuch great man, becauſe, you know, he was fit for no⯑thing elſe.

God be praiſ⯑ed for theſe tidings! Hope is ſprung up out of the depths of deſpair. O, my friend! ſhall I again ſhine in arms,—again fight at the head of my brave Engliſh⯑men,—lead them on to victory! Our friends ſhall now lift their heads again.

Yes, you have many friends, who have long been obliged, like their maſter, to ſculk in deſerts and caves, and wander from cottage to cottage. When they hear you are alive, and in arms again, they will leave their faſt⯑neſſes, and flock to your ſtandard.

I am impatient to meet them: my people ſhall be revenged.

O, my lord—

We hope your majeſty will put us to a merciful death. Indeed, we did not know your majeſty's grace.

If your majeſty could but pardon my wife's tongue: ſhe means no harm, poor woman!

Pardon you, good people! I not only pardon, but thank you. You have afforded me protection in my diſtreſs; and if ever I am ſeat⯑ed again on the throne of England, my firſt care ſhall be to reward your hoſpitality. I am now going to protect you. Come, my faithful Ella, to arms! to arms! My boſom burns to face once more the haughty Dane; and here I vow to heaven, that I will never ſheath the ſword againſt theſe robbers, till ei⯑ther I loſe my life in this juſt cauſe, or

THE DISCONTENTED SQUIRREL.

IN a pleaſant wood, on the weſtern ſide of a ridge of mountains, there lived a Squirrel, who had paſſed two or three years of his life very happily. At length he began to grow diſcontented, and one day fell into the following ſoliloquy.

What, muſt I ſpend all my time in this ſpot, running up and down the ſame trees, gathering nuts and acorns, and dozing away months together in a hole! I ſee a great many of the birds who in⯑habit this wood ramble about to a diſ⯑tance wherever their fancy leads them, and at the approach of winter, ſet out for ſome remote country, where they enjoy ſummer weather all the year round. My neighbour Cuckow tells me he is juſt going; and even little Nightingale will ſoon follow. To be ſure, I have [44] not wings like them, but I have legs nimble enough; and if one does not uſe them, one might as well be a mole or a dormouſe. I dare ſay I could eaſily reach to that blue ridge which I ſee from the tops of the trees; which no doubt muſt be a fine place, for the ſun comes directly from it every morning, and it often appears all covered with red and yellow, and the fineſt colours ima⯑ginable. There can be no harm, at leaſt, in trying, for I can ſoon get back again if I don't like it. I am reſolved to go, and I will ſet out to-morrow morning.

When Squirrel had taken this reſo⯑tion, he could not ſleep all night for thinking of it; and at peep of day, pru⯑dently taking with him as much provi⯑ſion as he could conveniently carry, he began his journey in high ſpirits. He preſently got to the outſide of the wood, and entered upon the open moors that reached to the foot of the hills. Theſe he [45] croſſed before the ſun was gotten high; and then, having eaten his breakfaſt with an excellent appetite, he began to aſcend. It was heavy, toilſome work ſcrambling up the ſteep ſides of the mountains; but Squirrel was uſed to climbing; ſo for a while he proceeded expeditiouſly. Often, however, was he obliged to ſtop and take breath; ſo that it was a good deal paſt noon before he had arrived at the ſummit of the firſt cliff. Here he ſat down to eat his din⯑ner; and looking back, was wonderfully pleaſed with the fine proſpect. The wood in which he lived lay far beneath his feet; and he viewed with ſcorn the humble habitation in which he had been born and bred.

When he looked forwards, however, he was ſomewhat diſcouraged to obſerve that another eminence roſe above him, full as diſtant as that to which he had already reached; and he now began to feel ſtiff and fatigued. However, after [46] a little reſt, he ſet out again, though not ſo briſkly as before. The ground was rugged, brown, and bare; and to his great ſurpriſe, inſtead of finding it warmer as he got nearer the ſun, he felt it grow colder and colder. He had not travelled two hours before his ſtrength and ſpirits were almoſt ſpent; and he ſeriouſly thought of giving up the point, and returning before night ſhould come on. While he was thus deliberat⯑ing with himſelf, clouds began to ga⯑ther round the mountain, and to take away all view of diſtant objects. Pre⯑ſently a ſtorm of mingled ſnow and hail came down, driven by a violent wind, which pelted poor Squirrel moſt pity⯑fully, and made him quite unable to move forwards or backwards. Beſides, he had completely loſt his road, and did not know which way to turn towards that deſpiſed home, which it was now his only deſire again to reach. The ſtorm laſted till the approach of night; [47] and it was as much as he could do, be⯑numbed and weary as he was, to crawl to the hollow of a rock at ſome diſ⯑tance, which was the beſt lodging he could find for the night. His provi⯑ſions were ſpent; ſo that, hungry and ſhivering, he crept into the furtheſt cor⯑ner of the cavern, and rolling himſelf up, with his buſhy tail over his back, he got a little ſleep, though diſturbed by the cold, and the ſhrill whiſtling of the wind among the ſtones.

The morning broke over the diſtant tops of the mountains, when Squirrel, half frozen and famiſhed, came out of his lodging, and advanced, as well as he could, towards the brow of the hill, that he might diſcover which way to take. As he was ſlowly creeping a⯑long, a hungry kite, ſoaring in the air above, deſcried him, and making a ſtoop, carried him off in her talons. Poor Squirrel, loſing his ſenſes with the fright, was borne away with vaſt ra⯑pidity, [48] and ſeemed inevitably doomed to become food for the kite's young ones: when an eagle, who had ſeen the kite ſeize her prey, purſued her in order to take it from her; and overtaking her, gave her ſuch a buffet, as cauſed her to drop the Squirrel in order to de⯑fend herſelf. The poor animal kept falling through the air a long time, till at laſt he alighted in the midſt of a thick tree, the leaves and tender boughs of which ſo broke his fall, that, though ſtunned and breathleſs, he eſcaped with⯑out material injury, and after lying a⯑while, came to himſelf again. But what was his pleaſure and ſurpriſe, to find himſelf in the very tree which con⯑tained his neſt. Ah! ſaid he, my dear native place and peaceful home! if ever I am again tempted to leave you, may I undergo a ſecond time all the miſeries and dangers from which I am now ſo wonderfully eſcaped.

A DIALOGUE ON DIFFERENT STATIONS IN LIFE.

LITTLE Sally Meanwell had one day been to pay an afternoon's viſit to Miſs Harriet, the daughter of Sir Thomas Pemberton. The evening proving rainy, ſhe was ſent home in Sir Tho⯑mas's coach; and on her return, the following converſation paſſed between her and her mother.

Well, my dear, I hope you have had a pleaſant viſit.

O yes, mamma, very pleaſant; you cannot think what a great many fine things I have ſeen. And then it is ſo charming to ride in a coach!

I ſuppoſe Miſs Harriet ſhewed you all her playthings.

O yes, ſuch fine large dolls, ſo ſmartly dreſſed, as I never ſaw in my life before. Then ſhe has a baby-houſe [50] and all ſorts of furniture in it; and a grotto all made of ſhells, and ſhining ſtones. And then ſhe ſhewed me all her fine clothes for the next ball; there's a white ſlip all full of ſpangles, and pink ribbons; you can't think how beautiful it looks.

And what did you admire moſt of all theſe fine things?

I don't know—I admired them all; and I think I liked riding in the coach better than all the reſt. Why don't we keep a coach, mamma? and why have not I ſuch fine clothes and playthings as Miſs Harriet?

Becauſe we cannot afford it, my dear. Your papa is not ſo rich, by a great deal, as Sir Thomas; and if we were to lay out our money upon ſuch things, we ſhould not be able to pro⯑cure food and raiment and other neceſ⯑ſaries for you all.

But why is not papa as rich as Sir Thomas?

Sir Thomas had a large eſtate left him by his father; but your papa has little but what he gains by his own induſtry.

But why ſhould not papa be as rich as any body elſe? I am ſure he de⯑ſerves it as well.

Do you not think that there are a great many people poorer than he, that are alſo very deſerving?

Are there?

Yes, to be ſure. Don't you know what a number of poor peo⯑ple there are all around us, who have very few of the comforts we enjoy? What do you think of Plowman the la⯑bourer? I believe you never ſaw him idle in your life.

No; he is gone to work long before I am up, and he does not return till almoſt bed-time, unleſs it be for his dinner.

Well; how do you think his wife and children live? Should you [52] like that we ſhould change places with them?

O no! they are ſo dirty and ragged.

They are indeed, poor creatures! but I am afraid they ſuffer worſe evils than that.

What, mamma?

Why I am afraid they often do not get as much victuals as they could eat. And then in winter they muſt be half ſtarved for want of fire and warm clothing. How do you think you could bear all this?

Indeed I don't know. But I have ſeen Plowman's wife carry great brown loaves into the houſe; and I re⯑member once eating ſome brown bread and milk, and I thought it very good.

I believe you would not much like it conſtantly: beſides, they can hardly get enough of that. But you ſeem to know almoſt as little of the poor as the young French princeſs did.

What was that, mamma?

Why there had been one year ſo bad a harveſt in France, that numbers of the poor were famiſhed to death. This calamity was ſo much talked of, that it reached the court, and was mentioned before the young prin⯑ceſſes. Dear me! ſaid one of them, how ſilly that was! Why, rather than be famiſhed, I would eat bread and cheeſe. Her governeſs was then oblig⯑ed to acquaint her, that the greateſt part of her father's ſubjects ſcarcely ever eat any thing better than black bread all their lives; and that vaſt num⯑bers would now think themſelves very happy to get only half their uſual pit⯑tance of that. Such wretchedneſs as this was what the princeſs had not the leaſt idea of; and the account ſhocked her ſo much, that ſhe was glad to ſa⯑crifice all her ſinery to afford ſome relief to the ſufferings of the poor.

