ON MAN.

You gave me the definition of a horſe ſome time ago—Pray, Sir, how is a Man defined?

That is worth enquiring. Let us conſider, then. He muſt ei⯑ther ſtand by himſelf, or be ranked among the quadrupeds; for there are no other two-legged animals but birds, which he certainly does not reſemble.

But how can he be made a qua⯑druped?

By ſetting him to crawl on the ground, in which caſe he will as much reſemble a baboon, as a baboon ſet on his hind-legs does a man. In reality, there is little difference between the arms of a man and the fore-legs of a [2] quadruped; and in all other circum⯑ſtances of internal and external ſtruc⯑ture, they are evidently formed upon the ſame model.

I ſuppoſe then we muſt call him a digitated quadruped that generally goes upon his hind-legs.

A naturaliſt could not reckon him otherwiſe; and accordingly Lin⯑naeus has placed him in the ſame divi⯑ſion with apes, macocos, and bats.

Apes, macocos, and bats!

Yes—they have all four cutting teeth in the upper jaw, and teats on the breaſt. How do you like your rela⯑tions?

Not at all!

Then we will get rid of them by applying to the other part of human nature—the mind. Man is an animal poſſeſſed of reaſon, and the only one. This, therefore, is enough to define him.

I have often heard that man is a [3] rational creature, and I have a notion what that means; but I ſhould like to have an exact definition of reaſon.

Reaſon is the faculty by which we compare ideas and draw concluſions. A man walking in the woods of an un⯑known country finds a bow. He com⯑pares it in his mind with other bows, and forms the concluſion that it muſt have been made by man, and that therefore the country is probably inha⯑bited. He diſcovers a hut; ſees in it half-burnt wood, and finds that the aſhes are not quite cold. He con⯑cludes, therefore, with certainty, not only that there are inhabitants, but that they cannot be far diſtant. No other animal could do this.

But would not a dog who had been uſed to live with men, run into ſuch a hut and expect to find people in it?

He probably would—and this, I acknowledge, is very like reaſon; for [4] he may be ſuppoſed to compare in his mind the hut he has lived in with that he ſees, and to conclude, that as there were men in the firſt, there are in the laſt. But how little a way does this carry him? He finds no men there, and he is unable by any marks to form a judgment how long they have been abſent, or what ſort of people they were; ſtill leſs does he form any plan of conduct in conſequence of his diſ⯑covery.

Then is not the difference only that man has much reaſon, and brutes little?

If we adhere to the mere words of the definition of reaſon, I believe this muſt be admitted; but in the ex⯑erciſe of it, the ſuperiority of the hu⯑man faculties is ſo great, that man is in many points abſolutely diſtinguiſhed from brutes. In the firſt place he has the uſe of ſpeech, which no other animal has attained.

Cannot many animals make them⯑ſelves underſtood by one another by their cries?

They can make known a few of their common wants and deſires, but they cannot diſcourſe, or communicate ideas ſtored up in the memory. It is this faculty which makes man an im⯑proveable being, the wiſdom and expe⯑rience acquired by one individual being thus tranſmitted to others, and ſo on, in an endleſs ſeries of progreſſion. There is no reaſon to ſuppoſe that the dogs of the preſent day are more know⯑ing than thoſe which lived a thouſand years ago; but the men of this age are much better acquainted with numberleſs arts and ſciences than their remote an⯑ceſtors; ſince by the uſe of ſpeech, and of writing (which is ſpeech addreſſed to the eye), every age adds its own diſcoveries to all former ones. This knowledge of the paſt likewiſe gives man a great inſight into the future. [6] Shakeſpear excellently defines man by ſaying that he is a creature ‘"made with large diſcourſe, looking before and after."’

Animals muſt ſurely know ſome⯑thing of the future, when they lay up a ſtore of proviſions for the winter.

No—it is pretty certain that this is not the caſe, for they will do it as much the firſt year of their lives as any other. Young bees turned out of a live, as ſoon as they have ſwarmed and got a habitation, begin laying up honey, though they cannot poſſibly foreſee the uſe they ſhall have for it. There are a vaſt number of actions of this kind in animals, which are directed to an uſeful end, but an end which the animal knows nothing of. And this is what we call inſtinct, and properly diſ⯑tinguiſh from reaſon. Man has leſs of it than almoſt any other animal, be⯑cauſe he wants it leſs. Another point of eſſential difference is that man is the [7] only animal that makes uſe of inſtru⯑ments in any of his actions. He is a tool-making and machine-making animal. By means of this faculty alone he is every where lord of the creation, and has equally triumphed over the ſubtlety of the cunning, the ſwiftneſs of the fleet, and the force of the ſtrong. He is the only animal that has found out the uſe of fire, a moſt important acquiſition!

I have read of ſome large apes that will come and ſit round a fire in the woods when men have left it, but have not the ſenſe to keep it in, by throwing on ſticks.

Still leſs then could they light a fire. In conſequence of this diſcovery man cooks his food, which no other animal does. He alone fences againſt the cold by cloathing as well as by fire. He alone cultivates the earth, and keeps living animals for future uſes.

But have not there been wild men [8] bred in the woods that could do none of theſe things?

Some inſtances of this kind are recorded, and they are not to be won⯑dered at; for man was meant to be a gregarious animal, or one living in ſo⯑ciety, in which alone his faculties have full ſcope, and eſpecially his power of improving by the uſe of ſpeech. Theſe poor ſolitary creatures, brought up with the brutes, were in a ſtate entirely un⯑natural to them. A ſolitary bee, ant, or beaver, would have none of the ſkill and ſagacity of thoſe animals in their proper ſocial condition. Society ſharp⯑ens all the faculties, and gives ideas and views which never could have been en⯑tertained by an individual.

But ſome men that live in ſociety ſeem to be little above the brutes, at leaſt when compared to other men. What is a Hottentot in compariſon to one of us?

The difference, indeed, is great, but we agree in the moſt eſſential cha⯑racters of man, and perhaps the advan⯑tage is not all on our ſide. The Hot⯑tentot cultivates the earth, and rears cattle. He not only herds with his fellows, but he has inſtituted ſome ſort of government for the protection of the weak againſt the ſtrong. He has a no⯑tion of right and wrong, and is ſen⯑ſible of the neceſſity of controuling pre⯑ſent appetites and paſſions for the ſake of a future good. He has therefore morals. He is poſſeſſed of weapons, tools, cloathing, and furniture, of his own making. In agility of body, and the knowledge of various circumſtances relative to the nature of animals, he ſurpaſſes us. His inferiority lies in thoſe things in which many of the low⯑eſt claſs among us are almoſt equally inferior to the inſtructed.

But Hottentots have no notion of a God, or a future ſtate.

I am not certain how far that is fact; but, alas! how many among us have no knowledge at all on thoſe ſub⯑jects, or only ſome vague notions, full of abſurdity and ſuperſtition! People far advanced in civilization have enter⯑tained the groſſeſt errors on thoſe ſub⯑jects, which are only to be corrected by the ſerious application of reaſon, or by a direct revelation from heaven.

You ſaid man was an improveable creature—but have not many nations been a long time in a ſavage ſtate with⯑out improvement?

Man is always capable of improve⯑ment; but he may exiſt a long time, even in ſociety, without actually improv⯑ing beyond a certain point. There is little improvement among nations who have not the art of writing, for tradi⯑tion is not capable of preſerving very accurate or extenſive knowledge; and many arts and ſciences, after flouriſh⯑ing greatly, have been entirely loſt, in [11] countries which have been overrun by barbarous and illiterate nations. Then there is a principle which I might have mentioned as one of thoſe that diſtin⯑guiſh man from brutes, but it as much diſtinguiſhes ſome men from others. This is curioſity, or the love of know⯑ledge for its own ſake. Moſt ſavages have little or nothing of this; but with⯑out it we ſhould want one of the chief inducements to exert our faculties. It is curioſity that impels us to ſearch into the properties of every part of nature, to try all ſorts of experiments, to viſit diſtant regions, and even to examine the appearances and motions of the heavenly bodies. Every fact thus diſ⯑covered leads to other facts; and there is no limit to be ſet to this progreſs. The time may come, when what we now know may ſeem as much ignorance to future ages, as the knowledge of early times does to us.

What nations know the moſt at preſent?

The Europeans have long been diſtinguiſhed for ſuperior ardour after knowledge, and they poſſeſs beyond all compariſon the greateſt ſhare of it, whereby they have been enabled to command the reſt of the world. The countries in which the arts and ſciences moſt flouriſh at preſent, are the northern and middle parts of Europe, and alſo North America, which, you know, is inhabited by deſcendants of Euro⯑peans. In theſe countries man may be ſaid to be moſt man; and they may ap⯑ply to themſelves the poet's boaſt,

THE LANDLORD'S VISIT.
A DRAMA.

GOOD morning to you, Betty.

Ah!—is it your honour? How do you do, Sir?—how is madam and all the good family?

Very well, thank you; and how are you and all yours?

Thank your honour—all pret⯑ty well. Will you pleaſe to ſit down? Ours is but a little crowded place, but there's a clean corner. Set out the chair for his honour, Mary.

I think every thing is very clean. What, John's in the field, I ſuppoſe.

Yes, Sir, with his two eldeſt ſons, ſowing and harrowing.

Well—and here are two, three, four, ſix; all the reſt of your ſtock, I ſuppoſe.—All as buſy as bees!

Ay, your honour! Theſe are not times to be idle in. John and I have always worked hard, and we bring up our children to work too. There's none of them, except the youngeſt, but can do ſomething.

You do very rightly. With induſtry and ſobriety there is no fear of their getting a living, come what may. I wiſh many gentlemen's children had as good a chance.

Lord! Sir, if they have for⯑tunes ready got for them, what need they care?

But fortunes are eaſier to ſpend than to get; and when they are at the bottom of the purſe, what muſt they do to fill it again?

Nay, that's true, Sir; and we have reaſon enough to be thankful [15] that we are able and willing to work, and have a good landlord to live un⯑der.

Good tenants deſerve good landlords; and I have been long ac⯑quainted with your value. Come, lit⯑tle folks; I have brought ſomething for you.

Why don't you thank his ho⯑nour?

I did not think you had a daughter ſo old as that young woman.

No more I have, Sir. She is not my own daughter, though ſhe is as good as one to me.

Some relation, then, I ſup⯑poſe.

No, Sir, none at all.

Who is ſhe, then?

When ſhe is gone out I will tell your honour.—

Go, Fanny, and take ſome milk to the young calf in the ſtable.

A pretty modeſt-looking young woman, on my word!

Ay, Sir—and as good as ſhe is pretty. You muſt know, Sir, that this young woman is a ſtranger, from a great way off. She came here quite by accident, and has lived with us above a twelvemonth. I'll tell your honour all about it, if you chooſe.

Pray do—I am curious to hear it. But firſt favour me with a draught of your whey.

I beg your pardon, Sir, for not offering it. Run, Mary, and fetch his honour ſome freſh whey in a clean baſon.

Now pray begin your ſtory.

