THE BROTHERS AND THE BLACKBIRD.

IN the cold ſeaſon, a poor Blackbird had taken ſhelter in Sir Armine's green-houſe. Animated by the genial heat, it was baſking upon an orange-tree, and, warmed out of the cold re⯑membrance of time and place, ſtretched [2] out its wings, in a kind of Summer lan⯑guor, over the branches, and had begun to pour a ſemi-note of gratitude and joy. Henry, the younger Brother, haſ⯑tily, yet on tip-toe, ran round to ſhut the window at which it had entered, firſt cloſing the doors—"I have wiſhed for a Blackbird, I know not how long," whiſpered he, "and it will be quite a charity to give that poor fellow good winter-quarters in the caſtle—I own it is almoſt a pity to diſturb him now he ſeems ſo comfortable; but if he knew how very kindly I would uſe him, he would come a volunteer into my cham⯑ber." "Very kind to be ſure," ſaid John, the eldeſt, "to make him a ſlave for life; to my thoughts he had better chuſe his own lodging, though the beſt to be had were in a barn, or in [3] a hollow tree, and an independent warm here in the hot-houſe, when he finds an opportunity, than be a priſoner in the beſt room of the caſtle, nay in the king's palace; ſo be adviſed, brother, and let him alone."—John ſoftly opened part of the window neareſt the bird. "No, I'll tell you how it ſhall be," obſerved little James, "give the bird fair play; leave the window open, and let Harry try his fortune; if the bird ſuffers him⯑ſelf to be caught, when the path of freedom is before his eyes, it will be his own affair you know." — "But the act of catching him at all is arbi⯑trary," ſaid John ſturdily; throwing his hat at the orange, and other exotic plants, that grew in the direction of the tree where the Blackbird had been perched. "Not at all, brother," cried Henry, "when it is only to convey [4] him to a better place;" running as he ſpake, after the object of his wiſhes, almoſt with the ſwiftneſs of its own wings. John kept always behind, in the hope of pointing its flight to the window; and James, the ſecond bro⯑ther, ſtood impartially in the middle, unleſs he ſtept on one ſide or the other, to maintain fair dealing. The Blackbird, meantime, alarmed by all parties, flew irregularly, from ſhrub to ſhrub, from window to window, ſome⯑times beating his breaſt againſt one object, ſometimes ſtriking its wing or beak againſt another, often being in the very path of liberty, and as often driven out of it. At length it ſank exhauſted to the ground, and was taken up, al⯑moſt without an effort to flutter, by Henry, whoſe little heart, quick breath⯑ing lip, and high colouring cheek, [5] ſpoke his triumphs; yet, amidſt his exultings, he forgot not mercy: the faireſt laurel of the conqueror is huma⯑nity; and the very inſtincts of Henry were humane. He ſmoothed the ruf⯑fled plumes of his captive; poured over it every aſſurance of protection; preſſed its gloſſy pinion on his cheek; detained it with a ſoft trembling hand, and at length putting it, lightly held, into his boſom, ran with it into his chamber. "He has fairly won the bird, brother," ſaid James, following. "Certainly," replied John, with a diſſatisfied tone, "nothing can be fairer than to run down a poor terrified little wretch, who has no power to reſiſt; then ſeizing and dragging it to priſon! It ſtruggled for freedom, till it was almoſt gaſping for breath; and I am aſhamed that I [6] ſuffered any thing to prevent my taking part with the unprotected in the cauſe of liberty. But this, I ſuppoſe, you and my brother will call foul play, juſt as you have ſtyled his thefts a kindneſs! Yes, the kindneſs of a chriſtian robber, who ſteals the innocent ſavage from his native land, and covers him with chains!" — Dreading the loſs of his treaſure, Henry guarded it with a miſer's care; kept it concealed in his own room; but treated it with the ut⯑moſt indulgence, being at once its nurſe and companion, and ſuffering no hand but his own to feed it. "Alas! it droops," ſaid its protector—bringing it down one day into an apartment where his brothers were ſitting—"What can be done for it, James?" queſtioned he, with tears in his eyes. "Let it go," [7] interrupted John; "it pines for the friends from whoſe ſociety it has been raviſhed; it languiſhes for freedom: let it go, and it will ſoon recover." "Per⯑haps," anſwered James, "it only wants more air, your chamber may be too confined: Suppoſe then," continued he, —willing to compromiſe betwixt liberty and ſlavery, "you were to tie a ſilken ſtring round its leg, and lead it now and then about the garden?" "I pro⯑poſe an improvement to that idea," ſaid John—"clip one of its wings, and as you perſiſt in refuſing it its right to fly in the air, let it have the run of the garden; that on the ſouth-ſide of the caſtle, you know, is walled round, and it cannot walk off." — He reconciled Henry to this meaſure, by telling him that it would produce many good ends, [8] beſides reſtoring the Blackbird's health, and giving it a reliſh for its former enjoyments; amongſt other things, he aſſured him, that it would recover its ſpirits, which would enable it to whiſtle back its loſt friends and relations. Henry could not reſiſt this: the idea of giving joy to others, was a joy to his own heart; the action by which it was beſtowed could alone ſurpaſs it.—In effect, the bird was all the better for its liberty; it hopped, pecked, twittered, and daily appeared to gain new viſitors.

There was in the walled garden a ſhed, where it neſtled towards evening; but Henry, with ſoft ſteps, would take care while it repoſed, to ſtrew food on the ground below, ſo that it always found breakfaſt ready in the morning; [9] nor was dinner or ſupper proviſion for⯑gotten; ſo that what it picked up in the garden was mere amuſement to reliſh exerciſe. The kind hearted Henry was perfectly ſatisfied with this plan: John was only half ſatisfied. James prudently ſuggeſted giving the growing wing another cutting. Henry agreed; for his favourite could now take half the garden at a low flight, though not top the walls. "Wait a little longer," ſaid John; "He is ſo tame, and ſo well pleaſed with his preſent uſage, that perhaps he will indeed be a volun⯑teer amongſt us, and there will be a thouſand times the gratification in hav⯑ing his ſociety with his own conſent." "But if he ſhould leave me?" ſaid Henry. "Have confidence in him; think how delightful it is to have friend⯑ſhip [10] as a free-will offering: I ſhould hate any thing I forced to ſtay with me, as much as it could hate me. Can a jail-bird love the jailor?"—"I have a good mind to truſt it," obſerved Henry; "but I ſometimes think it looks up at the walls very ſly."—"That is nothing but a way they have with them," ſaid John, laughing. "What is your opinion James?" queſtioned Henry. "There can be, I ſhould think, but one opinion about that," replied James, taking out a little pair of ſciſſars. "O, he always was for cutting out, juſt like a girl; but act a more liberal part, my brother," ſaid John; Henry was over-ruled. The feathers grew, and the Blackbird flew away. Henry accuſed; John defended; James meditated. The grateful bird, [11] however, ſtaid in the neighbourhood; ſang better, and looked happier. Henry was, therefore, reconciled to his loſs, and John was at length contented.