But I hope there is nobody fa⯑miſhed in our country.

I hope not, for we have laws by which every perſon is entitled to relief from the pariſh, if he is unable to gain a ſubſiſtence; and were there no laws about it, I am ſure it would be our duty to part with every ſuperfluity, rather than let a fellow creature periſh for want of neceſſaries.

Then do you think it was wrong for Miſs Pemberton to have all thoſe fine things?

No, my dear, if they are ſuitable to her fortune, and do not con⯑ſume the money which ought to be em⯑ployed in more uſeful things for herſelf and others.

But why might not ſhe be con⯑tented with ſuch things as I have; and give the money that the reſt coſt to the poor?

Becauſe ſhe can afford both [55] to be charitable to the poor, and alſo to indulge herſelf in theſe pleaſures. But do you recollect, that the children of Mr. White the baker, and Mr. Shape the taylor, might aſk juſt the ſame queſtions about you?

How ſo?

Are not you as much bet⯑ter dreſſed, and as much more plenti⯑fully ſupplied with playthings than they are, as Miſs Pemberton is than you?

Why, I believe I may; for I remember Polly White was very glad of one of my old dolls; and Nancy Shape cried for ſuch a ſaſh as mine, but her mother would not let her have one.

Then you ſee, my dear, that there are many who have fewer things to be thankful for than you have; and you may alſo learn what ought to be the true meaſure of the expectations of children, and the indulgencies of pa⯑rents.

I don't quite underſtand you, mamma.

Every thing ought to be ſuited to the ſtation in which we live, or are likely to live, and the wants and duties of it. Your papa and I do not grudge laying out part of our money to promote the innocent pleaſure of our children; but it would be very wrong in us to lay out ſo much on this ac⯑count, as would oblige us to ſpare in more neceſſary articles, as in their edu⯑cation, and the common houſehold ex⯑pences required in our way of living. Beſides, it would be ſo far from mak⯑ing you happier, that it would be do⯑ing you the greateſt injury.

How could that be, mamma?

If you were now to be dreſſed like Miſs Pemberton, don't you think you ſhould be greatly mortified at being worſe dreſſed when you came to be a young woman?

I believe I ſhould, mamma; [57] for then perhaps I might go to aſſem⯑blies; and to be ſure I ſhould like to be as ſmart then as at any time.

Well, but it would be ſtill more improper for us to dreſs you then beyond our circumſtances, becauſe your neceſſary clothes will then coſt more, you know. Then if we were now to hire a coach or chair for you to go a viſiting in, ſhould you like to leave it off ever afterwards? But you have no reaſon to expect that you will be able to have thoſe indulgencies when you are a wo⯑man. And ſo it is in every thing elſe. The more fine things, and the more gratifications you have now, the more you will require hereafter; for cuſtom makes things ſo familiar to us, that while we enjoy them leſs, we want them more.

How is that, mamma?

Why, don't you think you have enjoyed your ride in the coach this [58] evening more than Miſs Harriet would have done?

I ſuppoſe I have; becauſe if Miſs Harriet liked it ſo well, ſhe would be always riding, for I know ſhe might have the coach whenever ſhe pleaſed.

But if you were both told that you were never to ride in a coach again, which would think it the greater hardſhip? You could walk, you know, as you have always done before; but ſhe would rather ſtay at home, I be⯑lieve, than expoſe herſelf to the cold wind, and trudge through the wet and dirt in pattens.

I believe ſo too; and now, mamma, I ſee that all you have told me is very right.

Well, my dear, let it dwell upon your mind, ſo as to make you cheerful and contented in your ſta⯑tion, which you ſee is ſo much happier than that of many and many other [59] children. So now we will talk no more on this ſubject.

THE GOLDFINCH AND LINNET.

ON THE PINE AND FIR TRIBE.
A DIALOGUE.

LET us ſit down a while on this bench, and look about us. What a charming proſpect!

I admire thoſe pleaſure grounds. What beautiful clumps of trees there are in that lawn!

But what a dark gloomy wood that is at the back of the houſe!

It is a fir-plantation; and thoſe trees always look diſmal in the ſummer, when there are ſo many finer greens to compare them with. But the winter is their time for ſhow, when other trees are ſtripped of their verdure.

Then they are evergreens?

Yes; moſt of the fir-tribe are evergreens; and as they are generally natives of cold mountainous countries, they contribute greatly to cheer the wintry landſcape.

You were ſo good, when we walked out laſt, to tell us a good deal about Oaks. I thought it one of the prettieſt leſſons I ever heard. I ſhould be very glad if you would give us ſuch another about Firs.

So ſhould I too, I am ſure.

With all my heart; and I am pleaſed that you aſk me. Nothing is ſo great an encouragement to a tutor as to find his pupils of their own accord ſeek⯑ing after uſeful knowledge.

And I think it is very uſeful to know ſuch things as theſe.

Certainly it is. Well then—You may know the Pine or Fir-tribe in general at firſt ſight, as moſt of them are of a bluiſh-green colour, and all [65] have leaves conſiſting of a ſtrong nar⯑row pointed blade, which gives them ſomewhat of a ſtiff appearance. Then all of them bear a hard ſcaly fruit, of a longiſh or conical form.

Are they what we call Fir-ap⯑ples?

Yes; that is one of the names boys give them.

We often pick them up under trees, and throw them at one another.

I have ſometimes brought home my pocket full to burn. They make a fine clear flame.

Well—do you know where the ſeeds lie in them?

No—have they any?

Yes—at the bottom of every ſcale lie two winged ſeeds; but when the ſcales open, the ſeeds fall out; ſo that you can ſeldom find any in thoſe you pick up.

Are the ſeeds good for any thing?

There is a kind of Pine in the ſouth of Europe called the Stone Pine, the kernels of which are eaten, and ſaid to be as ſweet as an almond. And birds pick out the ſeeds of other ſorts, though they are ſo well defended by the woody ſcales.

They muſt have good ſtrong bills, then.

Of this tribe of trees a variety of ſpecies are found in different coun⯑tries, and are cultivated in this. But the only kind native here, is the Wild Pine, or Scotch Fir. Of this there are large natural foreſts in the highlands of Scotland; and the principal plantations conſiſt of it. It is a hardy ſort, fit for barren and mountainous ſoils, but grows ſlowly.

Pray what are thoſe very tall trees that grow in two rows before the old hall in our village?

They are the Common or Spruce Fir, a native of Norway and other [67] northern countries, and one of the lof⯑tieſt of the tribe. But obſerve thoſe trees that grow ſingly in the grounds op⯑poſite to us, with wide-ſpread branches, pointing downwards, and trailing on the ground, thence gradually leſſening, till the top of the tree ends almoſt in a point.

What beautiful trees!

They are the Pines called Larches, natives of the Alps and Apen⯑nines, and now frequently planted to decorate our gardens. Theſe are not properly evergreens, as they ſhed their leaves in winter, but quickly recover them again. Then we have beſides, the Weymouth Pine, which is the talleſt ſpecies in America—the Silver Fir, ſo called from the ſilvery hue of its foliage—the Pinaſter—and a tree of ancient fame, the Cedar of Lebanon.

I ſuppoſe that is a very great tree.

It grows to a large ſize, [68] but is very ſlow in coming to its full growth.

Are Pines and Firs very uſeful trees?

Perhaps the moſt ſo of any. By much the greateſt part of the wood uſed among us comes from them.

What—more than from the Oak?

Yes, much more. Almoſt all the timber uſed in building houſes, for floors, beams, rafters, and roofs, is Fir.

Does it all grow in this coun⯑try?

Scarcely any of it. Norway, Sweden, and Ruſſia, are the countries from which we draw our timber, and a vaſt trade there is in it. You have ſeen timber yards?

Oh yes—ſeveral.

In them you would obſerve ſome very long thick beams, called balks. Thoſe are whole trees, only ſtripped of the bark and ſquared. You [69] would alſo ſee great piles of planks and boards, of different lengths and thick⯑neſs. Thoſe are called deal, and are brought over ready ſawn from the countries where they grow. They are of different colours. The white are chiefly from the Fir-tree; the yellow and red from the Pine.

I ſuppoſe there muſt be great foreſts of them in thoſe countries, or elſe they could not ſend us ſo much.

Yes. The mountains of Nor⯑way are overrun with them, enough for the ſupply of all Europe; but on ac⯑count of their ruggedneſs and want of roads, it is found impoſſible to get the trees when felled down to the ſea-coaſt, unleſs they grow near ſome river.

How do they manage them?

They take the opportunity when the rivers are ſwelled with rains or melt⯑ed ſnow, and tumble the trees into them, when they are carried down to the [70] mouths of the rivers, where they are ſtopped by a kind of pens.

I ſhould like to ſee them ſwim⯑ming down the ſtream.

Yes—it would be curious enough; for in ſome places theſe tor⯑rents roll over rocks, making ſteep wa⯑ter falls, down which the trees are car⯑ried headlong, and often do not riſe again till they are got to a conſider⯑able diſtance; and many of them are broken and torn to pieces in the paſſ⯑age.

Are theſe woods uſed for any thing beſides building?

For a variety of purpoſes; ſuch as boxes, trunks, packing-caſes, pales, wainſcots, and the like. Deal is a very ſoft wood, eaſily worked, light and cheap, which makes it preferred for ſo many uſes, though it is not very durable, and is very liable to ſplit.

Yes—I know my box is made [71] of deal, and the lid is ſplit all to pieces with driving nails into it.

Are ſhips ever built with Fir?