Well, Sir—As our John was coming from work one evening, he ſaw at ſome diſtance on the road a carrier's waggon over-turned. He ran up to help, and found a poor old gentlewo⯑man lying on the bank much hurt, and this girl ſitting beſide her, crying. My [17] good man, after he had helped in ſet⯑ting the waggon to rights, went to them, and with a good deal of difficulty got the gentlewoman into the waggon again, and walked by the ſide of it to our houſe. He called me out, and we got ſome⯑thing comfortable for her; but ſhe was ſo ill that ſhe could not bear to be car⯑ried further. So after conſulting a while, we took her into the houſe, and put her to bed. Her head was ſadly hurt, and ſhe ſeemed to grow worſe inſtead of better. We got a doctor to her, and did our beſt to nurſe her, but all would not do, and we ſoon found ſhe was likely to die. Poor Fanny, her grandaughter, never left her day nor night; and it would have gone to your honour's heart to have heard the pitiful moan ſhe made over her. She was the only friend ſhe had in the world, ſhe ſaid; and what would become of her if ſhe were to loſe her? Fanny's father and mother were both dead, and [18] ſhe was going with her grandmother into the north, where the old gentle⯑woman came from, to live cheap, and try to find out ſome relations. Well—to make my ſtory ſhort, in a few days the poor woman died. There was little more money about her than would ſerve to pay the doctor and bury her. Fanny was in ſad trouble indeed. I thought ſhe would never have left her grandmother's grave. She cried and wrung her hands moſt bitterly. But I tire your honour.

O no! I am much intereſted in your ſtory.

We comforted her as well as we could; but all her cry was, What will become of me? Where muſt I go? Who will take care of me? So after a while, ſaid I to John, Poor crea⯑ture! my heart grieves for her. Per⯑haps ſhe would like to ſtay with us—though ſhe ſeems to have been brought up in a way of living different from [19] ours, too;—but what can ſhe do, left to herſelf in the wide world? So my huſband agreed that I ſhould aſk her. When I mentioned it to her, poor thing! how her countenance altered. O, ſaid ſhe, I wiſh for nothing ſo much as to ſtay and live with you! I am afraid I can do but little to ſerve you, but indeed I will learn and do my beſt. Said I, Do no more than you like; you are welcome to ſtay and par⯑take with us as long as you pleaſe. Well, Sir! ſhe ſtaid with us; and ſet about learning to do all kind of our work with ſuch good will, and ſo handi⯑ly, that ſhe ſoon became my beſt help⯑er. And ſhe is ſo ſweet-tempered, and ſo fond of us and the children, that I love her as well as if ſhe was my own child. She has been well brought up, I am ſure. She can read and write, and work with her needle, a great deal better than we can, and when work is over ſhe teaches the children. Then [20] ſhe is extraordinarily well-behaved, ſo as to be admired by all that ſee her. So your honour has now the ſtory of our Fanny.

I thank you heartily for it, my good Betty! it does much credit both to you and Fanny. But pray what is her ſirname?

It is—let me ſee—I think it is Welford.

Welford! that is a name I am acquainted with. I ſhould be glad to talk with her a little.

I will call her in then.

Come hither, young woman. I have heard your ſtory, and been much intereſted by it. You are an orphan, I find.

Yes, Sir; a poor orphan.

Your name is Welford?

It is, Sir.

Where did your parents live?

In London, Sir; but they died [21] when I was very young, and I went to my grandmother's in Surry.

Was ſhe your father's mo⯑ther? You will excuſe my queſtions. I do not aſk from idle curioſity.

She was, Sir; and had been long a widow.

Do you know what her maid⯑en name was?

It was Borrowdale, Sir.

Borrowdale!—And pray whi⯑ther were you going when the unfortu⯑nate accident happened?

To Kendal in Weſtmoreland, Sir, near which my grandmother was born.

Ah! 'tis the very ſame—every circumſtance correſponds! My dear Fanny

you have found a relation when you little thought of it. I am your kinſman. My mo⯑ther was a Borrowdale of Weſtmore⯑land, and half-ſiſter to your grandmo⯑ther. I have heard of all your parent⯑age; [22] and I remember the death of your poor father, who was a very honeſt in⯑genious artiſt; and of your mother ſoon after, of a broken heart. I could never diſcover what family they left, nor what was become of my kinſwoman. But I heartily rejoice I have found you out in this extraordinary manner. You muſt come and live with me. My wife and daughters will be very glad to re⯑ceive one whoſe conduct has done her ſo much credit.

I am much obliged to you, Sir, for your kindneſs; but I am too mean a perſon to live as a relation in a family like yours.

O no! You will not find us of that ſort who deſpiſe worthy people for being low in the world; and your language and actions ſhow that you have been well brought up.

My poor grandmother, Sir, was ſo kind as to give me all the edu⯑cation in her power; and if I have not, [23] ſomewhat benefited by her example and inſtructions, it muſt have been my own fault.

You ſpeak very well, and I feel more attached to you the more I hear you. Well—you muſt prepare to come home with me. I will take care to make proper acknowledgments to the good people here who have been ſo kind to you.

My dear Fanny, I am heartily glad of your good fortune, but we ſhall all be ſorry to part with you.

I am ſure, my dear friend and miſtreſs, I ſhall be ſorry too. You received me when I had no other friend in the world, and have treated me like your own child. I can never forget what I owe you.

Is your honour here?

Yes, John; and I have found ſomewhat worth coming for.

What is that, Sir?

A relation, John. This young woman, whom you have ſo kindly entertained, is my kinſwoman.

What—our Fanny?

Fanny!

Yes, indeed. And, after thanking you for your kindneſs to her and her poor grandmother, I mean to take her home for a companion to my wife and daughters.

This is wonderful news in⯑deed! Well, Fanny, I am very glad you have got ſuch a home to go to—you are worthy of it—but we ſhall miſs you much here.

So I have been telling her.

What, will you leave us, Fanny? Muſt we part?

What can I do, Thomas?

There ſeems ſome unwilling⯑neſs to part, I ſee, on more ſides than one.

Indeed, Sir, I believe there is. We have lived very happily together.

I ſee we muſt part with you, but I hope—Sure⯑ly you wo'n't quite forget us.

You diſtreſs me, Thomas. Forget you!—O no!

Come—I ſee there is ſome⯑thing between the young folks that ought to be ſpoken about plainly. Do you explain it, Betty.

Why, your honour knows we could not tell that Fanny was your re⯑lation. So as my ſon Thomas and ſhe ſeemed to take a liking to one another, and ſhe was ſuch a good clever girl, we did not object to their thinking about making a match of it, as ſoon as he ſhould be ſettled in a farm.

But that muſt be over now.

Why ſo, father?

Why you can't think of his honour's kinſwoman.

Come, Fanny, do you decide this affair.

Sir, Thomas offered me his ſervice when he thought me a poor friendleſs girl; and I might think my⯑ſelf favoured by his notice. He gained my good-will, which no change of cir⯑cumſtances can make me withdraw. It is my determination to join my lot with his, be it what it may.

My deareſt Fanny!

You act nobly, my dear girl, and make me proud of my relation. You ſhall have my free conſent, and ſomething handſome into the bargain.

Heaven bleſs your honour! I know it would have been a heart-break⯑ing to my poor boy to have parted with her. Dear Fanny!

I have a farm juſt now vacant. Thomas ſhall take it, and Fanny's por⯑tion ſhall ſtock it for him.

I humbly thank your ho⯑nour.

I thank you, too, Sir, for us all.

Sir, ſince you have been ſo in⯑dulgent in this matter, give me leave to requeſt you to be ſatisfied with my pay⯑ing my duty to the ladies, without go⯑ing to live in a way ſo different from what I have been uſed to, and muſt live in hereafter. I think I can be no⯑where better than with my friends and future parents here.

Your requeſt, Fanny, has ſo much propriety and good ſenſe in it, that I cannot refuſe it. However, you muſt ſuffer us to improve our acquaint⯑ance. I aſſure you it will give me par⯑ticular pleaſure.

Sir, you will always com⯑mand my moſt grateful obedience.

Well—let Thomas bring you to my houſe this afternoon, and I will introduce you to your relations, and we [28] will talk over matters. Farewell, my dear! Nay, I muſt have a kiſs.

I will wait on you, Sir.

My dear Fanny—daughter I may now call you—you cannot think how much I feel obliged to you.

But who is obliged ſo much as I am?

Do you not all deſerve every thing from me?

Well, who could have thought when I went to help up the waggon, that it would have brought ſo much good luck to us.

A good deed is never loſt, they ſay.

It ſhall be the buſineſs of my life to prove that this has not been loſt.

TIT FOR TAT,
A TALE.

ON WINE AND SPIRITS.

GEORGE and Harry, accompanied by their Tutor, went one day to pay a viſit to a neighbouring gentleman, their fa⯑ther's friend. They were very kindly received, and ſhewn all about the gar⯑dens and pleaſure grounds; but nothing took their fancy ſo much as an extenſive grapery, hung round with bunches of various kinds fully ripe, and almoſt too big for the vines to ſupport. They were liberally treated with the fruit, and carried away ſome bunches to eat as they walked. During their return, as they were picking their grapes, ſaid George to the Tutor, A thought is juſt come into my head, Sir. Wine, you know, is called the juice of the grape; [33] but wine is hot, and intoxicates peo⯑ple that drink much of it. Now we have had a good deal of grape juice this morning, and yet I do not feel heated, nor does it ſeem at all to have got into our heads. What is the reaſon of this?

The reaſon is, that grape-juice is not wine, though wine is made from it.

Pray how is it made, then?

I will tell you; for it is a matter worth knowing. The juice preſſed from grapes, called muſt, is at firſt a ſweet watery liquor, with a little tart⯑neſs, but with no ſtrength or ſpirit. After it has ſtood a while, it begins to grow thick and muddy, it moves up and down, and throws ſcum and bubbles of air to the ſurface. This is called working or fermenting. It continues in this ſtate for ſome time, more or leſs, according to the quality of the juice and the temperature of the weather, and [34] then gradually ſettles again, becoming clearer than at firſt. It has now loſt its ſweet flat taſte, and acquired a briſkneſs and pungency, with a heating and in⯑toxicating property; that is, it has be⯑come wine. This natural proceſs is called the vinous fermentation, and many liquors beſides grape juice are capable of undergoing it.

I have heard of the working of beer and ale. Is that of the ſame kind?

It is; and beer and ale may pro⯑perly be called barley-wine; for you know they are clear, briſk, and intoxi⯑cating. In the ſame manner, cyder is apple-wine, and mead is honey-wine; and you have heard of raiſin and currant wine, and a great many others.

Yes, there is elder-wine and cowſlip-wine, and orange-wine.

Will every thing of that ſort make wine?

All vegetable juices that are ſweet [35] are capable of fermenting, and of pro⯑ducing a liquor of a vinous nature; but if they have little ſweetneſs, the liquor is proportionally weak and poor, and is apt to become ſour or vapid.

But barley is not ſweet.

Barley as it comes from the ear is not; but before it is uſed for brew⯑ing, it is made into malt, and then it is ſenſibly ſweet. You know what malt is?

I have ſeen heaps of it in the malt-houſe, but I do not know how it is made.

Barley is made malt by putting it in heaps and wetting it, when it be⯑comes hot, and ſwells, and would ſprout out, juſt as if it were ſown, unleſs it were then dried in a kiln. By this operation it acquires a ſweet taſte. You have drunk ſweetwort?

Yes.

Well—this is made by ſteeping malt in hot water. The water extracts and diſſolves all the ſweet or ſugary [36] part of the malt. It then becomes like a naturally ſweet juice.

Would not ſugar and water then make wine?

It would; and the wines made in England of our common fruits and flowers have all a good deal of ſugar in them. Cowſlip flowers, for example, give little more than the flavour to the wine named from them, and it is the ſugar added to them which properly makes the wine.