THE DUTCH DRAFT DOGS.

WE are told by a traveller who has lately performed the tour of Holland, that the very dogs of that country are conſtrained to promote the trade of the Republic; inſomuch, that there is not an idle Dog of any ſize in the Seven Provinces. You encounter at all hours of the day an incredible number loaded with fiſh and men, under [13] the burden of which they run off at a long trot, and ſometimes, when driven by young men or boys, at full gallop, the whole mile and a half, which is the diſtance from gate to gate; nor on their return are they ſuffered to come empty, being filled not only with the aforeſaid men or boys, but with ſuch commodi⯑ties as cannot be had at the village. Theſe poor brutes are frequently to be ſeen in the middle of ſummer, urged beyond their force, till they have drop⯑ped on the road to gather ſtrength; which is ſeldom the caſe, however, except when they have the misfortune to fall under the management of boys; for the Dutch are the fartheſt from being cruel to their domeſtic dumb animals of any people in the world; on the contrary, an Hollander, of what⯑ever [14] rank, is merciful unto his cattle, whether horſe, dog, cow, &c. that they are the objects of his marked attention, as ſleek ſkins, happy faces, plump ſides, ſufficiently demonſtrate. The cows, and oxen for draft, they rub down, curry and clean, till they are as gloſſy as the moſt pampered ſteed in England. Nay, you frequently ſee them with a light fancy dreſs, to guard them from the flies and other annoying animalcula, in the meadows, which are the fineſt in the world, and in a warmer ſuit of cloaths during the winter; even theſe canine-ſlaves look hale and well, as to condition, and, being habituated to labour, feel little hardſhip in it. It is fortunate, alſo, that Holland is a coun⯑try ſomewhat prone to be ſtrict in the ceremonies of religion, by obſervance [15] of which the dogs, like their maſters, find the ſeventh a day of unbroken reſt: for "Sunday ſhines a ſabbath to them." The firſt impreſſion, which is allowed a grand point, being much in favour of theſe induſtrious creatures. This tra⯑veller had an eye on them as well in the hours of their repoſe as toil; and felt his heart warm to ſee ſeveral, whom he had obſerved to have ſeen very heavily laden on Saturday, taking a ſound nap, out-ſtretched and happy at their maſter's doors, on the day in which their leiſure is even an allotment and bounty of Heaven. All the morning and afternoon they have remained baſk⯑ing in the ſun, or in the ſhade, in pro⯑found tranquillity; while a number of unthinking whelps, and lazy puppies, who had been paſſing their time in idleneſs all the week, were playing [16] their gambols in the ſtreet, not with⯑out a vain attempt to wake the ſerious, and make them join in their amuſe⯑ment. Towards evening, adds our traveller, I have, in my ſun-ſetting rounds, been much pleaſed to notice the honeſt creatures ſit at their reſpec⯑tive threſholds, looking quite refreſhed, giving occaſionally into a momentary frolic, and the next morn returning to the labours of the week abſolutely re⯑newed. Reader—Stranger—an't thou too proud of heart—or too full of dig⯑nity of human nature—to enter into theſe brute concerns? Paſs on, then, and pity my weakneſs, but not without remembering that

[17] if, therefore, thou haſt no feeling for their ſufferings, reſpect at leaſt their virtues:

THE HERMIT AND HIS DOG.

THE DECAYED MERCHANT AND HIS DUTIFUL DAUGHTER.

A MERCHANT, of conſiderable em⯑inence in London, was reduced to the ſituation of poor Baſſanio, and from preciſely the ſame run of ill-luck in his ſea adventures,

To theſe miſcarriages abroad, were added ſimilar calamities at home. Seve⯑ral great houſes broke in his debt, and with the wrecks of his fortune, gathered together, he left the metropolis, and took refuge in the mountains of Mont⯑gomeryſhire. A little girl, then only nine years of age, his only ſurviving child, was the ſole companion of his retreat, and ſmiled away his misfor⯑tunes. The care of her education was his moſt certain relief from the corrod⯑ing reflections of the paſt, and the cer⯑tainty of her poſſeſſing at his death, ſuf⯑ficient to prevent a good mind from the horrors of dependence, ſoftened his thoughts of the future; the preſent was [23] filled up with the delights of ſeeing her ambition yet humbler than her fortunes, and literally bounded by the objects that ſurrounded her. To tend the flowers ſhe had ſet with her own hand, to nurſe the ſhrubs the had planted, to ſport with and feed the lamb ſhe had domeſ⯑ticated, to ſee it follow her in her ram⯑bles, and to liſten to the melodies of nature, as they murmured in the waters, or echoed through the woods, were her chief amuſements without doors, and by a thouſand love-taught duties, to make a father forget that he had ever been unhappy, or unfortunate, her dear⯑eſt ſtudy within. Of her perſonal attrac⯑tions I ſhall ſay little: a ſingle line of Thomſon's gives the trueſt image of them, and of the unaffected mind by which they were illumined, ‘Artleſs of beauty, ſhe was beauty's ſelf.’

[24]It is not eaſy to be wretched in the conſtant ſociety of perfect innocence: the company ot a beautiful child, wholly unpolluted by the world, affords one the idea of angelic aſſociation. Its harm⯑leſſneſs appears to guarantee one from harm: we reflect, nay we ſee and hear, almoſt every moment, it is climbing our knees, playing at our ſide, engaging our attentions, or repoſing in our arms, the words and acts of an unſpotted being, and one can ſcarce be perſuaded any real ill can befal us, while a companion ſo like a guardian cherub is near. When the babe is our own—ſay, ye parents, how the ſenſation is then exalted!— Which of you, having at your option the loſs of the ampleſt fortune, or of the feebleſt infant, would not cleave to the laſt, and reſign the former? or, if any of you balanced a moment, would not one [25] liſping word, one caſual look, turn the ſcale in favour of nature, and make you think it a crime to have heſitated?