It was one of the firſt woods made uſe of for naval purpoſes; and in the poets you will find the words Pine and Fir frequently employed to ſignify ſhip. But as navigation has improved, the ſtronger and more durable woods have generally taken its place. How⯑ever, in the countries where Fir is very plentiful, large ſhips are ſtill built with it; for though they laſt but a ſhort time, they coſt ſo little in proportion, that the profit of a few voyages is ſufficient. Then, from the great lightneſs of the wood, they ſwim higher in the water, and conſequently will bear more load⯑ing. Moſt of the large ſhips that bring timber from Archangel in Ruſſia are built of Fir. As for the maſts of ſhips, thoſe I have already told you are all made of Fir or Pine, on account of their ſtraightneſs and lightneſs.

Are there not ſome lines in Milton's Paradiſe Loſt about that?

Yes. The ſpear of Satan is magnified by a compariſon with a lofty Pine.

I remember, too, that the walk⯑ing ſtaff of the giant Polypheme was a Pine.

Ay—ſo Virgil and Ovid tell us; and he muſt have been a giant indeed, to uſe ſuch a ſtick. Well, ſo much for the wood of theſe trees. But I have more to ſay about their uſes.

I am glad of it.

All of the tribe contain a juice of a bitteriſh taſte and ſtrong fragrant ſmell. This, in ſome, is ſo abundant as to flow out from inciſions; when it is called Tur⯑pentine. The larch, in particular, yields a large quantity. Turpentine is one of the [73] ſubſtances called reſinous; it is ſticky, tranſparent, very inflammable, and will not mix with water, but will diſſolve in ſpirits of wine.

What is it uſed for?

It is uſed medicinally, particu⯑larly in the compoſition of plaſters and ointments. It alſo is an ingredient in varniſhes, cements, and the like. An oil diſtilled from turpentine is employed in medicine, and is much uſed by paint⯑ers for mixing up their colours. What remains after getting this oil, is com⯑mon roſin. All theſe ſubſtances take fire very eaſily, and burn with a great flame; and the wood of the Pine has ſo much of this quality, when dry, that it has been uſed in many countries for torches.

I know deal ſhavings burn very briſkly.

Yes; and matches are made of bits of deal dipped in brimſtone.

True;—and when it was the [74] cuſtom to burn the bodies of the dead, as you read in Homer and other old au⯑thors, the pines and pitch-trees com⯑poſed great part of the funeral pile.

But what are pitch-trees? Does pitch grow upon trees?

I was going on to tell you about that. Tar is a product of the trees of this kind, eſpecially of one ſpecies, call⯑ed the Pitch-pine. The wood is burn⯑ed in a ſort of oven made in the earth, and the reſinous juice ſweats out, and acquires a peculiar taſte and a black co⯑lour from the fire. This is tar. Tar when boiled down to dryneſs becomes pitch.

Tar and pitch are chiefly uſed about ſhips; are they not?

They reſiſt moiſture, and there⯑fore are of great ſervice in preventing things from decaying that are expoſed to wet. For this reaſon, the cables and other ropes of ſhips are well ſoaked with tar; and the ſides of ſhips are covered [75] with pitch mixed with other ingredients. Their ſeams, too, or the places where the planks join, are filled with tow dip⯑ped in a compoſition of roſin, tallow, and pitch, to keep out the water. Wood for paling, for piles, coverings of roofs, and other purpoſes of the like nature, are often tarred over. Ciſterns and caſks are pitched to prevent leaking.

But what are ſheep tarred for, after they are ſheared?

To cure wounds and ſores in their ſkin. For the like purpoſes, an ointment made with tar is often rubbed upon children's heads. Several parts of the Pine are medicinal. The tops and green cones of the Spruce Fir are brewed with malt, and the liquor, call⯑ed ſpruce-beer, is much drunk in Ame⯑rica, particularly for the ſcurvy.

Is it pleaſant?

Not to thoſe who are unaccuſ⯑tomed to it. Well—I have now finiſh⯑ed my leſſon, ſo let us walk.

Shall we go through the grounds?

Yes; and then we will view ſome of the different kinds of Fir and Pine more cloſely, and I will ſhew you the difference of their leaves and cones, by which they are diſtinguiſhed.

THE ROOKERY.

THESE lines Mr. Stangrove repeated, pointing up to a Rookery, as he was walking in an avenue of tall trees, with his ſon Francis.

Is that a Rookery, papa?

It is. Do you hear what a cawing the birds make?

Yes—and I ſee them hopping [77] about among the boughs. Pray, are not Rooks the ſame with crows?

They are a ſpecies of crow; but they differ from the carrion crow and raven in not living upon dead fleſh, but upon corn and other ſeeds, and graſs. They indeed pick up beetles and other inſects, and worms. See, what a num⯑ber of them have lighted on yonder ploughed field, almoſt blackening it over.

What are they doing?

Searching for grubs and worms. You ſee the men in the field do not moleſt them, for they do a great deal of ſervice by deſtroying grubs, which, if they were ſuffered to grow to winged inſects, would do much miſ⯑chief to the trees and plants.

But do they not hurt the corn?

Yes—they tear up a good deal of green corn, if they are not driven away. But upon the whole, Rooks are reckoned the farmer's friends; and they [78] do not chooſe to have them deſtroy⯑ed.

Do all Rooks live in Rookeries?

It is the general nature of them to aſſociate together, and build in numbers on the ſame or adjoining trees. But this is often in the midſt of woods or natural groves. However, they have no objection to the neighbourhood of man, but readily take to a plantation of tall trees, though it be cloſe to a houſe; and this is commonly called a Rookery. They will even fix their habitations on trees in the midſt of towns; and I have ſeen a Rookery in a churchyard in one of the cloſeſt parts of London.

I think a Rookery is a ſort of town itſelf.

It is:—a village in the air, peopled with numerous inhabitants; and nothing can be more amuſing than to view them all in motion, flying to and fro, and buſied in their ſeveral occupa⯑tions. The ſpring is their buſieſt time. [79] Early in the year they begin to repair their neſts, or build new ones.

Do they all work together, or every one for itſelf?

Each pair, after they have coupled, builds its own neſt; and inſtead of helping, they are very apt to ſteal the materials from one another. If both birds go out at once in ſearch of ſticks, they often find, at their return, the work all deſtroyed, and the materials carried off; ſo that one of them generally ſtays at home to keep watch. However, I have met with a ſtory which ſhows that they are not without ſome ſenſe of the criminality of thieving. There was in a Rookery a lazy pair of Rooks, who never went out to get ſticks for them⯑ſelves, but made a practice of watching when their neighbours were abroad, and helped themſelves from their neſts. They had ſerved moſt of the commu⯑nity in this manner, and by theſe means had juſt finiſhed their own neſt; when [80] all the other Rooks in a rage fell upon them at once, pulled their neſt in pieces, beat them ſoundly, and drove them from their ſociety.

That was very right—I ſhould have liked to have ſeen it. But why do they live together, if they do not help one another?

They probably receive plea⯑ſure from the company of their own kind, as men and various other crea⯑tures do. Then, though they do not aſſiſt one another in building, they are mutually ſerviceable in many ways. If a large bird of prey hovers about a Rookery for the purpoſe of carrying off any of the young ones, they all unite to drive him away. When they are feed⯑ing in a flock, ſeveral are placed as cen⯑tinels upon the trees all round, who give the alarm if any danger approaches. They often go a long way from home to feed; but every evening the whole flock returns, making a loud cawing as [81] they fly, as if to direct and call in the ſtragglers. The older Rooks take the lead: you may diſtinguiſh them by the whiteneſs of their bills, occaſioned by their frequent digging in the ground, by which the black feathers at the root of the bill are worn off.

Do Rooks always keep to the ſame trees?

Yes—they are much attach⯑ed to them; and when the trees happen to be cut down, they ſeem greatly diſ⯑treſſed, and keep hovering about them as they are falling, and will ſcarce⯑ly deſert them when they lie on the ground.

Poor things! I ſuppoſe they feel as we ſhould if our town was burned down or overthrown by an earthquake.

No doubt! The ſocieties of animals greatly reſemble thoſe of man; and that of Rooks is like thoſe of men in a ſavage ſtate, ſuch as the communi⯑ties of the North American Indians. It [82] is a ſort of league for mutual aid and de⯑fence, but in which every one is left to do as he pleaſes, without any obligation to employ himſelf for the whole body. Others unite in a manner reſembling more civilized ſocieties of men. This is the caſe with the beavers. They perform great public works by the unit⯑ed efforts of the whole community, ſuch as damming up ſtreams, and conſtruct⯑ing mounds for their habitations. As theſe are works of great art and labour, ſome of them muſt probably act under the direction of others, and be compelled to work whether they will or not. Ma⯑ny curious ſtories are told to this pur⯑poſe by thoſe who have obſerved them in their remoteſt haunts, where they ex⯑erciſe their full ſagacity.

But are they all true?

That is more than I can an⯑ſwer for; yet what we certainly know of the economy of bees may juſtify us in believing extraordinary things of the ſa⯑gacity [83] of animals. The ſociety of bees goes further than that of beavers, and in ſome reſpects, beyond moſt among men themſelves. They not only inhabit a common dwelling, and perform great works in common, but they lay up a ſtore of proviſion which is the property of the whole community, and is not uſed except at certain ſeaſons and under certain regulations. A bee-hive is a true image of a commonwealth, where no member acts for himſelf alone, but for the whole body.

But there are drones among them, who do not work at all.

Yes—and at the approach of winter they are driven out of the hive, and left to periſh with cold and hunger. But I have not leiſure at pre⯑ſent to tell you more about bees. You ſhall one day ſee them at work in a glaſs hive. In the mean time, remember one thing, which applies to all the ſo⯑cieties [84] of animals; and I wiſh it did as well to all thoſe of men likewiſe.

What is that?

The principle upon which they all aſſociate, is to obtain ſome be⯑nefit for the whole body, not to give particular advantages to a few.