But none of theſe wines are ſo good as grape-wine.

No. The grape, from the rich⯑neſs and abundance of its juice, is the fruit univerſally preferred for making wine, where it comes to perfection, which it ſeldom does in our climate, except by means of artificial heat.

I ſuppoſe, then, grapes are fineſt in the hotteſt countries.

Not ſo, neither: they are pro⯑perly a fruit of the temperate zone, and [37] do not grow well between the tropics. And in very hot countries it is ſcarcely poſſible to make wines of any kind to keep, for they ferment ſo ſtrongly as to turn ſour almoſt immediately.

I think I have read of palm-wine on the coaſt of Guinea.

Yes. A ſweet juice flows abun⯑dantly from inciſions in certain ſpecies of the palm, which ferments immedi⯑ately, and makes a very pleaſant ſort of weak wine. But it muſt be drunk the ſame day it is made, for on the next it is as ſour as vinegar.

What is vinegar—is it not ſour wine?

Every thing that makes wine will make vinegar alſo; and the ſtronger the wine, the ſtronger the vinegar. The vinous fermentation muſt be firſt brought on, but it need not produce perfect wine; for when the intention is to make vine⯑gar, the liquor is kept ſtill warm, and it goes on without ſtopping to another [38] kind of fermentation, called the acetous, the product of which is vinegar.

I have heard of alegar. I ſup⯑poſe that is vinegar made of ale.

It is—but as ale is not ſo ſtrong as wine, the vinegar made from it is not ſo ſharp or perfect. But houſe⯑wives make good vinegar with ſugar and water.

Will vinegar make people drunk if they take too much of it?

No. The wine loſes its intoxi⯑cating quality as well as its taſte, on turning to vinegar.

What are ſpirituous liquors—have not they ſomething to do with wine?

Yes. They conſiſt of the ſpiritu⯑ous or intoxicating part of wine ſepa⯑rated from the reſt. You may remem⯑ber that on talking of diſtillation, I told you that it was the raiſing of a liquor in ſteam or vapour, and condenſing it again; and that ſome liquors were more [39] eaſily turned to vapour than others, and were therefore called more volatile or evaporable. Now, wine is a mixed or compound liquor, of which the greater part is water, but what heats and in⯑toxicates is vinous ſpirit. This ſpirit, being much more volatile than water, on the application of a gentle heat, flies off in vapour, and may be collected by itſelf in diſtilling veſſels;—and thus are made ſpirituous liquors.

Will every thing that you called wine, yield ſpirits?

Yes; every thing that has under⯑gone the vinous fermentation. Thus, in England, a great deal of malt-ſpirit is made from a kind of wort brought into fermentation, and then ſet directly to diſtil, without firſt making ale or beer of it. Gin is a ſpirituous liquor alſo got from corn, and flavoured with juniper berries. Even potatoes, car⯑rots, and turneps, may be made to af⯑ford ſpirits, by firſt fermenting their [40] juices. In the Weſt Indies rum is diſ⯑tilled from the dregs of the ſugar canes waſhed out by water and fermented. But brandy is diſtilled from the fer⯑mented juice of the grape, and is made in the wine countries.

Is ſpirits of wine different from ſpirituous liquors?

It is the ſtrongeſt part of them got by diſtilling over again; for all theſe ſtill contain a good deal of water, along with a pure ſpirit, which may be ſepa⯑rated by a gentler heat than was uſed at firſt. But in order to procure this as ſtrong and pure as poſſible, it muſt be diſtilled ſeveral times over, always leav⯑ing ſome of the watery part behind. When perfectly pure, it is the ſame, whatever ſpirituous liquor it is got from.

My mamma has little bottles of lavender water. What is that?

It is ſpirit of wine flavoured with lavender flowers; and it may in like manner be flavoured with many other [41] fragrant things, ſince their odoriferous part is volatile, and will riſe in vapour along with the ſpirit.

Will not ſpirits of wine burn vio⯑lently?

That it will, I can tell you; and ſo will rum and brandy, for you know it was ſet on fire when we made ſnap⯑dragon.

All ſpirituous liquors are highly inflammable, and the more ſo the purer they are. One way of trying the purity of ſpirit is to ſee if it will burn all away without leaving any moiſture behind. Then it is much lighter than water, and that affords another way of judging of its ſtrength. A hollow ivory ball is ſet to ſwim in it; and the deeper it ſinks down, the lighter, and therefore the more ſpirituous, is the liquor.

I have heard much of the miſ⯑chief done by ſpirituous liquors—pray what good do they do?

The uſe and abuſe of wine and [42] ſpirits is a very copious ſubject; and there is ſcarcely any gift of human art the general effects of which are more dubious. You know what wine is ſaid to be given for in the bible.

To make glad the heart of man.

Right. And nothing has ſuch an immediate effect in inſpiring vigour of body and mind as wine. It baniſhes ſorrow and care, recruits from fatigue, enlivens the fancy, inflames the courage, and performs a hundred fine things, of which I could bring you abundant proof from the poets. The phyſicians, too, ſpeak almoſt as much in its favour, both in diet and medicine. But its really good effects are only when uſed in mo⯑deration; and it unfortunately is one of thoſe things which man can hardly be brought to uſe moderately. Exceſs in wine brings on effects the very contrary to its benefits. It ſtupifies and enfeebles the mind, and fills the body with in⯑curable diſeaſes. And this it does even [43] when uſed without intoxication. But a drunken man loſes for the time every diſtinction of a reaſonable creature, and becomes worſe than a brute beaſt. On this account, Mahomet entirely forbid its uſe to his followers, and to this day it is not publicly drunk in any of the countries that receive the Mahometan religion.

Was not that right?

I think not. If we were entirely to renounce every thing that may be miſuſed, we ſhould have ſcarce any en⯑joyments left; and it is a proper exer⯑ciſe of our ſtrength of mind, to uſe good things with moderation, when we have it in our power to do otherwiſe.

But ſpirituous liquors are not good at all; are they?

They have ſo little good and ſo much bad in them, that I confeſs I wiſh their common uſe could be aboliſhed altogether. They are generally taken by the loweſt claſs of people for the ex⯑preſs [44] purpoſe of intoxication; and they are much ſooner prejudicial to the health than wine, and indeed, when drunk un⯑mixed, are no better than ſlow poiſon.

Spirit of wine is uſeful, though, for ſeveral things—is it not?

Yes; and I would have all ſpirits kept in the hands of chymiſts and artiſts who know how to employ them uſe⯑fully. Spirit of wine will diſſolve many things that water will not. Apotheca⯑ries uſe them in drawing tinctures, and artiſts in preparing colours and mak⯑ing varniſhes. They are likewiſe very powerful preſervatives from corruption. You may have ſeen ſerpents and inſects brought from abroad in phials full of ſpirits.

I have.

And I know of another uſe of ſpirits.

What is that?

To burn in lamps. My grand⯑mamma has a tea-kettle with a lamp [45] under it to keep the water hot, and ſhe burns ſpirits in it.

So ſhe does. Well—ſo much for the uſes of theſe liquors.

But you have ſaid nothing about ale and beer. Are they wholeſome?

Yes, in moderation. But they are ſadly abuſed, too, and rob many men of their health as well as their mo⯑ney and ſenſes.

Small beer does no harm, how⯑ever.

No—and we will indulge in a good draught of it when we get home.

I like water better.

Then drink it by all means. He that is ſatisfied with water has one want the leſs, and may defy thirſt, in this country, at leaſt.

THE BOY WITHOUT A GENIUS.

MR. Wiſeman, the ſchoolmaſter, at the end of his ſummer vacation, receiv⯑ed a new ſcholar with the following let⯑ter:

When Mr. Wiſeman had read his letter, he ſhook his head, and ſaid to his aſſiſtant, A pretty ſubject they have ſent us here! a lad that has a great ge⯑nius for nothing at all. But perhaps my friend Mr. Acres expects that a boy ſhould ſhow a genius for a thing before he knows any thing about it—no un⯑common error! Let us ſee, however, [48] what the youth looks like. I ſuppoſe he is a human creature, at leaſt.

Maſter Samuel Acres was now call⯑ed in. He came hanging down his head, and looking as if he was going to be flogged.

Come hither, my dear! ſaid Mr. Wiſeman—Stand by me, and do not be afraid. Nobody will hurt you. How old are you?

Eleven laſt May, Sir.

A well-grown boy of your age, in⯑deed. You love play, I dare ſay.

Yes, Sir.

What, are you a good hand at mar⯑bles?

Pretty good, Sir.

And can ſpin a top, and drive a hoop, I ſuppoſe.

Yes, Sir.

Then you have the full uſe of your hands and fingers?

Yes, Sir.

[49] Can you write, Samuel?

I learned a little, Sir, but I left it off again.

And why ſo?

Becauſe I could not make the let⯑ters.

No! Why how do you think other boys do?—have they more fingers than you?

No, Sir.

Are you not able to hold a pen as well as a marble?

Samuel was ſilent.

Let me look at your hand.

Samuel held out both his paws, like a dancing bear.

I ſee nothing here to hinder you from writing as well as any boy in the ſchool. You can read, I ſuppoſe.

Yes, Sir.

Tell me then what is written over the ſchool-room door.

Samuel with ſome heſitation read,‘WHATEVER MAN HAS DONE, MAN MAY DO.’

[50] Pray how did you learn to read?—Was it not with taking pains?

Yes, Sir.

Well—taking more pains will enable you to read better. Do you know any thing of the Latin grammar?

No, Sir.

Have you never learned it?

I tried, Sir, but I could not get it by heart.

Why, you can ſay ſome things by heart. I dare ſay you can tell me the names of the days of the week in their order.

Yes, Sir, I know them.

And the months in the year, perhaps.

Yes, Sir.

And you could probably repeat the names of your brothers and ſiſters, and all your father's ſervants, and half the people in the village beſides.

I believe I could, Sir.

Well—and is hic, haec, hoc, more dif⯑ficult to remember than theſe?

[51] Samuel was ſilent.

Have you learned any thing of ac⯑counts?

I went into addition, Sir, but I did not go on with it.

Why ſo?

I could not do it, Sir.

How many marbles can you buy for a penny?

Twelve new ones, Sir.

And how many for a halfpenny?

Six.

And how many for two-pence?

Twenty-four.

If you were to have a penny a day, what would that make in a week?

Seven-pence.

But if you paid two-pence out of that, what would you have left?

Samuel ſtudied awhile, and then ſaid, five-pence.

Right. Why here you have been practiſing the four great rules of arith⯑metic, [52] addition, ſubtraction, multipli⯑cation, and diviſion. Learning ac⯑counts is no more than this. Well, Samuel, I ſee what you are fit for. I ſhall ſet you about nothing but what you are able to do; but obſerve, you muſt do it. We have no I can't here. Now go among your ſchoolfellows.

Samuel went away, glad that his ex⯑amination was over, and with more con⯑fidence in his powers than he had felt before.

The next day he began buſineſs. A boy leſs than himſelf was called out to ſet him a copy of letters, and another was appointed to hear him grammar. He read a few ſentences in Engliſh that he could perfectly underſtand, to the maſter himſelf. Thus by going on ſteadily and ſlowly, he made a ſenſible progreſs. He had already joined his letters, got all the declenſions perfect⯑ly, and half the multiplication table, [53] when Mr. Wiſeman thought it time to anſwer his father's letter; which he did as follows.