Such were the ſentiments of the mer⯑chant, and under their cheering influ⯑ence he lived many years, during which, a few mountain peaſants, an old relict of his better days, as a ſervant, who had been nurſe to the young lady, and his daughter, were the only objects with whom he converſed. So powerful is habit, that we aſſimilate to perſons, places, and things, that on our firſt introduction to them, we might ima⯑gine, neither philoſophy, cuſtom, or re⯑ligion, could make ſupportable. We are ſurpriſed to find we attach to them, even to endearment. In time, even our former habits, no leſs ſtrong in us, [26] are but ſlightly remembered, and thoſe purſuits, diverſions, and ſocieties, with⯑out which it once appeared impoſſible we ſhould ever paſs a day, are yielded for others, that it then would have been thought as impoſſible even to be en⯑dured. Our merchant would have deemed the company of a monarch an intruſion, and the jargon of the Ex⯑change, which had for ſo many years been muſic to his ears, could not now have been borne. I have, here, given you ſome of his own expreſſions. At length he fell ſick. His daughter was then in her eighteenth year; the diſ⯑order was of a gradual kind, that threat⯑ened to continue life, after one has ceaſed to love it, and to cloſe in death. He lingered eleven weeks, and, the old domeſtic being now ſuperannuated and [27] almoſt blind, his daughter was at once his nurſe, his cook, his conſoler; and might truly be ſaid to make his bed in his ſickneſs. She wanted not the world to teach her the filial duties. Her own pure heart ſupplied them all, and her own gentle hands adminiſtered them. But now, for the firſt time of her exiſ⯑tence, ſhe added to her father's anguiſh. It almoſt kills me to look on you, my only love, cried he, with an emphaſis of ſorrow, and burſting into tears. I am ſure, replied ſhe, falling on her knees at his bedſide, it has almoſt killed me to hear you ſay ſo, and if it would make my deareſt father better, I would kill myſelf this moment, and truſt in God's mercy to forgive me. Ah! my child, you miſtake the cauſe and mo⯑tive of my regrets, reſumed the parent [28] —the thoughts of leaving you without protection—there is the bitterneſs!—I am not going to be left, ſaid ſhe, riſing haſtily; I have a preſage you will be well ſoon, and I am a great propheteſs, my beloved father. Be in good ſpirits, for I am ſure you will recover: I have ſent to Montgomery and Welch Pool, and to-morrow, I am to have the two beſt doctors in Wales.

Your goodneſs is always a comfort, my darling, replied the deſponding Merchant, but two thouſand Welch doctors could not ſet me again on my legs.—If, indeed, I was in a condition to procure—but that's impoſſible!—

Procure what? Whom? Nothing is impoſſible, anſwered his daughter with the moſt eager haſte.

[29]I have an idle and romantic faith, in the only man in the whole world, that knows my conſtitution, and he is as far beyond my reach, as if he were out of exiſtence.

Good heaven! you mean Dr. ******, exclaimed the daughter. I have heard you often ſpeak of his having twice before ſaved your precious life, for which I have had him in my nightly prayers ever ſince, and ſhall go on bleſ⯑ſing him to the hour of my death. O, that I were a man to fetch him!—

The father preſſed her tenderly in his feeble arms, in acknowledgment of her affection, but told her, that, from a multiplicity of other claims, it would be as impoſſible for the Doctor to get [30] down to Wales, as for himſelf to go out of his ſick bed to London. Do not, therefore, let us think of it, my child, continued the father; ſince it is only the aggravation of a vain wiſh to know that it muſt end in diſappointment—I am reſigned.

Notwithſtanding this declaration, the Merchant receiving no manner of bene⯑fit from the Welch Doctors, and being unable, indeed, to pay for their con⯑tinued attendance, without an injury to that ſcanty fund out of which he had to draw all the neceſſaries of life, he often ſighed out in a voice of pining, as it were, involuntarily, the name of ******. The ſound of that voice, languiſhing for that which might poſ⯑ſibly change its tone to gladneſs, pene⯑trated [31] the ſoul of his daughter, who needed not ſo pathetic a memento of her father's wiſhes, to make her bitterly regret her inability to gratify them. The poor gentleman grew worſe, and expreſſing a deſire for ſomething, which he imagined might afford a momentary relief, his Amelia, ſo was the young lady named, took the firſt opportunity of his being compoſed, to go into the neigh⯑bourhood, in ſearch of a perſon to fetch it from Montgomery. A little road⯑ſide public-houſe, about a mile from her father's cottage, appeared the moſt likely place to find a meſſenger. Thi⯑ther ſhe repaired, and arrived juſt in time to take ſhelter from a ſudden ſtorm that fell with great violence. At the moment of her entrance there were none but the old hoſt and hoſteſs in the [32] alehouſe, but in a very few minutes after, it filled with labourers and paſ⯑ſengers, who, like herſelf, ſought pro⯑tection from the hurricane: during the fury, however, of which ſhe had too much compaſſion to mention her wiſhes, for ſhe was amongſt thoſe whoſe nature would not ſuffer her to "turn an ene⯑my's dog out of doors at ſuch a ſeaſon." This neceſſary delay, nevertheleſs, great⯑ly increaſed her uneaſineſs, and ſhe kept watching the rain, and the hoped return of fine weather, at the window. Seeing no proſpect of its clearing, ſhe deter⯑mined to do that herſelf, at all hazards, which ſhe could not aſk another to per⯑form:—namely, to be herſelf the meſ⯑ſenger; to which end ſhe deſired to know, whether the road ſhe ſaw from the window, was the neareſt and moſt [33] direct to Montgomery, or to any other town where there was an apothecary's ſhop, and what might be the diſtance to any ſuch place?

The affecting voice in, which theſe queſtions were demanded, and the pre⯑vailing appearance of the ſpeaker, gain⯑ed her an intereſt in every hearer and beholder, ſeveral of whom knew, and acknowledged her for a neighbour, mingling their expreſſions of good-will, with numberleſs kind enquiries after her ſick father, for whoſe languiſhing ſituation they unanimouſly declared their pity and regard, and whoſe death, if it ſhould pleaſe God to ſnatch him away, they ſhould long lament.