DIALOGUE, ON THINGS TO BE LEARNED;

PRAY, mamma, may I leave off working? I am tired.

You have done very little, my dear; you know you were to finiſh all that hem.

But I had rather write now, mam⯑ma, or read, or get my French gram⯑mar.

I know very well what that means, Kitty; you had rather do any thing but what I ſet you about.

No, mamma; but you know I can work very well already, and I have a great many other things to learn. There's Miſs Rich that cannot ſew half ſo well as I, and ſhe is learning muſic and drawing already, beſides dancing, and I don't know how many other things. She tells me that they hardly work at all in their ſchool.

Your tongue runs at a great rate, my dear; but in the firſt place, you cannot ſew very well, for if you could, you would not have been ſo long in do⯑ing this little piece. Then I hope you will allow, that mammas know better what is proper for their little girls to learn, than they do themſelves.

To be ſure, mamma; but as I ſuppoſe I muſt learn all theſe things ſome time or other, I thought you would like to have me begin them ſoon, for I [86] have often heard you ſay that children cannot be ſet too early about what is neceſſary for them to do.

That's very true, but all things are not equally neceſſary to every one; but ſome that are very fit for one, are ſcarcely proper at all for others.

Why, mamma?

Becauſe, my dear, it is the pur⯑poſe of all education to fit perſons for the ſtation in which they are hereafter to live; and you know there are very great differences in that reſpect, both among men and women.

Are there? I thought all ladies lived alike.

It is uſual to call all well-edu⯑cated women, who have no occaſion to work for their livelihood, ladies; but if you will think a little, you muſt ſee that they live very differently from each other, for their fathers and huſbands are in very different ranks and ſituations in the world, you know.

Yes, I know that ſome are lords, and ſome are ſquires, and ſome are clergymen, and ſome are merchants, and ſome are doctors, and ſome are ſhopkeepers.

Well; and do you think the wives and daughters of all theſe perſons can have juſt the ſame things to do, and the ſame duties to perform? You know how I ſpend my time. I have to go to market and provide for the family, to look after the ſervants, to help in tak⯑ing care of you children, and in teach⯑ing you, to ſee that your clothes are in proper condition, and aſſiſt in mak⯑ing and mending for myſelf, and you, and your papa. All this is my neceſſary duty; and beſides this, I muſt go out a viſiting to keep up our acquaintance; this I call partly buſineſs, and partly amuſement. Then when I am tired, and have done all that I think neceſſary, I may amuſe myſelf with reading, or in any other proper way. Now a great [88] many of theſe employments do not be⯑long to Lady Wealthy, or Mrs. Rich, who keep houſekeepers and governeſſes, and ſervants of all kinds, to do every thing for them. It is very proper, therefore, for them to pay more atten⯑tion to muſic, drawing, ornamental work, and any other elegant manner of paſſing their time, and making them⯑ſelves agreeable.

And ſhall I have all the ſame things to do, mamma, that you have?

It is impoſſible, my dear, to fore⯑ſee what your future ſtation will be: but you have no reaſon to expect that if you have a family, you will have fewer duties to perform than I have. This is the way of life for which your education ſhould prepare you; and every thing will be uſeful and important for you to learn, in proportion as it will make you fit for this.

But when I am grown a young lady, ſhall not I have to viſit, and go to [89] aſſemblies and plays, as Miſs Wilſons and Miſs Johnſons do?

It is very likely you may enter into ſome amuſements of this ſort: but even then you will have ſeveral more ſerious employments, which will take up a much greater part of your time; and if you do not do them properly, you will have no right to partake of the others.

What will they be, mamma?

Why don't you think it proper that you ſhould aſſiſt me in my houſe⯑hold affairs a little, as ſoon as you are able?

O yes, mamma, I ſhould be very glad to do that.

Well, conſider what talents will be neceſſary for that purpoſe; will not a good hand at your needle be one of the very firſt qualities?

I believe it will.

Yes, and not only in aſſiſting me, but in making things for yourſelf. You [90] know how we admired Miſs Smart's in⯑genuity when ſhe was with us, in con⯑triving and making ſo many articles of her dreſs, for which ſhe muſt otherwiſe have gone to the milliner's, which would have coſt a great deal of money.

Yes, ſhe made my pretty bonnet, and ſhe made you a very handſome cap.

Very true; ſhe was ſo clever as not only to furniſh herſelf with theſe things, but to oblige her friends with ſome of her work. And I dare ſay ſhe does a great deal of plain work alſo for herſelf and her mother. Well, then, you are convinced of the importance of this buſineſs, I hope.

Yes, mamma.

Reading and writing are ſuch neceſſary parts of education, that I need not ſay much to you about them.

O no, for I love reading dearly.

I know you do, if you can get entertaining ſtories to read; but there are many things alſo to be read for in⯑ſtruction, [91] which perhaps may not be ſo pleaſant at firſt.

But what need is there of ſo many books of this ſort?

Some are to teach you your duty to your Maker, and your fellow crea⯑tures, of which I hope you are ſenſible you ought not to be ignorant. Then it is very right to be acquainted with geo⯑graphy; for you remember how poor Miſs Blunder was laughed at for ſaying that if ſhe ever went to France, it ſhould be by land.

That was becauſe England is an iſland, and all ſurrounded with water, was not it?

Yes, Great Britain, which con⯑tains both England and Scotland, is an iſland. Well, it is very uſeful to know ſomething of the nature of plants, and animals, and minerals, becauſe we are always uſing ſome or other of them. Something, too, of the heavenly bodies, is very proper to be known, both that [92] we may admire the power and wiſdom of God in creating them, and that we may not make fooliſh miſtakes, when their motions and properties are the ſub⯑ject of converſation. The knowledge of hiſtory too, is very important, eſpe⯑cially that of our own country: and in ſhort every thing that makes part of the diſcourſe of rational and well-educated people, ought in ſome degree to be ſtu⯑died by every one who has proper op⯑portunities.

Yes, I like ſome of thoſe things very well. But pray, mamma, what do I learn French for—am I ever to live in France?

Probably not, my dear; but there are a great many books written in French that are very well worth reading; and it may every now and then happen that you may be in company with foreigners who cannot ſpeak Engliſh, and as they almoſt all talk French, you may be able to converſe with them in that language.

Yes, I remember there was a gentleman here, that came from Ger⯑many, I think, and he could hardly talk a word of Engliſh, but papa and you could talk with him in French; and I wiſhed very much to be able to un⯑derſtand what you were ſaying, for I be⯑lieve part of it was about me.

It was. Well then, you ſee the uſe of French. But I cannot ſay this is a neceſſary part of knowledge to young women in general, only it is well worth acquiring, if a perſon has leiſure and op⯑portunity. I will tell you, however, what is quite neceſſary for one in your ſtation, and that is, to write a good hand, and to caſt accounts well.

I ſhould like to write well, be⯑cauſe then I could ſend letters to my friends when I pleaſed, and it would not be ſuch a ſcrawl as our maid Betty writes, that I dare ſay her friends can hardly make out.

She had not the advantage of [94] learning when young, for you know ſhe taught herſelf ſince ſhe came to us, which was a very ſenſible thing of her, and I ſuppoſe ſhe will improve. Well, but accounts are almoſt as neceſſary as writ⯑ing; for how could I caſt up all the market bills, and tradeſmen's accounts, and keep my houſe books without it?

And what is the uſe of that, mam⯑ma?

It is of uſe to prevent our being overcharged in any thing, and to know exactly how much we ſpend, and whe⯑ther or no we are exceeding our income, and in what articles we ought to be more ſaving. Without keeping accounts, the richeſt man might ſoon come to be ruin⯑ed before he knew his affairs were go⯑ing wrong?

But do women always keep ac⯑counts? I thought that was generally the buſineſs of the men.

It is their buſineſs to keep the accounts belonging to their trade, or [95] profeſſion, or eſtate; but it is the buſi⯑neſs of their wives to keep all the houſe⯑hold accounts: and a woman almoſt in any rank, unleſs perhaps ſome of the higheſt of all, is to blame if ſhe does not take upon her this neceſſary office. I remember a remarkable inſtance of the benefit which a young lady derived from an attention to this point. An eminent merchant in London failed for a great ſum.

What does that mean, mamma?

That he owed a great deal more than he could pay. His creditors, that is thoſe to whom he was indebted, on examining his accounts found great de⯑ficiencies which they could not make out; for he had kept his books very irregularly, and had omitted to put down many things which he had bought and ſold. They ſuſpected, therefore, that great waſte had been made in the family expences; and they were the more ſuſ⯑picious of this, as a daughter, who was [96] a very genteel young lady, was his houſekeeper, his wife being dead. She was told of this; upon which, when the creditors were all met, ſhe ſent them her houſe-books for their examination. They were all written in a very fair hand, and every ſingle article was en⯑tered with the greateſt regularity, and the ſums were all caſt up with perfect exactneſs. The gentlemen were ſo highly pleaſed with this proof of the young lady's ability, that they all agreed to make her a handſome preſent out of the effects; and one of the richeſt of them, who was in want of a clever wife, ſoon after paid his addreſſes to her, and married her.

That was very lucky, for I ſup⯑poſe ſhe took care of her poor father, when ſhe was rich. But I ſhall have nothing of that ſort to do a great while.

No; but young women ſhould keep their own accounts of clothes and [97] pocket-money, and other expences, as I intend you ſhall do when you grow up.

Am not I to learn dancing, and muſic, and drawing too, mamma?