Though the doctrine of this letter did not perfectly agree with Mr. Acres's notions, yet being convinced that Mr. Wiſeman was more likely to make ſomething of his ſon than any of his [55] former preceptors, he continued him at this ſchool for ſome years, and had the ſatisfaction to find him going on in a ſteady courſe of gradual improvement. In due time a profeſſion was choſen for him, which ſeemed to ſuit his temper and talents, but for which he had no particular turn, having never thought at all about it. He made a reſpectable figure in it, and went through the world with credit and uſefulneſs, though with⯑out a genius.

HALF-A-CROWN'S WORTH.

VALENTINE was in his thirteenth year, and a ſcholar in one of our great ſchools. He was a well-diſpoſed boy, but could not help envying a little ſome of his companions who had a larger al⯑lowance of money than himſelf. He ventured in a letter to ſound his father on the ſubject, not directly aſking for [56] a particular ſum, but mentioning that many of the boys in his claſs had half-a-crown a week for pocket-money.

His father, who did not chooſe to comply with his wiſhes for various rea⯑ſons, nor yet to refuſe him in a mortify⯑ing manner, wrote an anſwer, the chief purpoſe of which was to make him ſen⯑ſible what ſort of a ſum half-a-crown a week was, and to how many more im⯑portant uſes it might be put, than to provide a ſchool-boy with things abſo⯑lutely ſuperfluous to him.

It is calculated (ſaid he) that a grown man may be kept in health and fit for la⯑bour upon a pound and a half of good bread a day. Suppoſe the value of this to be two-pence halfpenny, and add a penny for a quart of milk, which will greatly improve his diet. Half-a-crown will keep him eight or nine days in this manner.

A common labourer's wages in our county are ſeven ſhillings per week, [57] and if you add ſomewhat extraordinary for harveſt work, this will not make it amount to three half-crowns on an aver⯑age the year round. Suppoſe his wife and children to earn another half-crown. For this ten ſhillings per week he will maintain himſelf, his wife, and half-a-dozen children, in food, lodging, clothes, and fuel. A half-crown, then, may be reckoned the full weekly maintenance of two human creatures in every thing neceſſary.

Where potatoes are much cultivated, two buſhels, weighing eighty pounds a piece, may be purchaſed for half-a-crown. Here is one hundred and ſixty pounds of ſolid food, of which, allow⯑ing for the waſte in dreſſing, you may reckon two pounds and a half ſufficient for the ſole daily nouriſhment of one perſon. At this rate, nine people might be fed a week for half-a-crown; poorly in⯑deed, but ſo as many thouſands are fed, [58] with the addition of a little ſalt or but⯑termilk.

If the father of a numerous family were out of work, or the mother lying⯑in, a pariſh would think half-a-crown a week a very ample aſſiſtance to them.

Many of the cottagers round us would receive with great thankfulneſs a ſix⯑penny loaf per week, and reckon it a very material addition to their children's bread. For half-a-crown, therefore, you might purchaſe—the weekly bleſſ⯑ings of five poor families.

Porter is a ſort of luxury to a poor man, but not an uſeleſs one, ſince it will ſtand in the place of ſome ſolid food, and enable him to work with better heart. You could treat a hard-work⯑ing man with a quart a day of this li⯑quor for a fortnight, with half-a-crown.

Many a cottage in the country inha⯑bited by a large family is let for forty ſhillings a year. Half-a-crown a week [59] would pay the full rent of three ſuch cottages, and allow ſomewhat over for repairs.

The uſual price for ſchooling at a dame-ſchool in a village is two-pence a week. You might therefore get fifteen children inſtructed in reading and the girls in ſewing, for half-a-crown week⯑ly. But even in a town you might get them taught reading, writing, and ac⯑counts, and ſo fitted for any common trade, for five ſhillings a quarter; and therefore half-a-crown a week would keep ſix children at ſuch a ſchool, and provide them with books beſides.

All theſe are ways in which half-a-crown a week might be made to do a great deal of good to others. I ſhall now juſt mention one or two ways of laying it out with advantage to your⯑ſelf.

I know you are very fond of colour⯑ed plates of plants, and other objects of natural hiſtory. There are now ſeveral [60] works of this ſort publiſhing in monthly numbers, as the Botanical Magazine, the Engliſh Botany, the Flora Ruſtica, and the Naturaliſt's Magazine. Now half-a-crown a week would reach the purchaſe of all the beſt of theſe.

The ſame ſum laid out in the old book ſhops in London would buy you more claſſics, and pretty editions too, in one year, than you could read in five.

Now I do not grudge laying out half-a-crown a week upon you; but when ſo many good things for yourſelf and others may be done with it, I am un⯑willing you ſhould ſquander it away like your ſchoolfellows in tarts and trinkets.

THE RAT WITH A BELL,
A FABLE.

A large old houſe in the country was ſo extremely infeſted with rats, that no⯑thing [61] could be ſecured from their de⯑predations. They ſcaled the walls to attack flitches of bacon, though hung as high as the ceiling. Hanging-ſhelves afforded no protection to the cheeſe and paſtry. They penetrated by ſap into the ſtore-room, and plundered it of preſerves and ſweetmeats. They gnaw⯑ed through cupboard doors, undermin⯑ed floors, and ran races behind the wainſcots. The cats could not get at them: they were too cunning and too well fed to meddle with poiſon; and traps only now and then caught a heed⯑leſs ſtraggler. One of theſe, however, on being taken, was the occaſion of practiſing a new device. This was, to faſten a collar with a ſmall bell about the priſoner's neck, and then turn him looſe again.

Overjoyed at the recovery of his li⯑berty, the rat ran into the neareſt hole, and went in ſearch of his companions. They heard at a diſtance the bell tinkle, [62] tinkle, through the dark paſſages, and ſuſpecting ſome enemy had got among them, away they ſcoured, ſome one way and ſome another. The bell-bearer purſued; and ſoon gueſſing the cauſe of their flight, he was greatly amuſed by it. Wherever he approached, it was all hurry-ſcurry, and not a tail of one of them was to be ſeen. He chaſ⯑ed his old friends from hole to hole, and room to room, laughing all the while at their fears, and increaſing them by all the means in his power. Preſently he had the whole houſe to himſelf. ‘"That's right (quoth he)—the fewer, the better cheer."’ So he rioted alone among the good things, and ſtuffed till he could hardly walk.

For two or three days this courſe of life went on very pleaſantly. He eat, and eat, and played the bugbear to per⯑fection. At length he grew tired of this lonely condition, and longed to mix with his companions again upon [63] the former footing. But the difficulty was, how to get rid of his bell. He pulled and tugged with his fore-feet, and almoſt wore the ſkin off his neck in the attempt, but all in vain. The bell was now his plague and torment. He wandered from room to room, ear⯑neſtly deſiring to make himſelf known to one of his companions, but they all kept out of his reach. At laſt, as he was moping about diſconſolate, he fell in puſs's way, and was devoured in an inſtant.

He who is raiſed ſo much above his fellow creatures as to be the object of their terror, muſt ſuffer for it in loſing all the comforts of ſociety. He is a ſo⯑litary being in the midſt of crowds. He keeps them at a diſtance, and they equally ſhun him. Dread and affection cannot ſubſiſt together.

THE LEGUMINOUS PLANTS.

WHAT a delightful ſmell!

Charming! It is ſweeter than Mr. Eſſence's ſhop.

Do you know whence it comes?

O—it is from the bean-field on the other ſide of the hedge, I ſuppoſe.

It is. This is the month in which beans are in bloſſom. See—the ſtalks are full of their black and white flow⯑ers.

I ſee peas in bloſſom, too, on the other ſide of the field.

You told us ſome time ago of graſs and corn flowers, but they make a poor figure compared to theſe.

They do. The glory of a corn⯑field is when it is ripe; but peas and beans look very ſhabbily at that time. But ſuppoſe we take a cloſer view of theſe bloſſoms. Go, you, George, and bring me a bean plant; and you, Har⯑ry, a pea.

Now let us ſit down and compare them. Do you think theſe flowers much alike?

O no—very little.

Yes—a good deal.

A little and a good deal! How can that be? Come, let us ſee. In the firſt place they do not much reſemble each other in ſize or colour.

No—but I think they do in ſhape.

True. They are both irregular flowers, and have the ſame diſtribution of parts. They are of the kind called papilionaceous, from papilio, the Latin word for a butterfly, which inſect they are thought to reſemble.

The pea does a little, but not much.

Some do much more than theſe. Well—you ſee firſt a broad leaf ſtand⯑ing upright, but ſomewhat bent back: this is named the ſtandard. On each ſide are two narrower, called the wings. The under ſide of the flower is formed of a hollow part, reſembling a boat: this is called the keel.

It is very like a boat, indeed!

In ſome kinds, however, it is di⯑vided in the middle, and ſo is like a boat ſplit in two. All theſe parts have claws which unite to form a tube, ſet in a calyx or flower cup. This tube, you obſerve, is longer in the bean than in the pea, and the proportions of the other parts are ſomewhat different; but the parts themſelves are found in both.

So they are. I think them alike now.

That is the conſequence of ex⯑amining cloſely. Now let us ſtrip off [85] all the leaves of this bean flower but the keel. What do you think this boat contains?

It muſt be thoſe little things that you told us are in all flowers.

The chives and piſtil.

Right. I will draw down the keel gently, and you ſhall ſee them.

How curious!

Here are a number of chives join⯑ing in their bodies ſo as to make a round tube, or cylinder, through which comes out a crooked thread, which is the piſtil. I will now with a pin ſlit this cylinder. What do you ſee within it?

Somewhat like a little pod.

True—and to ſhow you that it is a pod, I will open it, and you ſhall ſee the ſeeds within it.

What tiny things! Is this then what makes the bean-pod afterwards?

It is. When the bloſſom drops, this ſeed-veſſel grows bigger and bigger, [86] and at length hardens as the ſeeds grow ripe, becomes black and ſhriveled, and would burſt and ſhed the ſeeds, if they were not gathered.

I have ſeen ſeveral burſt pods of our ſweet-peas under the wall, with no⯑thing left in them.

And it is common for the field peas and beans to loſe a great part of the ſeeds while they are getting in.

At the bottom of this pea-ſtalk there are ſome pods ſet already.

Open one. You ſee that the pod is compoſed of two ſhells, and that all the ſeeds are faſtened to one ſide of the pod, but alternately to each ſhell.

Is it the ſame in beans?

Yes, and in all other pods of the papilionaceous flowers. Well—this is the general ſtructure of a very numer⯑ous and uſeful claſs of plants called the leguminous, or podded. Of theſe, in this country, the greater part are herbaceous, with ſome ſhrubs. In the warm cli⯑mates [87] there are alſo tall trees. Many of the leguminous plants afford excel⯑lent nouriſhment for man and beaſt; and their pods have the name of pulſe.

I have read of perſons living on pulſe, but I did not know what it meant before.

It is frequently mentioned as part of the diet of abſtemious perſons. Of this kind, we eat peas, beans, and kid⯑ney or French beans, of all which there are a variety of ſorts cultivated. Other nations eat lentiles and lupins, which are of this claſs; with ſeveral others.

I remember our lupins in the garden have flowers of this kind, with pods growing in cluſters. But we only cultivate them for the colour and ſmell.