This laſt obſervation bringing to mind the image of her father's danger more [34] cloſely, the trembling Amelia loſt all thought of herſelf, or of the weather, and thanking every body around her for their civility, while her lovely face was covered with her tears, ſhe had got the latch of the door in her hand, and was preparing to hurry out on her com⯑miſſion, according to the directions ſhe had received, when a traveller, who had not opened his lips during the conver⯑ſation of the peaſants, but ſat drying himſelf at the fire, roſe up ſuddenly, and begged permiſſion to ſpeak to her. She went with ſurprize and tottering ſteps into an adjoining room, where he uſed to her theſe very words:

"One of your neighbours, young lady, has told me, you have been for many years the beſt daughter in the world to the beſt father, who has been [35] once the richeſt, though now the pooreſt man in Wales, conſidering you and he are to be ſupported as gentlefolks. It is plain to ſee there is a great deal of diſtreſs upon your mind, and it is natural to gueſs the cauſe of it may be removed. I am not, by any means, a wealthy man, but I have had my ſhare of evils, ſuffici⯑ently to make me feel for the unfor⯑tunate, and I have always, thank God, a ſomething to ſpare for the mitigation of honeſt diſtreſs, in whatever country it is preſented to my view. I beg you will preſent this trifle, (giving her a bank bill) with compliments, begging the favour of his making uſe of it, till it may ſuit his circumſtances to return it. —I have no manner of occaſion for it, till about this time next year, when I will call to aſk after his health, which, [36] I hope, will long ere that be eſtabliſhed; and if it ſhould not at that time be con⯑venient to make reſtitution of the loan, we will put it off till the year after, when I will pay a ſecond viſit to you; as I purpoſe paſſing through this coun⯑try into Ireland, where I have con⯑cerns annually. I am now going to London."

The laſt ſentence ſeemed to annihi⯑late the reſt. The very name of Lon⯑don had, at that inſtant, more charms for Amelia, than it could ever boaſt of creating in the head of any Miſs in her teens, who had her mamma's promiſe to paſs a winter amongſt the fine folks, and fine ſights, with which it abounds. But it drew the attention of Amelia, from ſuperior motives. It was the re⯑ſidence [37] of her poor father's phyſician, on whoſe heart ſhe now reſolved to make an attempt, by the medium of the generous ſtranger, who ſhe rightly judged, would ſuffer his bounty to take any direction ſhe might wiſh, and to whom ſhe ſtated the merchant's anxi⯑ous, but hopeleſs deſires.

You have juſt the ſoul, my dear friend, to ſuggeſt the extacy of Ame⯑lia's, on hearing that this much-wiſhed for phyſician, was an intimate acquaint⯑ance of the traveller, and all the intereſts of an old affection ſhall be tried with the Doctor, exclaimed the ſtranger, as ſoon as I get to town, on condition that you will now go home to your father with this purſe, and as an aſſurance, that although I am an uſurer, I will re⯑ceive [38] neither principal, nor intereſt, till he is very able to pay both.

He did not give the aſtoniſhed Amelia time to refuſe, but ſeeing the weather inclined to remit its rigours, he put half-a-crown into the hands of the peaſants, to drink the young lady, and her ſick father's health; and ordering his horſe to the door—mounted and proceeded on his journey.

Does not your bounding heart aſſure you, his feelings would have defended him from beſtowing a thought on the peltings of the pitileſs ſtorm, had they continued to rage? And does it not alſo inform you, that this fair pattern of filial piety was proof againſt the war of ele⯑ments: the ſunſhine of benevolence had, [39] indeed, ſo animated her, that its ſudden and intenſe rays might have been too ſtrong for her tender frame, had they not been moderated by a ſhower of tears. She had ſcarcely regained her cottage, indeed, when overcome by her ſenſa⯑tions, ſhe fainted in the arms of her aged nurſe, who had been mourning her delay.

Alas! my friend, what fragile crea⯑tures we are! How much at the diſ⯑poſal of contrary events! How totally the vaſſals of ſorrow, and of joy! How little able to encounter the extremes of either! But you will not eaſily for⯑give exclamations that detain you from poor Amelia, whom I left in diſtreſs to indulge them. My heart is but too often the maſter of my pen, and guides [40] it as it liſteth. Let me haſten to make atonement, by informing you, that our lovely ſufferer, on her recovery, had the pleaſure to find her father had doſed beſt part of the morning, and though he miſſed her, from his apartment, when he awoke, he told the nurſe, that he hoped ſhe was taking a little neceſ⯑ſary reſt in her own room, where he deſired ſhe might remain undiſturbed.

This gave her opportunity to manage her good fortune, of which ſhe reſolved to be ſo excellent an oeconomiſt, that the ſupply ſhe had received ſhould an⯑ſwer the wiſeſt and happieſt purpoſes: ſhe recollected that the day before ſhe met the benevolent ſtranger, her father had received by the poſt a Bank-bill, to the amount of the quarterly diviſion of [41] his annuity; of courſe a farther rein⯑forcement was not immediately neceſ⯑ſary; on which account ſhe had to regret, that the flurry into which her ſpirits were thrown, had hindred her from perſiſting in her refuſal of the loan, to the acceptance of which, how⯑ever, ſhe was ſomewhat reconciled, when ſhe reflected on the condition annexed to her borrowing it; and an idea, which juſt then ſtarted to her imagination, of the manner in which it might be appropriated, completely ſatisfied her feelings on the occaſion. She conſidered the gentleman's Bank-bill as the luckieſt fund in the world, to ſerve as the phyſician's fee, in caſe the generous ſtranger ſhould prevail on him to come, and to that ſacred uſe her heart devoted it. The ſum was fifty [42] pounds. A recompence which her ignorance in the price of medical ad⯑vice in the golden climes of England led her to ſuppoſe would be all-ſuffi⯑cient for a journey down to Wales. Alas! were a regular charge to be made out by Doctors W, R, G, F, L, or any other of the popular ſons of Eſculapius, of London, for ſuch a tour from the grand mart of cuſtom, the fifty pound would ſcarcely be thought by thoſe meſſieurs a more than ſufficient ſum to pay travelling expences. In many parts of the continent, indeed, where a ſhilling value in coin that has. leſs of ſilver in its compoſition than would be found in the analyſis of a ſilver penny, is received as a ſettled gratuity for running a German mile, fifty pounds would cut a handſome figure [43] in phyſic, and go very far towards cur⯑ing a whole city of an epidemy, ſo far as preſcriptions could aſſiſt in its recovery.