Dancing you ſhall certainly learn pretty ſoon, becauſe it is not only an agreeable accompliſhment in itſelf, but is uſeful in forming the body to eaſe and elegance in all its motions. As to the other two, they are merely ornamental ac⯑compliſhments, which though a woman of middling ſtation may be admired for poſſeſſing, yet ſhe will never be cenſured for being without. The propriety of at⯑tempting to acquire them muſt depend on natural genius for them, and upon leiſure and other accidental circumſtances. For ſome they are too expenſive, and ma⯑ny are unable to make ſuch progreſs in them as will repay the pains of be⯑ginning. It is ſoon enough, however, for us to think about theſe things, and at any rate they are not to come in till [98] you have made a very good proficiency in what is uſeful and neceſſary. But I ſee you have now finiſhed what I ſet you about, ſo you ſhall take a walk with me into the market-place, where I have two or three things to buy.

Shall not we call at the bookſel⯑ler's, to enquire for thoſe new books that Miſs Reader was talking about?

Perhaps we may. Now lay up your work neatly, and get on your hat and tippet.

MOUSE, LAP-DOG, AND MONKEY.
A FABLE.

A POOR little Mouſe, being half ſtarv⯑ed, ventured one day to ſteal from be⯑hind the wainſcot while the family were at dinner, and trembling all the while, [99] picked up a few crumbs which were ſcattered on the ground. She was ſoon obſerved, however: every body was im⯑mediately alarmed; ſome called for the cat; others took up whatever was at hand, and endeavoured to cruſh her to pieces; and the poor terrified animal was driven round the room in an agony of terror. At length, however, ſhe was fortunate enough to gain her hole, where ſhe ſat panting with fatigue. When the family were again ſeated, a Lap-Dog and a Monkey came into the room. The former jumped into the lap of his miſtreſs, fawned upon every one of the children, and made his court ſo effec⯑tually, that he was rewarded with ſome of the beſt morſels of the entertainment. The Monkey, on the other hand, forced himſelf into notice by his grimaces. He played a thouſand little miſchievous tricks, and was regaled, at the appear⯑ance of the deſert, with plenty of nuts [100] and apples. The unfortunate little Mouſe, who ſaw from her hiding-place every thing that paſſed, ſighed in an⯑guiſh of heart, and ſaid to herſelf, ‘"Alas! how ignorant was I, to ima⯑gine that poverty and diſtreſs were ſuf⯑ficient recommendations to the charity of the opulent. I now find, that who⯑ever is not maſter of fawning and buf⯑foonery, is but ill qualified for a de⯑pendant, and will not be ſuffered even to pick up the crumbs that fall from the table."’

ANIMALS, AND THEIR COUNTRIES.

CANUTE'S REPROOF TO HIS COURTIERS.

• CANUTE, King of England.
• OSWALD, OFFA, Courtiers.

Is it true, my friends, what you have ſo often told me, that I am the greateſt of monarchs?

It is true, my liege; you are the moſt powerful of all kings.

We are all your ſlaves; we kiſs the duſt of your feet.

Not only we, but even the ele⯑ments, are your ſlaves. The land obeys [103] you from ſhore to ſhore; and the ſea obeys you.

Does the ſea, with its loud boiſterous waves, obey me? Will that terrible element be ſtill at my bidding?

Yes, the ſea is yours; it was made to bear your ſhips upon its boſom, and to pour the treaſures of the world at your royal feet. It is boiſterous to your enemies, but it knows you to be its ſovereign.

Is not the tide coming up?

Yes, my liege; you may per⯑ceive the ſwell already.

Bring me a chair then; ſet it here upon the ſands.

Where the tide is coming up, my gracious lord?

Yes, ſet it juſt here.

I wonder what he is going to do!

Surely he is not ſuch a fool as to believe us!

O mighty Ocean! thou art [104] my ſubject; my courtiers tell me ſo, and it is thy bounden duty to obey me. Thus, then, I ſtretch my ſceptre over thee, and command thee to retire. Roll back thy ſwelling waves, nor let them preſume to wet the feet of me, thy royal maſter.

I believe the ſea will pay very little regard to his royal com⯑mands.

See how faſt the tide riſes!

The next wave will come up to the chair. It is a folly to ſtay; we ſhall be covered with ſalt water.

Well, does the ſea obey my commands? If it be my ſubject, it is a very rebellious ſubject. See how it ſwells, and daſhes the angry foam and ſalt ſpray over my ſacred perſon. Vile ſycophants! did you think I was the dupe of your baſe lies? that I believed your abject flatteries? Know, there is only one Being whom the ſea will obey. He is Sovereign of heaven and earth, [105] King of kings, and Lord of lords. It is only he who can ſay to the ocean, ‘"Thus far ſhalt thou go, but no farther, and here ſhall thy proud waves be ſtay⯑ed."’ A king is but a man; and man is but a worm. Shall a worm aſſume the power of the great God, and think the elements will obey him? Take away this crown, I will never wear it more. May kings learn to be humble from my ex⯑ample, and courtiers learn truth from your diſgrace!

THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A CAT.

SOME days ago died GRIMALKIN, the favourite tabby Cat of Mrs. Petlove. Her diſorder was a ſhortneſs of breath, proceeding partly from old age, and partly from fat. As ſhe felt her end [106] approaching, ſhe called her children to her, and with a good deal of difficulty ſpoke as follows.

Before I depart from this world, my children, I mean, if my breath will give me leave, to relate to you the princi⯑pal events of my life, as the variety of ſcenes I have gone through may afford you ſome uſeful inſtruction for avoiding thoſe dangers to which our ſpecies are particularly expoſed.

Without further preface, then, I was born at a farm-houſe in a village ſome miles from hence; and almoſt as ſoon as I came into the world, I was very near leaving it again. My mother brought five of us at a litter; and as the frugal people of the houſe only kept Cats to be uſeful, and were already ſufficiently ſtocked, we were immediately doomed to be drowned; and accordingly a boy was ordered to take us all and throw us into the horſe-pond. This commiſſion he performed with the pleaſure boys [107] ſeem naturally to take in acts of cruelty, and we were preſently ſet a ſwimming. While we were ſtruggling for life, a little girl, daughter to the farmer, came running to the pond ſide, and begged very hard that ſhe might ſave one of us, and bring it up for her own. After ſome diſpute, her requeſt was granted; and the boy, reaching out his arm, took hold of me, who was luckily neareſt him, and brought me out when I was juſt ſpent. I was laid on the graſs, and it was ſome time before I re⯑covered. The girl then reſtored me to my mother, who was overjoyed to get again one of her little ones; and for fear of another miſchance, ſhe took me in her mouth to a dark hole, where ſhe kept me till I could ſee, and was able to run by her ſide. As ſoon as I came to light again, my little miſtreſs took poſſeſſion of me, and tended me very carefully. Her fondneſs, indeed, was ſometimes troubleſome, as ſhe pinched [108] my ſides with carrying me, and once or twice hurt me a good deal by letting me fall. Soon, however, I became ſtrong and active, and played and gamboled all day long, to the great delight of my miſtreſs and her companions.

At this time I had another narrow eſcape. A man brought into the houſe a ſtrange dog, who had been taught to worry all the Cats that came in his way. My mother ſlunk away at his entrance; but I, thinking, like a little fool as I was, that I was able to protect my⯑ſelf, ſtaid on the floor, growling, and ſetting up my back by way of defiance. The dog inſtantly ran at me, and before I could get my claws ready, ſeized me with his mouth, and began to gripe and ſhake me moſt terribly. I ſcreamed out, and by good luck my miſtreſs was with⯑in hearing. She ran to us, but was not able to diſengage me; however, a ſer⯑vant, ſeeing her diſtreſs, took a great ſtick, and gave the dog ſuch a bang on [109] the back, that he was forced to let me go. He had uſed me ſo roughly, that I was not able to ſtand for ſome time; but by care and a good conſtitution I recovered.

I was now running after every body's heels, by which means I got one day locked up in the dairy. I was not ſorry for this accident, thinking to feaſt upon the cream and other good things. But having climbed upon a ſhelf to get at a bowl of cream, I unluckily fell backwards into a large veſſel of butter⯑milk, where I ſhould probably have been drowned, had not the maid heard the noiſe, and come to ſee what was the matter. She took me out, ſcolding bit⯑terly at me, and after making me undergo a ſevere diſcipline at the pump to clean me, ſhe diſmiſſed me with a good whip⯑ping. I took care never to follow her into the dairy again.

After a while I began to get into the yard, and my mother took me into the [110] barn upon a mouſing expedition. I ſhall never forget the pleaſure this gave me. We ſat by a hole, and preſently out came a mouſe with a brood of young ones. My mother darted among them, and firſt demoliſhed the old one, and then purſued the little ones, who ran about ſqueaking in dreadful perplexity. I now thought it was time for me to do ſomething, and accordingly ran after a ſtraggler, and ſoon overtook it. Oh, how proud was I, as I ſtood over my trembling captive, and patted him with my paws! My pride, however, ſoon met with a check; for ſeeing one day a large rat, I courageouſly flew at him; but inſtead of turning tail, he gave me ſuch a bite on the noſe, that I ran away to my mother, mewing piteouſly, with my face all bloody and ſwelled. For ſome time I did not meddle with rats again; but at length, growing ſtronger and more ſkilful, I feared neither rats nor any other vermin, and [111] acquired the reputation of an excellent hunter.

I had ſome other eſcapes about this time. once I happened to meet with ſome poiſoned food laid for the rats, and eating it, I was thrown into a diſorder that was very near killing me. At another time, I chanced to ſet my foot in a rat⯑trap, and received ſo many deep wounds from its teeth, that though I was looſen⯑ed as gently as poſſible by the people who heard me cry, I was rendered lame for ſome weeks after.