But other nations eat them. Then all the kinds of clover, or trefoil, which are ſo uſeful in feeding cattle, belong to this tribe; as do likewiſe [88] vetches, ſainfoin, and lucerne, which are uſed for the ſame purpoſe. Theſe principally compoſe what are uſually, though improperly, called in agriculture artificial graſſes.

Clover flowers are as ſweet as beans; but do they bear pods?

Yes; very ſhort ones, with one or two ſeeds in each. But there is a kind called nonſuch, with a very ſmall yellow flower, that has a curious twiſted pod, like a ſnail-ſhell. Many of the leguminous plants are weak, and cannot ſupport themſelves; hence they are furniſhed with tendrils, by means of which they claſp neighbouring plants, and run up them. You know the garden peas do ſo to the ſticks which are ſet in the rows with them. Some kinds of vetches run in this manner up the hedges, which they decorate with their long bunches of blue or purple flowers. Tares, which are ſome of the [89] ſlendereſt of the family, do much miſ⯑chief among corn by twining round it and choaking it.

What are they good for, then?

They are weeds, or noxious plants, with reſpect to us; but doubt⯑leſs they have their uſes in the creation. Some of our papilionaceous plants, however, are able enough to ſhift for themſelves; for gorſe or furze is of the number.

What, that prickly buſh all covered over with yellow flowers, that over-runs our common?

Yes. Then there is broom, a plant as big, but without thorns, and with larger flowers. This is as fre⯑quent as furze in ſome places.

I know it grows in abundance in the broom-field.

It does; but the naming of fields and places from it is a proof that it is not ſo common as the other.

We have ſome buſhes of white broom in the ſhrubbery, and ſome trees of Spaniſh broom.

True. You have alſo a ſmall tree which flowers early, and bears a great many pendent bunches of yellow bloſ⯑ſoms, that look peculiarly beautiful when intermixed with the purple lilacs.

I know it—Laburnum.

Right. That is one of our claſs of plants too. Then there is a large tree, with delicate little leaves, protected by long thorns, and bearing bunches of white papilionaceous flowers.

I know which you mean, but I cannot tell the name.

It is the Baſtard Acacia, or Lo⯑cuſt tree, a native of America. Thus, you ſee, we have traced this claſs of plants through all ſizes, from the tre⯑foil that covers the turf, to a large tree. I ſhould not, however, forget two others, the Liquorice and the Tama⯑rind. The Liquorice, with the ſweet [91] root of which you are well acquainted, grows in the warmer countries, eſpe⯑cially Spain, but is cultivated in Eng⯑land. The Tamarind is a large ſpread⯑ing tree growing in the Weſt Indies, and valued for its ſhade, as well as for the cooling acid pulp of its pods, which are preſerved with ſugar and ſent over to us.

I know them very well.

Well—do you think now you ſhall both be able to diſcover a papilio⯑naceous flower when you meet with it again.

I believe I ſhall, if they are all like theſe we have been examining.

They have all the ſame parts, though variouſly proportioned. What are theſe?

There is the ſtandard and two wings.

And the keel.

Right—the keel ſometimes cleft into two, and then it is an irregular five-leaved [92] flower. The chives are gene⯑rally ten, of which one ſtands apart from the reſt. The piſtil ſingle, and ending in a pod. Another circumſtance com⯑mon to moſt of this tribe, is that their leaves are winged or pinnated, that is, having leaflets ſet oppoſite each other upon a middle rib. You ſee this ſtruc⯑ture in theſe bean leaves. But in the clovers there are only two oppoſite leaf⯑lets, and one terminating; whence their name of trefoil, or three-leaf. What we call a club on cards is properly a clover leaf, and the French call it trefle, which means the ſame.

I think this tribe of plants almoſt as uſeful as the graſſes.

They perhaps come the next in utility; but their ſeeds, ſuch as beans and peas, are not quite ſuch good nou⯑riſhment as corn, and bread cannot be made of them.

But clover is better than graſs for cattle.

It is more fattening, and makes cows yield plenty of fine milk. Well—let us march.

WALKING THE STREETS,
A PARABLE.

HAVE you ever walked through the crowded ſtreets of a great city?

What ſhoals of people pouring in from oppoſite quarters, like torrents meeting in a narrow valley! You would imagine it impoſſible for them to get through; yet all paſs on their way without ſtop or moleſtation.

Were each man to proceed exactly in the line in which the ſet out, he could not move many paces without encountering another full in his track. They would ſtrike againſt each other, fall back, puſh forward again, block up the way for themſelves and thoſe after [94] them, and throw the whole ſtreet into confuſion.

All this is avoided by every man's yielding a little.

Inſtead of advancing ſquare, ſtiff, with arms ſtuck out, every one who knows how to walk the ſtreets, glides along, his arms cloſe, his body oblique and flexible, his track gently winding, leaving now a few inches on this ſide, now on that, ſo as to paſs and be paſſed, without touching, in the ſmalleſt poſſible ſpace.

He puſhes no one into the kennel nor goes into it himſelf. By mutual accommodation the path, though narrow, holds them all.

He goes neither much faſter nor much ſlower than thoſe who go in the ſame direction. In the firſt caſe he would elbow, in the ſecond he would be elbowed.

If any accidental ſtop ariſes, from a carriage croſſing, a caſk rolled, a pick⯑pocket [95] detected, or the like, he does not increaſe the buſtle by ruſhing into the midſt of it, but checks his pace, and patiently waits for its removal.

Like this is the march of life.

In our progreſs through the world, a thouſand things ſtand continually in our way. Some people meet us full in the face with oppoſite opinions and inclina⯑tions. Some ſtand before us in our purſuit of pleaſure or intereſt, and others follow cloſe upon our heels. Now, we ought in the firſt place to conſider, that the road is as free for one as for another; and therefore we have no right to ex⯑pect that perſons ſhould go out of their way to let us paſs, any more than we out of ours. Then, if we do not mu⯑tually yield and accommodate a little, it is clear that we muſt all ſtand ſtill, or be thrown into a perpetual confuſion of ſqueezing and juſtling. If we are all in a hurry to get on as faſt as poſſible [96] to ſome point of pleaſure or intereſt in our view, and do not occaſionally hold back, when the crowd gathers and angry contentions ariſe, we ſhall only augment the tumult, without ad⯑vancing our own progreſs. On the whole, it is our buſineſs to move on⯑wards, ſteadily but quietly, obſtructing others as little as poſſible, yielding a little to this man's prejudices, and that man's deſires, and doing every thing in our power to make the journey of life eaſy to all our fellow-travellers, as well as to ourſelves.

ON PRESENCE OF MIND.

MRS. F. one day having occaſion to be blooded, ſent for the ſurgeon. As ſoon as he entered the room, her young daughter, Eliza, ſtarted up, and was haſtily going away, when her mo⯑ther called her back.

Eliza, do not go, I want you to ſtay by me.

Dear mamma! I can never bear to ſee you blooded.

Why not? what harm will it do you?

O dear! I cannot look at blood. Beſides, I cannot bear to ſee you hurt, mamma!

O, if I can bear to feel it, ſurely you may to ſee it. But come—you muſt ſtay, and we will talk about it afterwards.

Eliza then, pale and trembling, ſtood by her mother, and ſaw the whole operation. She could not help, how⯑ever, turning her head away when the inciſion was made, and the firſt flow of blood made her ſtart and ſhudder. When all was over, and the ſurgeon gone, Mrs. F. began,

Well, Eliza! what do you think of this mighty matter now? Would it not have been very fooliſh to have run away from it?

O mamma! how frightened I was when he took out his lancet! Did it not hurt you a great deal?

No, very little. And if it had, it was to do me good, you know.

But why ſhould I ſtay to ſee it? I could do you no good.

Perhaps not; but it will do you good to be accuſtomed to ſuch ſights.

Why, mamma?

Becauſe inſtances are every day happening in which it is our duty to aſſiſt fellow-creatures in circum⯑ſtances of pain and diſtreſs; and if we were to indulge a reluctance to come near them on thoſe occaſions, we ſhould never acquire either the know⯑ledge or the preſence of mind neceſſary for the purpoſe.

But if I had been told how to help people in ſuch caſes, could not I do it without being uſed to ſee them?

No. We have all natu⯑rally a horror at every thing which is the cauſe of pain and danger to our⯑ſelves or others; and nothing but habit can give moſt of us the preſence of mind neceſſary to enable us in ſuch oc⯑currences to employ our knowledge to the beſt advantage.

What is preſence of mind, mamma?

It is that ſteady poſſeſſion of ourſelves in caſes of alarm, that pre⯑vents us from being flurried and frightened. You have heard the ex⯑preſſion of having all our wits about us. That is the effect of preſence of mind, and a moſt ineſtimable quality it is, for without it, we are full as likely to run into danger as to avoid it. Do you not remember hearing of your couſin Mary's cap taking fire in the candle?

O yes—very well.

Well—the maid, as ſoon as ſhe ſaw it, ſet up a great ſcream, and ran out of the room; and Mary might have been burnt to death for any aſſiſt⯑ance ſhe could give her.

How fooliſh that was!

Yes—the girl had not the leaſt preſence of mind, and the conſe⯑quence was, depriving her of all re⯑collection, and making her entirely uſe⯑leſs. But as ſoon as your aunt came [101] up, ſhe took the right method for pre⯑venting the miſchief. The cap was too much on fire to be pulled off; ſo ſhe whipped a quilt from the bed and flung it round Mary's head, and thus ſtifled the flame.

Mary was a good deal ſcorched, though.

Yes—but it was very well that it was no worſe. If the maid, however, had acted with any ſenſe at firſt, no harm at all would have been done, except burning the cap. I re⯑member a much more fatal example of the want of preſence of mind. The miſtreſs of a family was awakened by flames burſting through the wainſcot into her chamber. She flew to the ſtair-caſe; and in her confuſion, inſtead of going up ſtairs to call her children, who ſlept together in the nurſery over⯑head, and who might all have eſcaped by the top of the houſe, ſhe ran down, and with much danger made way [102] through the fire into the ſtreet. When ſhe had got thither, the thought of her poor children ruſhed into her mind, but it was too late. The ſtairs had caught fire, ſo that nobody could get near them, and they were burned in their beds.

What a ſad thing!

Sad indeed! Now I will tell you of a different conduct. A lady was awakened by the crackling of fire, and ſaw it ſhining under her chamber floor. Her huſband would immediately have opened the door, but ſhe pre⯑vented him, ſince the ſmoke and flame would then have burſt in upon them. The children with a maid ſlept in a room opening out of theirs. She went and awakened them; and tying together the ſheets and blankets, ſhe ſent down the maid from the window firſt, and then let down the children one by one to her. Laſt of all ſhe deſcended her⯑ſelf. [103] A few minutes after, the floor fell in, and all the houſe was in flames.

What a happy eſcape!

Yes—and with what cool recollection of mind it was managed! For mothers to love their children, and be willing to run any hazards for them, is common; but in weak minds that very love is apt to prevent exertions in the time of danger. I knew a lady who had a fine little boy ſitting in her lap. He put a whole plum into his mouth, which ſlipped into his throat, and choaked him. The poor fellow turned black, and ſtruggled violently; and the mother was ſo frightened, that inſtead of putting her finger into his throat and pulling out the plum, which might eaſily have been done, ſhe laid him on the floor and ran to call for aſſiſtance. But the maids who came up were as much flurried as ſhe; and the child died before any thing effectual was done to relieve him.