As, however, the viſit of Dr. ****** was a point rather "devoutly to be wiſhed" than expected, it being the middle of a very hard winter, Amelia thought it prudent to conceal the little adventure at the public houſe from her father, whoſe malady, nevertheleſs, ra⯑ther increaſed than abated, and his love of life being in effect his love for his daughter, he could not help occaſion⯑ally regretting his impaſſable diſtance from the only man by whoſe aid there might be a chance of reſiſting his diſ⯑eaſe. There is, you know, a ſort of ſuperſtition which often runs through [44] a family in favour of its family phy⯑ſician. Nor is it altogether without a ſupport from reaſon, ſince the perſon who has long been in the ſecrets of our conſtitution, and familiar with our habits of living, muſt, in all general caſes, be better able to apply the pro⯑per remedies, than he who is called into our bed chambers, when there is a diſeaſe in it, and when he ſees us for the firſt time under its influence: be⯑ſides which, an old phyſician is com⯑monly an old friend, and unites the lenitives of affection to the cathartics of ſcience; no wonder, then, that we have faith in him, and faith, you know, is a a great doctor in itſelf, performing a thouſand cures, which the higheſt pro⯑feſſional ſkill has not been able to ac⯑compliſh without it.

[45]You will readily believe, that the bountiful ſtranger did not break pro⯑miſe to Amelia. He kept it indeed ſo religiouſly holy, that in leſs than ten days from the date of his departure, our pious daughter received a meſſage, purporting that a perſon at the public houſe begged to ſpeak with her. You, my friend, whoſe fancy is ever warmed by your affectionate heart, will imme⯑diately conclude what was concluded by Amelia, that it could be only the much-deſired Doctor, who had thus delicately, to prevent the ill effect of ſurprize on the ſick merchant, announc⯑ed his arrival. If ſo, you are in the right. However inconſiſtent with the ſpirit of buſineſs ſuch a long journey might be, it was perfectly in uniſon with the ſpirit of benevolence by which [46] Dr. ****** was moved, to determine upon it the inſtant the caſe was ſtated to him, and to execute what he had ſo determined, with all the diſpatch neceſ⯑ſary to an affair of life and death, and the life and death, moreover, of an old and unfortunate friend. My good little girl, ſaid he, on the entrance of Amelia, who gliding from her father's bedſide with ſlipſhod ſteps, ran with duteous haſte to the village inn — My good little girl, I am come from —. Heaven! interrupted Amelia, falling on her knees, you are come from hea⯑ven to make my father well.—Under the auſpices of that heaven, I truſt I am, reſumed the Doctor. Let us fly this inſtant! exclaimed Amelia, in the animated accents of nature—let us do all things in order, replied the Doctor, [47] in the language of friendly diſcretion, otherwiſe we ſhall do more harm than good.—I preſume I am not expected? Amelia bowed a negative. Then my ſudden appearance would make thy father worſe, child, continued the Doc⯑tor. No; go back to him, and by telling him an old friend of his from London, and who has particular buſi⯑neſs in that part of Wales which he inhabits, means to pay him a viſit on the ſcore of ancient amity, and will take cottage fare from him in his cham⯑ber. The name of this old London friend will then be a matter of amuſe⯑ing conjecture, in the midſt of which thou, child, mayſt ſuggeſt that thou ſhouldſt not wonder if it were me, tell⯑ing him as much of the adventure that I find happened at this inn, between [48] thee and the gentleman who brought me thy meſſage, and with it the ſtory of thy virtues and misfortunes, to ſup⯑port and to relieve which would have brought me ten times as far: but we have no time for profeſſion, I am come here to practiſe; ſo fare thee well, my good little maid.—All that I have pre⯑miſed will be the work only of an hour, at the end of which I will be with thee.

She kiſſed his hand fervently, and without ſpeaking a ſingle word, ſprung up, and might rather be ſaid to fly than run to the cottage, though the paths thereto were loſt in ſnow. Her father was ſitting up in his bed, ſupported by pillows, which the aged adherent had made ſhift to place in the abſence of [49] his filial nurſe, who gently chid the old woman for taking her proper buſineſs out of her hands; but that, if her dear father had found a moment's eaſe by this uſurpation of her natural rights, ſhe would then forgive the uſurper. She then entered on her errand, which ſhe managed ſo well, as to make the old friend's name, after much pleaſant con⯑jecture on both ſides, the ſubject of a wager; the father obſerving, that if it ſhould prove to belong to the Doctor, Providence had ſent him to reward the virtue of his daughter, who on her part maintained, that it would be chiefly owing to the value which heaven itſelf would ſet on her parent's life. This amicable ſtrife had put the invalid into unwonted ſpirits, and thereby, perhaps, not only prepared the way for the cure [50] of a fever on the nerves, but laid the beſt foundation of it. The poor gen⯑tleman did not dare to lay any ſtreſs on the poſſibility of a viſit from the phy⯑ſician, and yet a faint bluſh of hope de⯑noted that he ſhould think himſelf moſt happy to loſe his wager.

At this auſpicious criſis it was, that our Doctor made his entrè, ſaying, as he advanced to the bed-ſide, "My eſteemed friend, I am come to return my perſonal thanks to thee, for having me in thy thoughts when thou wert too ſick to remember any but thoſe who are dear to thee, and of whom thou haſt a good opinion. Give me thy hand, and, without entering into long hiſtories, let us ſee, if in return for thy kindneſs, I can make thee well again. [51] Yes, this pulſe, I foreſee, before I have done with it

Thoſe eyes have, I ſee, ſtill, the ſpirit of life in them, and this heart ſhall yet bound with renovated enjoyments."

The emotions of Amelia during theſe favourable prognoſtications no words can tell you. The Merchant was ſtrongly affected. The Doctor per⯑ceived that his patient was recoverable, both in the maladies of body and mind; and as he was no leſs a philoſopher and philanthropiſt than a phyſician, he could with equal ſkill preſcribe for each. He was one of the people called Quakers; and to a perfect knowledge of the world, [52] of his profeſſion, and of the human heart, united all the honeſt plainneſs of the character. The Merchant's diſ⯑order was, as I have ſaid, a fever on the ſpirits, of which the ſymptoms were, as uſual, want of appetite, laſſi⯑tude, watchfulneſs, and dejection of mind: a pulſe ſlow and creeping, dif⯑ficulty of reſpiration, and a dread, yet hope, of death.