Time went on, and I arrived at my full growth; and forming an acquaint⯑ance with a he-cat about my age, after a decent reſiſtance by ſcolding, biting, and ſcratching, we made a match of it. I became a mother in due time, and had the mortification of ſeeing ſeveral broods of my kittens diſpoſed of in the ſame manner as my brothers and ſiſters had been. I ſhall mention two or three other adventures in the order I remem⯑ber [112] them. I was once prowling for birds along a hedge at ſome diſtance from home, when the ſquire's grey⯑hounds came that way a courſing. As ſoon as they ſpied me, they ſet off full ſpeed, and running much faſter than I could do, were juſt at my tail, when I reached a tree, and ſaved myſelf by climbing up it. But a greater danger befell me on meeting with a parcel of boys returning from ſchool. They ſur⯑rounded me before I was aware, and obliged me to take refuge in a tree: but I ſoon found that a poor defence againſt ſuch enemies; for they aſſem⯑bled about it, and threw ſtones on all ſides, ſo that I could not avoid receiv⯑ing many hard blows, one of which brought me ſenſeleſs to the ground. The biggeſt boy now ſeized me, and propoſed to the reſt making what he call⯑ed rare ſport with me. This ſport was to tie me on a board, and launching me on a pond, to ſet ſome water-dogs at me, [113] who were to duck and half drown me, while I was to defend myſelf by biting their noſes, and ſcratching their eyes. Already was I bound, and juſt ready to be ſet a ſailing, when the ſchoolmaſter, taking a walk that way, and ſeeing the buſtle, came up, and obliged the boys to ſet me at liberty, ſeverely reprimand⯑ing them for their cruel intentions.

The next remarkable incident of my life was the occaſion of my removal from the country. My miſtreſs's bro⯑ther had a tame linnet, of which he was very fond; for it would come and light on his ſhoulder when he called it, and feed out of his hand; and it ſung well beſides. This bird was uſually either in his cage or upon a high perch; but one unlucky day, when he and I were alone in the room together, he came down on the table to pick up crumbs. I ſpied him, and not being able to reſiſt the temptation, ſprung at him, and catching him in my claws, ſoon began [114] to devour him. I had almoſt finiſhed when his maſter came into the room; and ſeeing me with the remains of poor linnet in my mouth, he ran to me in the greateſt fury, and after chaſing me ſe⯑veral times round the room, at length caught me. He was proceeding in⯑ſtantly to hang me, when his ſiſter, by many entreaties and tears, perſuaded him after a good whipping to forgive me, upon the promiſe that I ſhould be ſent away. Accordingly, the next market⯑day I was diſpatched in the cart to a re⯑lation's of theirs in this town, who want⯑ed a good Cat, as the houſe was over⯑run with mice.

In the ſervice of this family I conti⯑nued a good while, performing my duty as a mouſer extremely well, ſo that I was in high eſteem. I ſoon became acquainted with all the particulars of a town life, and diſtinguiſhed my activity in climbing up walls and houſes, and jumping from roof to roof, either in [115] purſuit of prey, or upon goſſipping par⯑ties with my companions. Once, how⯑ever, I had like to have ſuffered for my venturing; for having made a great jump from one houſe to another, I lit upon a looſe tile, which giving way with me, I fell from a vaſt height into the ſtreet, and ſhould certainly have been killed, had I not had the luck to light in a dung-cart, whence I eſcaped with no other injury but being half ſtifled with filth.

Notwithſtanding the danger I had run from killing the linnet, I am ſorry to confeſs that I was again guilty of a ſi⯑milar offence. I contrived one night to leap down from a roof upon the board of ſome pigeon-holes, which led to a garret inhabited by thoſe birds. I en⯑tered, and finding them aſleep, made ſad havock among all that were within my reach, killing and ſucking the blood of near a dozen. I was near paying dearly for this, too; for on attempting [116] to return, I found it was impoſſible for me to leap up again to the place from whence I had deſcended, ſo that after ſeveral dangerous trials, I was obliged to wait trembling in the place where I had committed all theſe murders, till the owner came up in the morning to feed his pigeons. I ruſhed out between his legs as ſoon as the door was opened, and had the good fortune to get ſafe down ſtairs, and make my eſcape through a window unknown; but ne⯑ver ſhall I forget the horrors I felt that night! Let my double danger be a warning to you, my children, to con⯑troul your ſavage appetites, and on no account to do harm to thoſe creatures which like ourſelves are under the pro⯑tection of man. We Cats all lie under a bad name for treacherous diſpoſitions in this reſpect, and with ſhame I muſt acknowledge it is but too well merited.

Well—but my breath begins to fail me, and I muſt haſten to a concluſion. [117] I ſtill lived in the ſame family, when our preſent kind miſtreſs, Mrs. Petlove, having loſt a favourite tabby, advertiſed a very handſome price for another that ſhould as nearly as poſſible reſemble her dead darling. My owners, tempted by the offer, took me for the good lady's inſpection, and I had the honour of be⯑ing preferred to a multitude of rivals. I was immediately ſettled in the com⯑fortable manſion we now inhabit, and had many favours and indulgencies be⯑ſtowed upon me, ſuch as I had never before experienced. Among theſe I reckon one of the principal, that of be⯑ing allowed to rear all my children, and to ſee them grow up in peace and plenty. My adventures here have been few; for after the monkey had ſpitefully bit off the laſt joint of my tail (for which I had the ſatisfaction to ſee him ſoundly corrected) I kept beyond the length of his chain; and neither the parrot nor lap-dogs ever dared to moleſt me. One [118] of the g [...]eſt afflictions I have felt here, was the [...]ing or a whole litter of my kittens by a fat old lady, a friend of my miſtreſs's, who fat down on the chair where they lay, and never perceived the miſchief ſhe was doing till ſhe roſe, though I pulled her clothes, and uſed all the means in my power to ſhew my uneaſineſs. This misfortune my miſ⯑treſs took to heart almoſt as much as myſelf, and the lady has never ſince en⯑tered our doors. Indeed, both I and mine have ever been treated here with the utmoſt kindneſs—perhaps with too much; for to the pampering me with delicacies, together with Mrs. Abigail's frequent waſhings, I attribute this aſth⯑ma, which is now putting an end to my life, rather ſooner than its natural period. But I know all was meant well; and with my laſt breath I charge you all to ſhew your gratitude to our worthy miſ⯑treſs, by every return in your power.

And now, my dear children, farewel; [119] we ſhall perhaps meet again in a land where there are no dogs to worry us, or boys to torment us—Adieu!

Having thus ſaid, Grimalkin became ſpeechleſs, and preſently departed this life, to the great grief of all the family.

THE LITTLE DOG.
A FABLE.

‘"WHAT ſhall I do,"’ ſaid a very lit⯑tle Dog one day to his mother, ‘"to ſhew my gratitude to our good maſter, and make myſelf of ſome value to him? I cannot draw or carry burdens, like the horſe; nor give him milk, like the cow; nor lend him my covering for his clothing, like the ſheep; nor produce him eggs, like the poultry; nor catch mice and rats ſo well as the cat. I can⯑not divert him with ſinging, like the ca⯑naries [120] and linnets; nor can I defend him againſt robbers, like our relation Tow⯑zer. I ſhould not be of uſe to him even if I were dead, as the hogs are. I am a poor inſignificant creature, not worth the coſt of keeping; and I don't ſee that I can do a ſingle thing to entitle me to his regard."’ So ſaying, the poor little Dog hung down his head in ſilent deſpondency.

‘"My dear child,"’ replied his mo⯑ther, ‘"though your abilities are but ſmall, yet a hearty good-will is ſufficient to ſupply all defects. Do but love him dearly, and prove your love by all the means in your power, and you will not fail to pleaſe him."’

The little Dog was comforted with this aſſurance; and on his maſter's ap⯑proach, ran to him, licked his feet, gamboled before him, and every now and then ſtopped, wagging his tail, and looking up to his maſter with expreſ⯑ſions of the moſt humble and affec⯑tionate [121] attachment. The maſter obſerv⯑ed him. Ha! little Fido, ſaid he, you are an honeſt, good-natured little fel⯑low!—and ſtooped down to pat his head. Poor Fido was ready to go out of his wits with joy.

Fido was now his maſter's conſtant companion in his walks, playing and ſkipping round him, and amuſing him by a thouſand ſportive tricks. He took care, however, not to be troubleſome by leaping on him with dirty paws, nor would he follow him into the parlour, unleſs invited. He alſo attempted to make himſelf uſeful by a number of lit⯑tle ſervices. He would drive away the ſparrows as they were ſtealing the chickens' meat; and would run and bark with the utmoſt fury at any ſtrange pigs or other animals that offered to come into the yard. He kept the poultry, geeſe, and pigs from ſtraying beyond their bounds, and particu⯑larly from doing miſchief in the gar⯑den. [122] He was always ready to alarm Towzer if there was any ſuſpicious noiſe about the houſe, day or night. If his maſter pulled off his coat in the field to help his workmen, as he would ſometimes do, Fido always ſat by it, and would not ſuffer either man or beaſt to touch it. By this means he came to be conſidered as a very truſty protector of his maſter's property.

His maſter was once confined to his bed with a dangerous illneſs. Fido planted himſelf at the chamber door, and could not be perſuaded to leave it, even to take food; and as ſoon as his maſter was ſo far recovered as to ſit up, Fido, being admitted into the room, ran up to him with ſuch marks of ex⯑ceſſive joy and affection, as would have melted any heart to behold. This cir⯑cumſtance wonderfully endeared him to his maſter; and ſome time after he had an opportunity of doing him a very im⯑portant ſervice. One hot day after din⯑ner, [123] his maſter was ſleeping in a ſum⯑mer-houſe, with Fido by his ſide. The building was old and crazy; and the Dog, who was faithfully watching his maſter, perceived the walls ſhake, and pieces of mortar fall from the ceiling. He comprehended the danger, and be⯑gan barking to awake his maſter; and this not ſufficing, he jumped up, and gently bit his finger. The maſter, upon this, ſtarted up, and had juſt time to get out of the door before the whole building fell down. Fido, who was behind, got hurt by ſome rubbiſh which fell upon him; on which his maſter had him taken care of with the utmoſt ten⯑derneſs, and ever after acknowledged his obligation to this little animal as the preſerver of his life. Thus his love and fidelity had their full reward.