How unhappy ſhe muſt have been about it!

Yes. It threw her into an illneſs which had like to have coſt her her life.

Another lady, ſeeing her little boy climb up a high ladder, ſet up a violent ſcream that frightened the child, ſo that he fell down and was much hurt; whereas if ſhe had poſſeſſed command enough over herſelf to ſpeak to him gently, he might have got down ſafely.

Dear mamma! what is that running down your arm?—O, it is blood!

Yes—my arm bleeds again. I have ſtirred it too ſoon.

Dear! what ſhall I do?

Don't frighten yourſelf. I ſhall ſtop the blood by preſſing on the orifice with my finger. In the mean time do you ring the bell.

Betty, my arm bleeds. Can you tie it up again?

I believe I can, Madam.

I hope it is ſtopt now.

It is. Betty has done it very well. You ſee ſhe went about it with compoſure. This accident puts me in mind of another ſtory which is very well worth hearing. A man once reaping in the field cut his arm dread⯑fully with his ſickle, and divided an artery.

What is that, mamma.

It is one of the canals or pipes through which the blood from the heart runs like water in a pipe brought from a reſervoir. When one of theſe is cut, it bleeds very violently, and the only way to ſtop it is to make a preſſure between the wounded place and the heart in order to intercept the courſe of the blood towards it. Well [106] —this poor man bled profuſely; and the people about him, both men and women, were ſo ſtupified with fright, that ſome ran one way, ſome another, and ſome ſtood ſtock ſtill. In ſhort, he would ſoon have bled to death, had not a briſk ſtout-hearted wench, who came up, ſlipt off her garter, and bound it tight above the wound, by which means the bleeding was ſtopt till proper help could be procured.

What a clever wench! But how did ſhe know what to do?

She had perhaps heard it, as you have done now; and ſo proba⯑bly had ſome of the others, but they had not preſence of mind enough to put it in practice. It is a much greater trial of courage, however, when the danger preſſes upon ourſelves as well as others. Suppoſe a furious bull was to come upon you in the midſt of a field. You could not poſſibly eſcape him by running, and attempting it [107] would deſtroy your only chance of ſafety.

What would that be?

I have a ſtory for that too. The mother of that Mr. Day who wrote Sandford and Merton was diſtin⯑guiſhed, as he alſo was, for courage and preſence of mind. When a young woman, ſhe was one day walking in the fields with a companion, when they perceived a bull coming to them, roar⯑ing and toſſing about his horns in the moſt tremendous manner.

O, how I ſhould have ſcreamed!

I dare ſay you would; and ſo did her companion. But ſhe bid her walk away behind her as gently as ſhe could, whilſt ſhe herſelf ſtopt ſhort, and faced the bull, eyeing him with a determined countenance. The bull, when he had come near, ſtopt alſo, pawing the ground and roaring. Few animals will attack a man who ſteadily waits for them. In a while, ſhe drew [108] back ſome ſteps, ſtill facing the bull. The bull followed. She ſtopt, and then he ſtopt. In this manner, ſhe made good her retreat to the ſtile over which her companion had before got. She then turned and ſprung over it, and got clear out of danger.

That was bravely done, indeed! But I think very few women could have done as much.

Such a degree of cool reſo⯑lution, to be ſure, is not common. But I have read of a lady in the Eaſt-Indies who ſhowed at leaſt as much. She was ſitting out of doors with a party of plea⯑ſure, when they were aware of a huge tyger that had crept through a hedge near them, and was juſt ready to make his fatal ſpring. They were ſtruck with the utmoſt conſternation; but ſhe, with an umbrella in her hand, turned to the tyger, and ſuddenly ſpread it full in his face. This unuſual aſſault ſo terrified the beaſt, that taking a prodigious [109] leap, he ſprung over the fence, and plunged out of ſight into the neigh⯑bouring thicket.

Well—that was the boldeſt thing I ever heard of. But is it poſſible, mamma, to make oneſelf courage⯑ous?

Courage, my dear, is of two kinds; one the gift of nature, the other of reaſon and habit. Men have naturally more courage than women; that is, they are leſs affected by danger; it makes a leſs impreſſion upon them, and does not flutter their ſpirits ſo much. This is owing to the difference of their bodily conſtitution; and from the ſame cauſe, ſome men and ſome women are more courageous than others. But the other kind of courage may in ſome meaſure be acquired by every one. Reaſon teaches us to face ſmaller dangers in order to avoid greater, and even to undergo the greateſt when our duty requires it. [110] Habit makes us leſs affected by parti⯑cular dangers which have often come in our way. A ſailor does not feel the danger of a ſtorm ſo much as a land⯑man; but if he was mounted upon a ſpirited horſe in a fox-chace, he would probably be the moſt timorous man in company. The courage of women is chiefly tried in domeſtic dangers. They are attendants on the ſick and dying; and they muſt qualify them⯑ſelves to go through many ſcenes of terror in theſe ſituations, which would alarm the ſtouteſt-hearted man who was not accuſtomed to them.

I have heard that women gene⯑rally bear pain and illneſs better than men.

They do ſo, becauſe they are more uſed to them, both in them⯑ſelves and others.

I think I ſhould not be afraid again to ſee any body blooded.

I hope not. It was for that purpoſe I made you ſtand by me. And I would have you always force yourſelf to look on and give aſſiſtance in caſes of this kind, however painful it may at firſt be to you, that you may as ſoon as poſſible gain that preſence of mind which ariſes from habit.

But would that make me like to be blooded myſelf?

Not to like it, but to loſe all fooliſh fears about it, and ſubmit calmly to it when good for you. But I hope you have ſenſe enough to do that al⯑ready.

PHAETON JUNIOR,
OR THE GIG DEMOLISHED.

WHY AN APPLE FALLS.

PAPA, (ſaid Lucy) I have been reading to-day that Sir Iſaac Newton was led to make ſome of his great diſ⯑coveries by ſeeing an apple fall from a tree. What was there extraordinary in that?

There was nothing extraordinary; but it happened to catch his attention and ſet him a thinking.

And what did he think about?

He thought by what means the apple was brought to the ground.

Why, I could have told him that—becauſe the ſtalk gave way and there was nothing to ſupport it.

And what then?

Why then—it muſt fall, you know.

But why muſt it fall?—that is the point.

Becauſe it could not help it.

But why could it not help it?

I don't know—that is an odd queſtion. Becauſe there was nothing to keep it up.

Suppoſe there was not—does it follow that it muſt come to the ground?

Yes, ſurely!

Is an apple animate or inani⯑mate?

Inanimate, to be ſure!

And can inanimate things move of themſelves?

No—I think not—but the apple falls becauſe it is forced to fall.

Right! Some force out of itſelf acts upon it, otherwiſe it would remain for ever where it was, notwithſtanding it were looſened from the tree.

Would it?

Undoubtedly!—for there are only two ways in which it could be moved; by its own power of motion, or the power of ſomewhat elſe moving it. Now the firſt you acknowledge it has not; the cauſe of its motion muſt therefore be the ſecond. And what that is, was the ſubject of the philo⯑ſopher's enquiry.

But every thing falls to the ground as well as an apple, when there is nothing to keep it up.

True—there muſt therefore be an univerſal cauſe of this tendency to fall.

And what is it?

Why, if things out of the earth cannot move themſelves to it, there can be no other cauſe of their coming to⯑gether, than that the earth pulls them.

But the earth is no more animate than they are; ſo how can it pull?

Well objected! This will bring us to the point. Sir Iſaac Newton after deep meditation diſcovered that there was a law in nature called attrac⯑tion, by virtue of which every particle of matter, that is, every thing of which the world is compoſed, draws towards it every other particle of matter, with a force proportioned to its ſize and diſ⯑tance. Lay two marbles on the table. They have a tendency to come to⯑gether, and if there were nothing elſe in the world, they would come to⯑gether; but they are alſo attracted by the table, by the ground, and by every [122] thing beſides in the room; and theſe different attractions pull againſt each other. Now, the globe of the earth is a prodigious maſs of matter, to which nothing near it can bear any compari⯑ſon. It draws, therefore, with mighty force every thing within its reach, which is the cauſe of their falling; and this is called the gravitation of bodies, or what gives them weight. When I lift up any thing, I act contrary to this force, for which reaſon it ſeems heavy to me; and the heavier, the more matter it contains, ſince that increaſes the attraction of the earth for it. Do you underſtand this?

I think I do. It is like a load⯑ſtone drawing a needle.

Yes—that is an attraction, but of a particular kind, only taking place between the magnet and iron. But gravitation, or the attraction of the earth, acts upon every thing alike.

Then it is pulling you and me at this moment?

It is.

But why do not we ſtick to the ground, then?

Becauſe as weare a live, we have a power of ſelf-motion, which can to a certain degree overcome the attraction of the earth. But the reaſon you cannot jump a mile high as well as a foot, is this attraction, which brings you down again after the force of your jump is ſpent.

I think then I begin to under⯑ſtand what I have heard of people living on the other ſide of the world, I believe they are called Antipodes, who have their feet turned towards ours, and their heads in the air. I uſed to wonder how it could be that they did not fall off; but I ſuppoſe the earth pulls them to it.

Very true. And whither ſhould they fall? What have they over their heads?

I don't know—ſky, I ſuppoſe.

They have. This earth is a vaſt ball, hung in the air, and continually ſpinning round, and that is the cauſe why the ſun and ſtars ſeem to riſe and ſet. At noon we have the ſun over our heads, when the Antipodes have the ſtars over theirs; and at midnight the ſtars are over our heads, and the ſun over theirs. So whither ſhould they fall to more than we?—to the ſtars or the ſun?

But we are up, and they are down.

What is up, but from the earth and towards the ſky? Their feet touch the earth and their heads point to the ſky as well as ours; and we are under their feet as much as they are under ours. If a hole were dug quite through the earth, what would you ſee through it?

Sky, with the ſun or the ſtars: and now I ſee the whole matter plainly. But pray what ſupports the earth in the air?

Why, where ſhould it go to?

I don't know—I ſuppoſe where there was moſt to draw it. I have heard that the ſun is a great many times bigger than the earth. Would it not go to that?

You have thought very juſtly on the matter, I perceive. But I ſhall take another opportunity of ſhewing you how this is, and why the earth does not fall into the ſun, of which, I con⯑feſs, there ſeems to be ſome danger. Meanwhile think how far the falling of an apple has carried us!

To the Antipodes, and I know not where.

You may ſee from thence what uſe may be made of the commoneſt fact by a thinking mind.

NATURE AND EDUCATION,
A FABLE.

Nature and Education were one day walking together through a nurſery of trees. See, ſays Nature, how ſtraight and fine thoſe firs grow—that is my doing! But as to thoſe oaks, they are all crooked and ſtunted: that, my good ſiſter, is your fault. You have planted them too cloſe, and not pruned them properly. Nay, ſiſter, ſaid Education, I am ſure I have taken all poſſible pains about them; but you gave me bad acorns, ſo how ſhould they ever make fine trees?

The diſpute grew warm; and at length, inſtead of blaming one another for negligence, they began to boaſt of their own powers, and to challenge each other to a conteſt for the ſuperiority. It was agreed that each ſhould adopt a favourite, and rear it up in ſpite of all [127] the ill offices of her opponent. Nature fixed upon a vigorous young Weymouth Pine, the parent of which had grown to be the main-maſt of a man of war. Do what you will to this plant, ſaid ſhe to her ſiſter, I am reſolved to puſh it up as ſtraight as an arrow. Education took under her care a crab-tree. This, ſaid ſhe, I will rear to be at leaſt as valuable as your pine.