I need not tell you, that in this diſ⯑eaſe the cathartics of the mind, ſuch as exhilarate, enliven, and amuſe the patient, are the moſt effectual remedies, and ſuch as were adminiſtered with uncommon ſucceſs on the preſent oc⯑caſion. In leſs than a fortnight, the ſick man not only was in a condition to leave his bed, but his chamber, and [53] play his part in the little cottage par⯑lour, in a thouſand little frolics that Amelia and the Doctor deviſed to en⯑tertain him: in the courſe of the third week, he reſumed his accuſtomed ex⯑erciſes; and under the cordial ſupports of his friend and his child, he could aſcend the mountains that environed his habitation. In the middle of the fourth week, his ſpirits and ſtrength were ſo well reſtored, that in returning home to dinner, after a walk of ſome miles, he jocularly propoſed to run againſt the Doctor and Amelia for a wager; which being agreed upon by the other parties, he ſet off, and beat them both. It was in the afternoon of this victorious day, that the good Doctor intimated the neceſſity of his return to town; good-humouredly ob⯑ſerving, [54] that, although by a lucky ar⯑rangement, he had left his ſick and wounded in very good hands with a brother phyſician in London, he could not treſpaſs any longer, without fear of being ſet down by the college as a deſerter, and he muſt therefore repair to head-quarters in the morning.

The reaſonableneſs of this was ad⯑mitted: yet the Merchant ſighed, and Amelia wept. The Doctor knew it muſt be done, and he ſaw that his pro⯑phecy, as to his friend's recovery, was fulfilled to his heart's content; but there is a ſympathy in generous regret, and his eyes were not more dry than Amelia's. In deſpite of exertions, the evening paſt heavily away: the morn⯑ing did not riſe without caſting clouds [55] on every countenance. The hour, the almoſt inſtant, that was to ſeparate the cottagers from their preſerver, ap⯑proached.

Friend, ſaid the Doctor to his pa⯑tient, as he heard the wheels of his carriage advancing, ſince I ſaw thee laſt in the great city, I have proſpered exceedingly. All thoſe families, to whom thou tookeſt me by the hand, were, more for thy ſake than mine, on my liſt. Some merit, however, or infi⯑nite good fortune, I muſt needs have had ſince, from an yearly gain of one hundred, I have increaſed my income to ſeveral thouſands per annum; and yet, I do not take fees for one in forty of my preſcriptions.—My houſe is too large for my family—Wilt thou come [56] once again into the buſy world, with this mountain bloſſom, and occupy ſome of the apartments? — This as thou wilt.—At preſent I muſt give thee a few words of parting advice, and muſt rely on this damſel to ſee that it is adopted. Thou art ſo much thy former ſelf, friend, that I fear not a relapſe; but, to fortify and ſtrengthen thee in my abſence, I have written, and made up, a preſcription, which, I am convinced, hits thy caſe exactly. Hear⯑ing ſomething of thy maladies from the friend who conveyed to me thy Ame⯑lia's meſſage, and forming a judgment, ſoberly, thereupon, I brought with me ſuch drugs as I thought could not be readily procured in thy neighbourhood. They lie, however, in a ſmall compaſs, even in this little box, yet, being com⯑pounds [57] of peculiar ſtrength, they will laſt you, I judge, for at leaſt a year to come, probably more—if they ſhould not, thou knoweſt where to addreſs the preſcriber for a freſh ſupply. There, friend, take it, but do not open it till you ſeem to wiſh for ſomething of a cordial nature. It will then, I have no doubt, do thee good.

He received their tearful embraces, and departed. You are impatient to lift up the lid of the box. When it was opened by the Merchant and his Daughter, they diſcovered two ſeparate pieces of paper, each containing a draft, on a different banker, for one thouſand pounds — the one, a preſent from the phyſician, the other from the ſtranger who had given him an account of this little family. Wrapt round theſe drafts [58] was a ſlip of paper, in the Doctor's hand-writing, containing theſe words —"Tributes, from the friends of filial piety and parental love."

I muſt not deny you the gratification of knowing that the father recovered, and the child added to his bleſſings, and her own, many years; in the ſmil⯑ing courſe of which, the young lady's virtues attracted the affections of a very wealthy and worthy gentleman, whoſe power and inclinations not only enabled the Merchant to make reſtitu⯑tion of the generoſity received from the phyſician; but to make alſo the reſidue of that man's life, from whom he derived the beſt and lovelieſt of wives, as happy in proſperity as it had been reſpectable in misfortune.

THE DOVE.

THE tranſactions and friendly inter⯑courſe of Noah and his Dove, have a tenderneſs and ceremony in them truly delightful. The eye melts at the ſimplicity, and the heart warms at the ſentiment. Poetry, in her happieſt flight, could imagine nothing more in⯑tereſting to the fancy. Hail, gentleſt of birds!—Hail, meſſenger of ſecurity! [64] Through thy means was the dry ground diſcovered, and the gratitude of man ſhall not eaſily forget the fidelity of the Dove! He ſent forth the Dove to ſee if the waters were abated. What an important errand, for ſo ſmall an ex⯑preſs! Yet the induſtrious little wing flew over the wafry univerſe, and em⯑ployed every feather in the ſervice of man: after a vain excurſion ſhe re⯑turned; for the waters were ſtill with⯑out a ſhore. Methinks I ſee the Pa⯑triarch ſtand upon the deck, to wait the return of his meſſenger, and as ſoon as ſhe reſts her fatigued foot upon the ark, he tenderly puts forth his hand and pulls her to him: thus rewarded for her labours, after ſeven days repoſe, her aſſiſtance being again ſummoned, ſhe truſts to her pinions; and, lo! in [65] the evening, ſhe came. By mention of the evening, it ſhould appear that ſhe was diſpatched in the morning, or, at leaſt very early in the day. What a taſk of toil muſt it then have been! How many billowy leagues muſt ſhe have travelled ere ſhe found that of which ſhe was in ſearch! Linger upon the land, we may be convinced ſhe never did, however the verdure and vegetable novelty might charm her. No! it was not till the evening ſhe ſucceeded in her endeavours, and then, upon the wings of kindneſs, ſhe haſted to ſatisfy the impatience of her maſter. Upon her ſecond return, behold a leaf was in her mouth! What a ſweet way is here of communicating the happy tidings! But, indeed, every ſyllable [66] of this matter hath a grace and a con⯑ſequence peculiar to it: it was an OLIVE leaf which ſhe bore; the leaf of amity, the emblem of peace; as much as to ſay, lo! maſter, the waters are abated, and I have plucked a leaf as a teſtimony of my truth! The power who commandeth the waves to dry up and diſappear, hath ordained me to bear to thee this olive-branch; haply it is the pledge of promiſe and con⯑ciliation betwixt him and thee; and thou ſhalt not only ſet thy foot ſafely upon land, but there proſper and enjoy the pardon of God. And after ſeven days more, he ſent her forth again, and ſhe returned no more. One is divided here betwixt ſmiles and tears; it is an exquiſite paſſage. The land and earth [67] had, by this time, reſumed their ac⯑cuſtomed beauties; the trees diſplayed a greener glory, the flowers ſprung brighter from the wave, and the Dove having performed her duty, enjoyed, as directed, the beauties of renovated verdure. Yet ſhe returned no more. Noah, though he knew the cauſe of her delay, had loſt his favourite bird. Alas! it was a drawback upon the felicity of the new-appearing world. Fie upon the heart that has not feel⯑ings upon ſuch occaſions! The ſoft⯑neſs of the Dove, however, is ſtill held among the children of men, in grate⯑ful remembrance. She is equally cele⯑brated in prophane and ſacred hiſtory, and every epithet of endearment is allotted to her. She is conſidered as favourable to love, and propitious to [68] every tender undertaking; nor can we, at any time, expreſs a courteous cha⯑racter without giving to it, among other qualities, the gentleneſs and truth of the Dove.