Moral. The pooreſt man may repay his obligations to the richeſt and great⯑eſt by faithful and affectionate ſervice— [124] the meaneſt creature may obtain the fa⯑vour and regard of the Creator himſelf, by humble gratitude, and ſtedfaſt obe⯑dience.

THE MASQUE OF NATURE.

ON THE MARTIN.

LOCK up, my dear (ſaid his papa to little William), at thoſe bird-neſts above the chamber-windows, beneath the eaves of the houſe. Some, you ſee, are but juſt begun,—nothing but a little clay ſtuck againſt the wall. Others are half finiſhed; and others are quite built—cloſe and tight—leaving nothing but a ſmall hole for the birds to come in and go out at.

What neſts are they? ſaid William.

Thy are Martin's neſts, replied his father; and there you ſee the owners. How buſily they fly backwards and for⯑wards, bringing clay and dirt in their bills, and laying it upon their work, [129] forming it into ſhape with their bills and feet! The neſts are built very ſtrong and thick, like a mud wall, and are lined with feathers, to make a ſoft bed for the young. Martins are a kind of ſwallows. They feed on flies, gnats, and other inſects; and always build in towns and villages about the houſes. People do not moleſt them, for they do good rather than harm, and it is very amuſ⯑ing to view their manners and actions. See how ſwiftly they ſkim through the air in purſuit of their prey! In the morn⯑ing they are up by day-break, and twit⯑ter about your window while you are aſleep in bed; and all day long they are upon the wing, getting food for them⯑ſelves and their young. As ſoon as they have caught a few flies, they haſten to their neſts, pop into the hole, and feed their little ones. I'll tell you a ſtory about the great care they take of their young. A pair of Martins once built their neſt in a porch; and when they [130] had young ones, it happened that one of them climbing up to the hole before he was fledged, fell out, and lighting upon the ſtones, was killed. The old birds, perceiving this accident, went and got ſhort bits of ſtrong ſtraw, and ſtuck them with mud, like paliſades, all round the hole of the neſt, in order to keep the other little ones from tum⯑bling after their poor brother.

How cunning that was! cried Wil⯑liam.

Yes, ſaid his father; and I can tell you another ſtory of their ſagacity, and alſo of their diſpoſition to help one an⯑other. A ſaucy cock-ſparrow (you know what impudent rogues they are!) had got into a Martin's neſt whilſt the owner was abroad; and when he re⯑turned, the ſparrow put his head into the hole, and pecked at the Martin with open bill as he attempted to enter his own houſe. The poor Martin was ſad⯑ly provoked at this injuſtice, but was [131] unable by his own ſtrength to right him⯑ſelf. So he flew away, and gathered a number of his companions, who all came with a bit of clay in their bills, with which they plaſtered up the hole of the neſt; and kept the ſparrow in priſon, who died miſerably for want of food and air.

He was rightly ſerved, ſaid Wil⯑liam.

So he was, rejoined papa. Well; I have more to ſay about the ſagacity of theſe birds. In autumn, when it be⯑gins to be cold weather, the Martins and other ſwallows aſſemble in great numbers upon the roofs of high build⯑ings, and prepare for their departure to a warmer country; for as all the inſects here die in the winter, they would have nothing to live on if they were to ſtay. They take ſeveral ſhort flights in flocks, round and round, in order to try their ſtrength; and then, on ſome fine calm day, they ſet out together for a long journey [132] ſouthwards, over ſea and land, to a very diſtant country.

But how do they find the way? ſaid William.

We ſay, anſwered his father, that they are taught by inſtinct; that is, God has implanted in their minds a de⯑ſire of travelling at the ſeaſon which he knows to be proper, and has alſo given them an impulſe to take the right road. They ſteer their courſe through the wide air, directly to the proper ſpot. Some⯑times, however, ſtorms and contrary winds meet them, and drive the poor birds about till they are quite ſpent, and fall into the ſea, unleſs they happen to meet with a ſhip, on which they can light and reſt themſelves. The ſwal⯑lows from this country are ſuppoſed to go as far as the middle of Africa to ſpend the winter, where the weather is always warm, and inſects are to be met with all the year. In ſpring they take another long journey back again to theſe [133] northern countries. Sometimes, when we have fine weather very early, a few of them come too ſoon; for when it changes to froſt and ſnow again, the poor creatures are ſtarved for want of food, or periſhed with the cold. Hence ariſes the proverb,‘One ſwallow does not make a ſummer.’ But when a great many of them are come, we may be ſure that winter is over; ſo that we are always very glad to ſee them again. The Martins find their way back over ſuch a vaſt length of ſea and land, to the very ſame villages and houſes where they were bred. This has been diſcovered by catching ſome of them, and marking them. They repair their old neſts, or build new ones, and then ſet about laying eggs and hatching their young. Pretty things! I hope you will never knock down their neſts, or take their eggs or young ones; for as they come ſuch a long way to [134] viſit us, and lodge in our houſes with⯑out fear, we ought to uſe them kind⯑ly.

THE SHIP.

Charles Oſborn, when at home in the holidays, had a viſit from a ſchool-fel⯑low who was juſt entered as a midſhip⯑man on board a man of war. Tom Hardy (that was his name) was a free⯑hearted ſpirited lad, and a favourite among his companions; but he never liked his book, and had left ſchool ig⯑norant of almoſt every thing he came there to learn. What was worſe, he had got a contempt for learning of all kinds, and was fond of ſhowing it. ‘"What does your father mean,"’ ſays he to Charles, ‘"to keep you moping and ſtudying over things of no uſe in the world but to plague folks?—Why can't you go into his majeſty's ſervice, [135] like me, and be made a gentleman of? You are old enough, and I know you are a lad of ſpirit."’ This kind of talk made ſome impreſſion upon young Oſ⯑born. He became leſs attentive to the leſſons his father ſet him, and leſs will⯑ing to enter into inſtructive converſa⯑tion. This change gave his father much concern; but as he knew the cauſe, he thought it beſt, inſtead of employing direct authority, to attempt to give a new impreſſion to his ſon's mind, which might counteract the effects of his com⯑panion's ſuggeſtions.

Being acquainted with an Eaſt India captain who was on the point of ſailing, he went with his ſon to pay him a fare⯑wel viſit on board his ſhip. They were ſhewn all about the veſſel, and viewed all the preparations for ſo long a voyage. They ſaw her weigh anchor and unfurl her ſails; and they took leave of their friend amid the ſhouts of the ſeamen and all the buſtle of departure.

[136] Charles was highly delighted with this ſcene; and as they were returning, could think and talk of nothing elſe. It was eaſy, therefore, for his father to lead him into the following train of diſcourſe.

After Charles had been warmly ex⯑preſſing his admiration of the grand ſight of a large ſhip completely fitted out and getting under ſail;—I do not wonder (ſaid his father) that you are ſo much ſtruck with it:—it is, in reality, one of the fineſt ſpectacles created by human ſkill, and the nobleſt triumph of art over untaught nature. Near two thouſand years ago, when Julius Caeſar came over to this iſland, he found the na⯑tives in poſſeſſion of no other kind of veſ⯑ſel than a ſort of canoe, formed of wicker work covered with hides, and no bigger than a man or two could carry. But the largeſt ſhip in Caeſar's fleet was not more ſuperior to theſe, than the India⯑diaman you have been ſeeing is to what that was. Our ſavage anceſtors ven⯑tured [137] only to paddle along the rivers and coaſts, or croſs ſmall arms of the ſea in calm weather; and Caeſar himſelf would have been alarmed to be a few days out of ſight of land. But the ſhip we have juſt left is going by itſelf to the oppoſite ſide of the globe, prepared to encounter the tempeſtuous winds and mountanous waves of the vaſt ſouthern ocean, and to find its way to its deſtined port, though many weeks muſt paſs with nothing in view but ſea and ſky. Now, what do you think can be the cauſe of this prodigious difference in the powers of man at one period and another?

Charles was ſilent.

It is not (ſaid his father) that there is a great deal more knowledge in one than in the other?

To be ſure it is, ſaid Charles.

Would it not, think you, be as impoſſible for any number of men, untaught, by their utmoſt efforts, to [138] build and navigate ſuch a ſhip as we have ſeen, as to fly through the air?

I ſuppoſe it would.

That we may be the more ſen⯑ſible of this, let us conſider how many arts and profeſſions are neceſſary for this purpoſe. Come—you ſhall begin to name them, and if you forget any, I will put you in mind. What is the firſt?

The ſhip-carpenter, I think.

True—What does he do?

He builds the ſhip.

How is that done?

By faſtening the planks and beams together.

But do you ſuppoſe he can do this as a common carpenter makes a box or a ſet of ſhelves?

I do not know.

Do you not think that ſuch a vaſt bulk requires a good deal of contriv⯑ance to bring it into ſhape, and fit it for all its purpoſes?

Yes.

Some ſhips, you have heard, ſail quicker than others—ſome bear ſtorms better—ſome carry more lad⯑ing—ſome draw leſs water—and ſo on. You do not ſuppoſe all theſe things are left to chance!

No.

In order with certainty to pro⯑duce theſe effects, it is neceſſary to ſtudy proportions very exactly, and to lay down an accurate ſcale by mathe⯑matical lines and figures after which to build the ſhip. Much has been writ⯑ten upon this ſubject, and nice calcu⯑lations have been made of the reſiſt⯑ance a ſhip meets with in making way through the water, and the beſt means of overcoming it; alſo, of the action of the wind on the ſails, and their action in puſhing on the ſhip by means of the maſts. All theſe muſt be underſtood by a perfect maſter of ſhip-building.