Both went to work. While Nature was feeding her pine with plenty of wholeſome juices, Education paſſed a ſtrong rope round its top, and pulling it downwards with all her force, faſtened it to the trunk of a neighbouring oak. The pine laboured to aſcend, but not being able to ſurmount the obſtacle, it puſhed out to one ſide, and preſently be⯑came bent like a bow. Still, ſuch was its vigour, that its top, after deſcending as low as its branches, made a new ſhoot upwards; but its beauty and uſefulneſs were quite deſtroyed.

[128] The crab-tree coſt Education a world of pains. She pruned and pruned, and endeavoured to bring it into ſhape, but in vain. Nature thruſt out a bough this way, and a knot that way, and would not puſh a ſingle leading ſhoot upwards. The trunk was, indeed, kept tolerably ſtraight by conſtant efforts; but the head grew awry and ill-faſhioned, and made a ſcrubby figure. At length, Education, deſpairing of making a ſightly plant of it, ingrafted the ſtock with an apple, and brought it to bear tolerable fruit.

At the end of the experiment, the ſiſters met to compare their reſpective ſucceſs. Ah, ſiſter! (ſaid Nature) I ſee it is in your power to ſpoil the beſt of my works. Ah, ſiſter! (ſaid Education) it is a hard matter to con⯑tend againſt you—however, ſomething may be done by taking pains enough.

AVERSION SUBDUED,
A DRAMA.

PRAY who is the preſent poſſeſſor of the Brookby eſtate?

A man of the name of Goodwin.

Is he a good neighbour to you?

Far from it; and I wiſh he had ſettled a hundred miles off rather than come here to ſpoil our neighbour⯑hood.

I am ſorry to hear that; but what is your objection to him?

O, there is nothing in which we agree. In the firſt place he is quite of [130] the other ſide in politics; and that, you know, is enough to prevent all in⯑timacy.

I am not entirely of that opinion; but what elſe?

He is no ſportſman, and refuſes to join in our aſſociation for protecting the game. Neither does he chooſe to be a member of any of our clubs.

Has he been aſked?

I don't know that he has directly, but he might eaſily propoſe himſelf if he liked it. But he is of a cloſe un⯑ſociable temper, and I believe very niggardly.

How has he ſhewn it?

His ſtyle of living is not equal to his fortune; and I have heard of ſeveral inſtances of his attention to petty economy.

Perhaps he ſpends his money in charity.

Not he, I dare ſay. It was but laſt week that a poor fellow who had [131] loſt his all by a fire went to him with a ſubſcription-paper, in which were the names of all the gentlemen in the neighbourhood; and all the anſwer he got was, that he would conſider of it.

And did he conſider?

I don't know, but I ſuppoſe it was only an excuſe. Then his pre⯑deceſſor had a park well ſtocked with deer, and uſed to make liberal preſents of veniſon to all his neighbours. But this frugal gentleman has ſold them all off, and got a flock of ſheep inſtead.

I don't ſee much harm in that, now mutton is ſo dear.

To be ſure he has a right to do as he pleaſes with his park, but that is not the way to be beloved, you know. As to myſelf, I have reaſon to think he bears me particular ill-will.

Then he is much in the wrong, for I believe you are as free from ill⯑will to others as any man living. But how has he ſhewn it, pray?

In twenty inſtances. He had a horſe upon ſale the other day to which I took a liking, and bid money for it. As ſoon as he found I was about it, he ſent it off to a fair on the other ſide of the county. My wife, you know, is paſſionately fond of cultivating flowers. Riding lately by his grounds ſhe ob⯑ſerved ſomething new, and took a great longing for a root or cutting of it. My gardener mentioned her wiſh to his (contrary, I own, to my inclina⯑tion), and he told his maſter; but in⯑ſtead of obliging her, he charged the gardener on no account to touch the plant. A little while ago I turned off a man for ſaucy behaviour; but as he had lived many years with me, and was a very uſeful ſervant, I meant to take him again upon his ſubmiſſion, which I did not doubt would ſoon happen. Inſtead of that, he goes and offers him⯑ſelf to my civil neighbour, who, with⯑out deigning to apply to me, even for [130] a character, entertains him immedi⯑ately. In ſhort, he has not the leaſt of a gentleman about him, and I would give any thing to be well rid of him.

Nothing, to be ſure, can be more unpleaſant in the country than a bad neighbour, and I am concerned it is your lot to have one. But there is a man who ſeems as if he wanted to ſpeak with you.

Ah! it is the poor fellow that was burnt out. Well, Richard, how go you on—what has the ſubſcription produced you?

Thank your honour, my loſſes are nearly all made up.

I am very glad of that; but when I ſaw the paper laſt, it did not reach half way.

It did not, Sir; but you may remember aſking me what Mr. Good⯑win had done for me, and I told you [134] he took time to conſider of it. Well, Sir—I found that the very next day he had been at our town, and had made very particular enquiry about me and my loſſes among my neighbours. When I called upon him a few days after, he told me he was very glad to find that I bore ſuch a good character, and that the gentlemen round had ſo kindly taken up my caſe; and he would prevent the neceſſity of my going any further for relief. Upon which he gave me, God bleſs him! a draught upon his banker for fifty pounds.

Fifty pounds!

Yes, Sir—It has made me quite my own man again; and I am now going to purchaſe a new cart and team of horſes.

A noble gift indeed! I could never have thought it. Well, Richard, I rejoice at your good fortune. I am [135] ſure you are much obliged to Mr. Goodwin.

Indeed I am, Sir, and to all my good friends. God bleſs you! Sir.

Niggardlineſs, at leaſt, is not this man's foible.

No—I was miſtaken in that point. I wronged him, and I am ſorry for it. But what a pity it is that men of real generoſity ſhould not be amiable in their manners, and as ready to oblige in trifles as in matters of conſequence.

True—'tis a pity when that is really the caſe.

How much leſs an exertion it would have been, to have ſhewn ſome civility about a horſe or a flower-root!

A propos of flowers, there's your gardener carrying a large one in a pot.

Now, James, what have you got there?

A flower, Sir, for Madam, from Mr. Goodwin's.

How did you come by it?

His gardener, Sir, ſent me word to come for it. We ſhould have had it before, but Mr. Goodwin thought it would not move ſafely.

I hope he has got more of them.

He has only a ſeedling plant or two, Sir; but hearing that Madam took a liking to it, he was reſolved to ſend it her, and a choice thing it is! I have a note for Madam in my pocket.

Well, go on.

Methinks this does not look like deficiency in civility.

No—it is a very polite action—I can't deny it, and I am obliged to him for it. Perhaps, indeed, he may feel he owes me a little amends.

Poſſibly—It ſhows he can feel, however.

It does. Ha! there's Yorkſhire Tom coming with a ſtring of horſes from the fair. I'll ſtep up and ſpeak to him. Now, Tom! how have horſes gone at Market-hill?

Dear enough, your honour!

How much more did you get for Mr. Goodwin's mare than I offered him?

Ah, Sir! that was not a thing for your riding, and that Mr. Goodwin well knew. You never ſaw ſuch a vicious toad. She had like to have killed the groom two or three times. So I was ordered to offer her to the mail-coach people, and get what I could from them. I might have ſold her better if Mr. Goodwin would have let me, for ſhe was a fine creature to look at as need be, and quite ſound.

And was that the true reaſon, Tom, why the mare was not ſold to me?

It was, indeed, Sir.

Then I am highly obliged to Mr. Goodwin.

This was handſome behaviour indeed!

Yes, I think it was ſomewhat more than politeneſs—it was real goodneſs of heart.

It was. I find I muſt alter my opinion of him, and I do it with plea⯑ſure. But, after all, his conduct with reſpect to my ſervant is ſomewhat unac⯑countable.

I ſee reaſon to think ſo well of him in the main, that I am inclined to hope he will be acquitted in this matter too.

There the fellow is, I wonder he has my old livery on yet.

Sir, I was coming to your honour.

What can you have to ſay to me now, Ned?

To aſk pardon, Sir, for my miſ⯑behaviour, and beg you to take me again.

What—have you ſo ſoon parted with your new maſter?

Mr. Goodwin never was my maſ⯑ter, Sir. He only kept me in his houſe till I could make it up with you again; for he ſaid he was ſure you were too honourable a gentleman to turn off an old ſervant without good reaſon, and he hoped you would admit my excuſes after your anger was over.

Did he ſay all that?

Yes, Sir; and he adviſed me not to delay any longer to aſk your pardon.

Well—go to my houſe, and I will talk with you on my return.

Now, my friend, what think you of this?

I think more than I can well expreſs. It will be a leſſon to me never to make haſty judgments again.

Why, indeed, to have concluded that ſuch a man had nothing of the [140] gentleman about him, muſt have been rather haſty.

I acknowledge it. But it is the misfortune of theſe reſerved characters that they are ſo long in making them⯑ſelves known; though when they are known they often prove the moſt truly eſtimable. I am afraid even now, that I muſt be content with eſteeming him at a diſtance.

Why ſo?

You know I am of an open ſociable diſpoſition.

Perhaps he is ſo too.

If he was, ſurely we ſhould have been better acquainted before this time.

It may have been prejudice, ra⯑ther than temper, that has kept you aſunder.

Poſſibly ſo. That vile ſpirit of party has ſuch a ſway in the country that men of the moſt liberal diſpoſitions can hardly free themſelves from its in⯑fluence. [141] It poiſons all the kindneſs of ſociety; and yonder comes an inſtance of its pernicious effects.

Who is he?

A poor ſchoolmaſter with a large family in the next market-town, who has loſt all his ſcholars by his activity on our ſide in the laſt election. I heartily wiſh it was in my power to do ſomething for him; for he is a very honeſt man, though perhaps rather too warm.

Now Mr. Penman, how go things with you?

I thank you, Sir, they have gone poorly enough, but I hope they are in the way to mend.

I am glad to hear it—but how?

Why, Sir, the free-ſchool of Stoke is vacant, and I believe I am likely to get it.

Ay?—I wonder at that. I thought it was in the hands of the other party.

It is, Sir; but Mr. Goodwin has been ſo kind as to give me a recom⯑mendation, and his intereſt is ſufficient to carry it.

Mr. Goodwin! you ſurpriſe me.

I was much ſurpriſed too, Sir. He ſent for me of his own accord, (for I ſhould never have thought of aſking him a favour) and told me he was ſorry a man ſhould be injured in his profeſ⯑ſion on account of party, and as I could not live comfortably where I was, he would try to ſettle me in a better place. So he mentioned the vacancy of Stoke, and offered me letters to the truſtees. I was never ſo affected in my life, Sir—I could hardly ſpeak to return him thanks. He kept me to dinner, and treated me with the greateſt reſpect. Indeed I believe there is not a kinder man breathing than Mr. Goodwin.

You have the beſt reaſon in the world to ſay ſo, Mr. Penman. What—did he converſe familiarly with you?

Quite ſo, Sir. We talked a great deal about party-affairs in this neighbourhood, and he lamented much that differences of this kind ſhould keep worthy men at a diſtance from each other. I took the liberty, Sir, of men⯑tioning your name. He ſaid he had not the honour of being acquainted with you, but he had a ſincere eſteem for your character, and ſhould be glad of any occaſion to cultivate a friendſhip with you. For my part, I confeſs to my ſhame, I did not think there could have been ſuch a man on that ſide.