THE ADDRESS OF THE SUPERANNUATED HORSE TO HIS MASTER ^*.

THE SPARROWS.

"THE poor little domeſtic birds, (Sparrows, Robins, &c.) how this hard weather has ſubdued their independence! How they throw them⯑ſelves on us for protection! I have already more than twenty of theſe winged penſioners," writes a friend from Holland, "who ſeem to have no reſource but what they receive from [73] the crumbs that fall from my table. At this moment they are ſeated on a board on the outſide of my chamber window, on opening which, ſeveral of them have actually come in, hopped about my room, warmed themſelves at my fire, and thus refreſhed, again take wing and brave the elements. Birds are at all times more tame here than I have ſeen them elſewhere; but in the ſevere part of the year, they ſo abſolutely throw themſelves in the way of your bounty, that a man's charity muſt very perverſely "paſs by on the other ſide," not to ſee, and ſeeing, he muſt have a heart yet colder than the ice, not to accommodate their little wiſhes. What pleaſure there is in gentle offices, whether adminiſtered to bird, beaſt, or man! How it refreſhes in [74] warm, how it animates one in rigorous weather! A red-breaſt is trotting over my carpet as I write; a poor froſt-nipped chaffinch, is reſtling almoſt in the aſhes of my Buzaglio, and a Spar⯑row, who had after warming himſelf aſcended my table, is within the length of his beak of the paper on which I am writing. I nod and tell him, as he ſlopes his curious head to the writing, 'tis all about himſelf and his aſſociates; and the little fellow, with the pleaſant pertneſs which characteriſes the Spar⯑row-tribe, looks ſaucily into my face with his head aſide, as much as to ſay, a very good ſubject! glean away, friend!

"Cold as the ſnow, and biting as the froſt, there are ſome may aſk, whe⯑ther "two Sparrows are not ſold for a [75] farthing?" and, by way of inference, demand what can that leaf be worth that is waſted in deſcribing, or ſupply⯑ing their wants? But the philanthropiſt will conſider, that if in the eye of Om⯑nipotence, "one of theſe Sparrows ſhall not fall to the ground," but his divine miniſtry muſt deal the blow, their lives, their comforts, their diſtreſſes muſt be of ſome account in the eye of humanity!

THE DOG OF THE TOMBS.