But I think I know ſhip-build⯑ers [140] who have never had an education to fit them for underſtanding theſe things.

Very likely; but they have fol⯑lowed by rote the rules laid down by others; and as they work merely by imitation, they cannot alter and im⯑prove as occaſion may require. Then, though common merchant ſhips are truſted to ſuch builders, yet in con⯑ſtructing men of war and Indiamen, per⯑ſons of ſcience are always employed. The French, however, attend to this matter more than we do, and in conſe⯑quence, their ſhips generally fail bet⯑ter than ours.

But need a captain of a ſhip know all theſe things?

It may not be abſolutely neceſ⯑ſary; yet occaſions may frequently ariſe in which it would be of great advan⯑tage for him to be able to judge and give directions in theſe matters. But ſuppoſe the ſhip built—what comes next?

I think ſhe muſt be rigged.

Well—who are employed for this purpoſe?

Maſt-makers, rope-makers, ſail⯑makers, and I know not how many other people.

Theſe are all mechanical trades; and though in carrying them on much ingenuity has been applied in the inven⯑tion of machines and tools, yet we will not ſtop to conſider them. Suppoſe her, then, rigged—what next?

She muſt take in her guns and powder.

Stop there, and reflect how ma⯑ny arts you have now ſet to work. Gunpowder is one of the greateſt in⯑ventions of modern times, and what has given ſuch a ſuperiority to civiliſed na⯑tions over the barbarous. An Engliſh frigate ſurrounded by the canoes of all the ſavages in the world, would eaſily beat them off by means of her guns; [142] and if Caeſar were to come again to Eng⯑land with his fleet, a battery of cannon would ſink all his ſhips, and ſet his le⯑gions a ſwimming in the ſea. But the making of gunpowder, and the caſting of cannon, are arts that require an ex⯑act knowledge of the ſcience of chemiſ⯑try.

What is that?

It comprehends the knowledge of all the properties of metals and mi⯑nerals, ſalts, ſulphur, oils, and gums, and of the action of fire and water and air upon all ſubſtances, and the effects of mixing different things together. Gunpowder is a mixture of three things only, ſaltpetre or nitre, ſulphur of brim⯑ſtone, and charcoal. But who could have thought ſuch a wonderful effect would have been produced by it?

Was it not firſt diſcovered by accident?

Yes—but it was by one who [143] was making chemical experiments, and many more experiments have been em⯑ployed to bring it to perfection.

But need a captain know how to make gunpowder and cannon?

It is not neceſſary, though it may often be uſeful to him. However, it is quite neceſſary that he ſhould know how to employ them. Now the ſci⯑ences of gunnery and fortification de⯑pend entirely upon mathematical prin⯑ciples; for by theſe are calculated the direction of a ball through the air, the diſtance it will reach to, and the force with which it will ſtrike any thing. All engineers, therefore, muſt be good ma⯑thematicians.

But I think I have heard of gunners being little better than the com⯑mon men.

True—there is a way of doing that buſineſs, as well as many others, by mere practice; and an uneducated man may acquire ſkill in pointing a [144] cannon, as well as in ſhooting with a common gun. But this is only in or⯑dinary caſes, and an abler head is re⯑quired to direct. Well—now ſuppoſe your ſhip completely fitted out for ſea, and the wind blowing fair; how will you navigate her?

I would ſpread the ſails, and ſteer by the rudder.

Very well—but how would you find your way to the port you were bound for?

That I cannot tell.

Nor perhaps can I make you ex⯑actly comprehend it; but I can ſhew you enough to convince you that it is an af⯑fair that requires much knowledge, and early ſtudy. In former times, when a veſſel left the ſight of land, it was ſteer⯑ed by obſervation of the ſun by day, and the moon and ſtars by night. The ſun, you know, riſes in the eaſt, and ſets in the weſt; and at noon, in theſe parts of the world, it is exactly ſouth of [145] us. Theſe points, therefore, may be found out when the ſun ſhines. The moon and ſtars vary; however, their place in the ſky may be known by ex⯑act obſervation. Then, there is one ſtar that always points to the north pole, and is therefore called the pole-ſtar. This was of great uſe in navigation, and the word pole-ſtar is often uſed by the poets to ſignify a ſure guide. Do you recollect the deſcription in Homer's Odyſſey, when Ulyſſes fails away by himſelf from the iſland of Calypſo,—how he ſteers by the ſtars?

I think I remember the lines in Pope's tranſlation.

Repeat them, then.

Very well—they are fine lines indeed! You ſee, then, how long ago ſailors thought it neceſſary to ſtudy aſtro⯑nomy. But as it frequently happens, eſpecially in ſtormy weather, that the ſtars are not to be ſeen, this method was ſubject to great uncertainty, which rendered it dangerous to undertake diſ⯑tant voyages. At length, near 500 years ſince, a property was diſcovered in a mineral, called the magnet or load⯑ſtone, which removed the difficulty. This was, its polarity, or quality of al⯑ways pointing to the poles of the earth, that is, due north and ſouth. This it can communicate to any piece of iron, ſo that a needle well rubbed in a parti⯑cular manner by a loadſtone, and then ba⯑lanced upon its centre ſo as to turn round freely, will always point to the north. With an inſtrument called a mariner's [147] compaſs, made of one of theſe needles, and a card marked with all the points, north, ſouth, eaſt, and weſt, and the di⯑viſions between theſe, a ſhip may be ſteered to any part of the globe.

It is a very eaſy matter, then.

Not quite ſo eaſy, neither. In a long voyage, croſs or contrary winds blow a ſhip out of her direct courſe, ſo that without nice calculations, both of the ſtraight tract ſhe has gone, and all the deviations from it, the ſailors would not know where they were, nor to what point to ſteer. It is alſo frequently ne⯑ceſſary to take obſervations, as they call it; that is, to obſerve with an inſtru⯑ment where the ſun's place in the ſky is at noon, by which they can determine the latitude they are in. Other obſerva⯑tions are neceſſary to determine their longitude. What theſe mean, I can ſhew you upon the globe. It is enough now to ſay, that by means of both together, they can tell the exact ſpot they are on [148] at any time; and then, by conſulting their map, and ſetting their compaſs, they can ſteer right to the place they want. But all this requires a very ex⯑act knowledge of aſtronomy, the uſe of the globes, mathematics, and arithmetic, which you may ſuppoſe is not to be ac⯑quired without much ſtudy. A great number of curious inſtruments have been invented to aſſiſt in theſe operations; ſo that there is ſcarcely any matter in which ſo much art and ſcience have been em⯑ployed, as in navigation; and none but a very learned and civilized nation can excel in it.

But how is Tom Hardy to do? for I am pretty ſure he does not under⯑ſtand any of theſe things.

He muſt learn them, if he means to come to any thing in his profeſſion. He may, indeed, head a preſs-gang, or command a boat's crew, without them; but he will never be fit to take charge of a man of war, or even a merchant ſhip.

However, he need not learn La⯑tin and Greek.

I cannot ſay, indeed, that a ſailor has occaſion for thoſe languages; but a knowledge of Latin makes it much eaſier to acquire all modern languages; and I hope you do not think them unneceſſary to him.

I did not know they were of much importance.

No! Do you think that one who may probably viſit moſt countries in Eu⯑rope and their foreign ſettlements, ſhould be able to converſe in no other language than his own? If the knowledge of lan⯑guages is not uſeful to him, I know not to whom it is ſo. He can hardly do at all without knowing ſome; and the more, the better.

Poor Tom! then I doubt he has not choſen ſo well as he thinks.

I doubt ſo, too.

Here ended the converſation. They ſoon after reached home, and Charles [150] did not forget to deſire his father to ſhew him on the globe what longitude and la⯑titude meant.

THINGS BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES.

PAPA, you grow very lazy. Laſt winter you uſed to tell us ſtories, and now you never tell us any; and we are all got round the fire quite ready to hear you. Pray, dear papa, let us have a very pretty one?

With all my heart—What ſhall it be?

A bloody murder, papa!

A bloody murder! Well then—Once upon a time, ſome men, dreſſed all alike....

With black crapes over their faces.

No; they had ſteel caps on:—having croſſed a dark heath, wound cau⯑tiouſly along the ſkirts of a deep foreſt...

They were ill-looking fellows, I dare ſay.

I cannot ſay ſo; on the contrary, they were tall perſonable men as moſt one ſhall ſee:—leaving on their right hand an old ruined tower on the hill...

At midnight, juſt as the clock ſtruck twelve; was it not, papa?

No, really; it was on a fine bal⯑my ſummer's morning:—and moved forwards, one behind another....

As ſtill as death, creeping along under the hedges.

On the contrary—they walked remarkably upright; and ſo far from endeavouring to be huſhed and ſtill, they made a loud noiſe as they came along, with ſeveral ſorts of inſtruments.

But, papa, they would be found out immediately.

They did not ſeem to wiſh to con⯑ceal themſelves: on the contrary, they gloried in what they were about.—They moved forwards, I ſay, to a large plain, [152] where ſtood a neat pretty village, which they ſet on fire....

Set a village on fire? wicked wretches!

And while it was burning, they murdered—twenty thouſand men.

O fie! papa! You do not intend I ſhould believe this! I thought all along you were making up a tale, as you often do; but you ſhall not catch me this time. What! they lay ſtill, I ſuppoſe, and let theſe fellows cut their throats!

No, truly—they reſiſted as long as they could.

How ſhould theſe men kill twen⯑ty thouſand people, pray?

Why not? the murderers were thirty thouſand.

O, now I have found you out! You mean a BATTLE.

Indeed I do. I do not know of any murders half ſo bloody.