Well—good morning!

Your moſt obedient, Sir.

Come, my friend, let us go.

Whither?

Can you doubt it?—to Mr. Goodwin's to be ſure! After all I have heard, can I exiſt a moment without [144] acknowledging the injuſtice I have done him, and begging his friendſhip.

I ſhall be happy, I am ſure, to accompany you on that errand. But who is to introduce us?

O, what is form and ceremony in a caſe like this! Come—come.

Moſt willingly.

THE LITTLE PHILOSOPHER.

MR. L. was one morning riding by himſelf, when, diſmounting to gather a plant in the hedge, his horſe got looſe and galloped away before him. He followed, calling the horſe by his name, which ſtopt, but on his approach ſet off again. At length a little boy in a neighbouring field, ſeeing the affair, ran acroſs where the road made a turn, and getting before the horſe, took him by [145] the bridle, and held him till his owner came up. Mr. L. looked at the boy, and admired his ruddy cheerful coun⯑tenance. Thank you, my good lad! (ſaid he) you have caught my horſe very cleverly. What ſhall I give you for your trouble? (putting his hand into his pocket.)

I want nothing, Sir, ſaid the boy.

Don't you? ſo much the better for you. Few men can ſay as much. But pray what were you doing in the field?

I was rooting up weeds, and tenting the ſheep that are feeding on the turneps.

And do you like this em⯑ployment?

Yes, very well, this fine wea⯑ther.

But had you not rather play?

This is not hard work; it is al⯑moſt as good as play.

Who ſet you to work?

My daddy, Sir.

Where does he live?

Juſt by, among the trees there.

What is his name?

Thomas Hurdle.

And what is yours?

Peter, Sir.

How old are you?

I ſhall be eight at Michaelmas.

How long have you been out in this field?

Ever ſince ſix in the morning.

And are not you hungry?

Yes—I ſhall go to my dinner ſoon.

If you had ſixpence now, what would you do with it?

I don't know. I never had ſo much in my life.

Have you no playthings?

Playthings! what are thoſe?

Such as balls, ninepins, marbles, tops, and wooden horſes.

No, Sir; but our Tom makes footballs to kick in the cold weather, and we ſet traps for birds; and then I have a jumping pole and a pair of ſtilts to walk through the dirt with; and I had a hoop, but it is broke.

And do you want nothing elſe?

No. I have hardly time for thoſe; for I always ride the horſes to field, and bring up the cows, and run to the town of errands, and that is as good as play, you know.

Well, but you could buy apples or gingerbread at the town, I ſuppoſe, if you had money?

O—I can get apples at home; and as for gingerbread, I don't mind it much, for my mammy gives me a pye now and then, and that is as good.

Would not you like a knife to cut ſticks?

I have one—here it is—brother Tom gave it me.

Your ſhoes are full of holes—don't you want a better pair?

I have a better pair for Sundays.

But theſe let in water.

O, I don't care for that.

Your hat is all torn, too.

I have a better at home, but I had as lieve have none at all, for it hurts my head.

What do you do when it rains?

If it rains very hard, I get under the hedge till it is over.

What do you do when you are hungry before it is time to go home?

I ſometimes eat a raw turnep.

But if there are none?

Then I do as well as I can; I work on and never think of it.

Are you not dry ſometimes, this hot weather?

Yes, but there is water enough.

Why, my little fellow, you are quite a philoſopher!

Sir?

I ſay, you are a philoſopher, but I am ſure you do not know what that means.

No, Sir—no harm, I hope.

No, no!

Well, my boy, you ſeem to want nothing at all, ſo I ſhall not give you money to make you want any thing. But were you ever at ſchool?

No, Sir, but daddy ſays I ſhall go after harveſt.

You will want books then.

Yes, the boys have all a ſpelling⯑book and a teſtament.

Well then, I will give you them—tell your daddy ſo, and that it is becauſe I thought you a very good con⯑tented little boy. So now go to your ſheep again.

I will, Sir. Thank you.

Good bye, Peter.

Good bye, Sir.

FLYING AND SWIMMING.

How I wiſh I could fly! (cried Ro⯑bert, as he was gazing after his pigeons that were exerciſing themſelves in a morning's flight.) How fine it muſt be to ſoar to ſuch a height, and to daſh through the air with ſo ſwift a motion!

I doubt not (ſaid his father) that the pigeons have great pleaſure in it; but we have our pleaſures too; and it is idle to indulge longings for things quite out of our power.

But do you think it impoſſible for men to learn to fly?

I do—for I ſee they are not fur⯑niſhed by nature with organs requiſite for the purpoſe.

Might not artificial wings be contrived, ſuch as Daedalus is ſaid to have uſed?

Poſſibly they might; but the dif⯑ficulty would be to put them in motion.

Why could not a man move them, if they were faſtened to his ſhoul⯑ders, as well as a bird?

Becauſe he has got arms to move, which the bird has not. The ſame or⯑gans which in quadrupeds are employed to move the fore legs, and in man, the arms, are ſpent in birds on the mo⯑tion of the wings. Nay, the muſcles, or bundles of fleſh, that move the wings, are proportionally much larger and ſtronger than thoſe beſtowed upon our arms: ſo that it is impoſſible, formed as we are, that we ſhould uſe wings, were they made and faſtened on with ever ſo much art.

But angels, and Cupids, and ſuch things, are painted with wings; and I think they look very natural.

To you they may appear ſo; but an anatomiſt ſees them at once to be monſters, which could not really exiſt.

God might have created winged men, however, if he had pleaſed.

No doubt; but they could not have had the ſame ſhape that men have now. They would have been different creatures, ſuch as it was not in his plan to make. But you that long to fly—conſider if you have made uſe of all the faculties already given you! You want to ſubdue the element of air—what can you do with that of water? Can you ſwim?

No, not yet.

Your companion Johnſon, I think, can ſwim very well.

Yes.

Reflect, then, on the difference betwixt him and you. A boat overſets with you both in a deep ſtream. You plump at once to the bottom, and infal⯑libly loſe your life. He riſes like a cork, darts away with the greateſt eaſe, and reaches the ſide in perfect ſafety. Both of you purſued by a bull, come to the ſide of a river. He jumps in and croſſes it. You are drowned if you attempt [153] it, and toſſed by the bull if you do not. What an advantage he has over you! Yet you are furniſhed with exactly the ſame bodily powers that he is. How is this?

Becauſe he has been taught, and I have not.

True—but it is an eaſy thing to learn, and requires no other inſtruction than boys can give one another when they bathe together; ſo that I wonder any body ſhould neglect to acquire an art at once agreeable and uſeful. The Romans uſed to ſay, by way of proverb, of a blockhead, ‘"He can neither read nor ſwim."’ You may remember how Caeſar was ſaved at Alexandria by throwing himſelf into the ſea, and ſwimming with one hand, while he held up his Commentaries with the other.

I ſhould like very well to ſwim, and I have often tried, but I always pop under water, and that daunts me.

And it is that fear which prevents you from ſucceeding.

But is it as natural for man to ſwim, as for other creatures? I have heard that the young of all other ani⯑mals ſwim the firſt time they are thrown into the water.

They do—they are without fear. In our climate the water is generally cold, and is early made an object of ter⯑ror. But in the hot countries, where bathing is one of the greateſt of plea⯑ſures, young children ſwim ſo early and well, that I ſhould ſuppoſe they take to it almoſt naturally.

I am reſolved to learn, and I will aſk Johnſon to take me with him to the river.

Do; but let him find you a ſafe place to begin at. I don't want you, however, to proceed ſo cautiouſly as Sir Nicholas Gimcrack did.

How was that?

He ſpread himſelf out on a large table, and placing before him a baſon of water with a frog in it, he ſtruck with his arms and legs as he obſerved the animal do.

And did that teach him?

Yes—to ſwim on dry land; but he never ventured himſelf in the water.

Shall I get corks or bladders?

No; learn to depend on your own powers. It is a good leſſon in other things, as well as in ſwimming. Learn⯑ing to ſwim with corks, is like learning to conſtrue Latin with a tranſlation on the other ſide. It ſaves ſome pains at firſt, but the buſineſs is not done half ſo effectually.

THE FEMALE CHOICE,
A TALE.

A YOUNG girl, having fatigued her⯑ſelf one hot day with running about the garden, ſat herſelf down in a pleaſant arbour, where ſhe preſently fell aſleep. During her ſlumber, two female figures preſented themſelves before her. One was looſely habited in a thin robe of pink with light green trimmings. Her ſaſh of ſilver gauze flowed to the ground. Her fair hair fell in ringlets down her neck; and her head-dreſs conſiſted of artificial flowers interwoven with feathers. She held in one hand a ball-ticket, and in the other a fancy⯑dreſs all covered with ſpangles and knots of gay ribbon. She advanced ſmiling to the girl, and with a familiar air thus addreſſed her.

[157] My deareſt Meliſſa, I am a kind ge⯑nius who have watched you from your birth, and have joyfully beheld all your beauties expand, till at length they have rendered you a companion worthy of me. See what I have brought you. This dreſs and this ticket will give you free acceſs to all the raviſhing delights of my palace. With me you will paſs your days in a perpetual round of ever⯑varying amuſements. Like the gay butterfly, you will have no other buſi⯑neſs than to flutter from flower to flower, and ſpread your charms before admiring ſpectators. No reſtraints, no toils, no dull taſks are to be found with⯑in my happy domains. All is pleaſure, life and good humour. Come then, my dear! Let me put you on this dreſs, which will make you quite enchanting; and away, away, with me!

Meliſſa felt a ſtrong inclination to comply with the call of this inviting [158] nymph; but firſt ſhe thought it would be prudent at leaſt to aſk her name.

My name, ſaid ſhe, is DISSIPATION.

The other female then advanced. She was clothed in a cloſe habit of brown ſtuff, ſimply relieved with white. She wore her ſmooth hair under a plain cap. Her whole perſon was perfectly neat and clean. Her look was ſerious, but ſatisfied; and her air was ſtaid and compoſed. She held in one hand a diſtaff; on the oppoſite arm hung a work-baſket; and the girdle round her waſte was garniſhed with ſciſſars, knit⯑ting needles, reels, and other imple⯑ments of female labour. A bunch of keys hung at her ſide. She thus ac⯑coſted the ſleeping girl.

Meliſſa, I am the genius who have ever been the friend and companion of your mother; and I now offer my protection to you. I have no allure⯑ments to tempt you with like thoſe of [159] my gay rival. Inſtead of ſpending all your time in amuſements, if you enter yourſelf of my train, you muſt riſe early, and paſs the long day in a variety of employments, ſome of them difficult, ſome laborious, and all requiring ſome exertion of body or mind. You muſt dreſs plainly, live moſtly at home, and aim at being uſeful rather than ſhining. But in return, I will enſure you con⯑tent, even ſpirits, ſelf-approbation, and the eſteem of all who thoroughly know you. If theſe offers appear to your young mind leſs inviting than thoſe of my rival, be aſſured, however, that they are more real. She has promiſed much more than ſhe can ever make good. Perpetual pleaſures are no more in the power of Diſſipation, than of Vice or Folly, to beſtow. Her delights quickly pall, and are inevitably ſuc⯑ceeded by languor and diſguſt. She ap⯑pears to you under a diguiſe, and what