INCLINE thine ear, O man! to the true ſtory of the Dog of the Tombs; and let his example be a leſſon to hu⯑manity for ever. There is, it ſeems, a creature at this time employed in me⯑ditations amongſt the tombs of the metropolis. Not the ghoſt of Mr. James Harvey, but the ghoſtly ſub⯑ſtance, if ſo I dare to expreſs myſelf, of a four-footed friend, who, for eleven [78] long years, hath bemoaned the loſs of a maſter buried near the place of the poor dog's ſequeſtration. For the above ſpace of time, this faithful adherent hath been noticed to lead a pathetic kind of life. His conſtant practice, and the gloomy habits of his exiſtence, are as follow:—Oppoſite to the houſe of a gentleman, near the church-yard of St. Olave, where the little recep⯑tacles of humanity are in many parts dilapidated; amongſt theſe appears a cragged aperture, ſcarce large enough to admit the mournful animal into the ſubterraneous ruins, where he purſues his way, unſeeing and unſeen, till, as has ſince been diſcovered, he explores the ſpot that is conſecrated to his ſor⯑rows. The neighbours have celebrated him for this penſive purſuit, till ſo much [79] of his ſad hiſtory as can be collected from his melancholy and its motives, running into a popular tale, the ſub⯑ſequent facts have got into every one's mouth. Of late, it has been his fate to meet a friend in an ingenious artiſt, who hath gazed upon his in and out goings with an eye of ſtricture and ſur⯑priſe. The reſult of his remarks is, that this viſitant of the vaults—a ſingu⯑lar ſolitary, whoſe monaſtery is erected amongſt the dead—invariably follows one courſe of conduct, ſhunning all canine as well as human intercourſe, at once reſigning our ſpecies and his own; going gloomily into his cavern, and never returning but on the ex⯑tremeſt calls and ſevereſt inſiſtings of nature, by which he inſtinctively is driven into day-light.—He, however, [80] endures it no longer than juſt to walk ſolemnly, "with ghoſtly ſteps and ſlow," into the gentleman's houſe, to eat the food, which he probably takes becauſe he would not wiſh to part with, or ſhorten his ſorrows, or to ter⯑minate them amidſt the ſacred duſt of ſome loved friend, over which he is now the generous centinel. Yet, in this effort of perpetuating his ſympa⯑thy, and of grudging the moments that are ſtolen from it, he is not repreſented as a being apt to form new attach⯑ments, or who wiſhes to expunge the old, by the force of novelty. He is a ſteady martyr to his fidelity, and know⯑eth nor the ſhadow of changing. On the contrary, even the ſweet voice of benevolence, which would call him into proſperity, and the liberal hand [81] which offers the means of ſubſiſtence, ſo ſorely wanted, have no corrupting power of ſeducing him into one hour's forgetfulneſs. The great duty of the mourner's life is evidently drawn to a point—that of attending the aſhes of an ancient benefactor in the progreſs of mortal decay. From this no bribes, no bounties can entice him; and, won⯑derful to tell! no ſooner is nature's meaneſt want abſtemiouſly as rapidly abated, (for he ſeems to grudge the time ſo waſted) than the memory of the dear charge he has forſaken, returns invigorated upon him, and he entombs himſelf again in this pious manner for three or four days: then once more he crawls forth, lean and emaciated, his eyes ſunk, his hair diſhevelled, and with every other mark of the priſoner and [82] the mourner. Thus does he, literally paſs his days and nights "in the dark⯑neſs and ſhadow of death." No ſun to cheer, no companion to ſoothe him. It may not be omitted, for it is a cir⯑cumſtance too honourable to his prin⯑ciples of affection, and to which truth gives her ſanction, that his terrene ha⯑bitation is rendered additionally uncom⯑fortable by a kind of thoroughfare ſink, which conducts the noiſome damps along his cave; ſo that his poſt of honour, which is a ſick-bed, is made in the waters, and all the horrors of an ill-aired dungeon muſt ſurround him: but his tender nature recks not this—Love endureth all things. In coming ſud⯑denly into day, he is repreſented as feeling no kind of feſtivity at the tran⯑ſition, either from the fanning of the [83] breeze or fervour of the ſun; none of thoſe rebounds of joy, or fond elevations, that denote an ordinary dog's releaſe from a long and painful confinement. No:—his character is uniform. This Penſeroſo-moraliſt is a volunteer in cap⯑tivity; and if in his way from the vaults to his houſe of feeding, he encounters any of his own kind (from his coffin to his kitchen, which is the utmoſt limit of his journey,) it has been obſerved that he takes no notice of their bearing the ſame impreſſed form of nature, as if the connecting band was torn from the living, and transferred to the dead; he takes his haſty repaſt—his neceſſary morſel, and retires to bury himſelf alive in his ſable retreat. His friend⯑ſhip ſeems to have worn out the very diſtinction of ſex; and the female form, [84] with all its attractions, is abſorbed in that thick night of ſad ſenſation which hath ſeized upon his heart; yet he is not ungrateful, nor unmindful of the dues of hoſpitality. To the ſervant maid of the houſe who prepares his pottage, againſt his hour of reſurrection from the dead, he expreſſes a decent ſenſe of acknowledgment. He is not ſullen, but ſorrowful; but he keeps aloof, and "dips his morſel in the vinegar" re⯑ſervedly, which I take to hint civilly to his benefactor, his wiſhes to avoid all approximation to intimacy. It is eaſy to tranſlate the Dog's heart upon this circumſtance, as well as if we could ſee into his generous boſom. It runs thus: —"To ſhew my good principles, I pay thee my tender thanks; but prithee, damſel, attempt not my affections: they [85] are ſo entirely engaged, that I have not ſo much as might be put into a wren's eye, for any other of thy ſpecies or my own." We are very much afraid, that the kind-hearted wench will ſuffer her good nature to get the better of her diſcretion, and that ſhe will bewoman away the Dog's morals, till he becomes no better than an human being. No; we injure him.—The fame, the immor⯑tality of the Dog require, that he ſhould continue inconſolable. One week's feli⯑city—yea, one moment's mirth, would ruin his reputation with us for ever; and by all that's honourable in nature, or graceful in the affections, we had rather creep into his ſepulchre, and aſſaſſinate him on his maſter's tomb, and we are ſure the generous reader would do the ſame, than have him [86] grow fat, and get into fleſh, and recover, yea, but a little, the tone of his mind. It is for his glory he "ſhould go mourn⯑ing all his life long;" and—which love forbid!—ſhould he be ever baſe enough to hold up his head again, or to prance it about like the other heedleſs happy puppies of this world, who ſo eaſily forget they ever loſt a friend, why, the only conſiſtent character we have ever met will be deſtroyed.

THE BIRD-CATCHER AND HIS CANARY.

IN the town of Cleves, an Eng⯑liſh gentleman was reſiding with a Pruſſian family, during the time of the fair, which we ſhall paſs over, having nothing remarkable to diſtinguiſh it from other annual meetings where people aſſemble to ſtare at, cheat each other, and divert themſelves, and to ſpend the year's ſavings in buying [91] thoſe bargains which would have been probably better bought at home. One day after dinner, as the deſert was juſt brought on the table, the travelling German muſicians, who commonly ply the houſes at theſe times, preſented themſelves and were ſuffered to play, and juſt as they were making their bows for the money they received for their hamony, a Bird-catcher, who had rendered himſelf famous for educating and calling forth the talents of the feathered race, made his appearance, and was well received by the party, which was numerous and benevolent. The muſicians, who had heard of this Bird-catcher's fame, begged permiſſion to ſtay; and the maſter of the houſe, who had a great ſhare of good nature, indulged their curioſity, a curioſity in⯑deed [92] in which every body participated: for all that we have heard or ſeen of learned-pigs, aſſes, dogs, and horſes, was ſaid to be extinguiſhed in the wonder⯑ful wiſdom which blazed in the genius of this Bird-catcher's Canary. The Canary was produced, and the owner harrangued him in the following man⯑ner, placing him upon his fore-finger, Bijou, jewel, you are now in the pre⯑ſence of perſons of great ſagacity and honour: take heed you do not deceive the expectations they have conceived of you from the world's report: you have got laurels: beware their wither⯑ing: in a word, deport yourſelf like the bijou—the jewel—of the Canary Birds, as you certainly are. All this time the Bird ſeemed to liſten, and indeed, placed himſelf in the true attitude of [93] attention, by ſloping his head to the ear of the man, and then diſtinctly nodding twice, when his maſter left off ſpeaking; and if ever nods were intelligible and promiſſory, theſe were two of them. That's good, ſaid the maſter, pulling off his hat to the bird. Now, then, let us ſee if you are a Canary of honour. Give us a tune:—the Canary ſung. Pſhaw! that's too harſh: 'tis the note of a raven, with a hoarſeneſs upon him: ſomething pathetic. The Canary whiſ⯑tled as if his little throat was changed to a lute. Faſter, ſays the man—ſlower —very well—what a plague is this foot about, and this little head?—No won⯑der you are out, Mr. Bijou, when you forget your time. That's a jewel— bravo! bravo! my little man! All that he was ordered, or reminded of, did he [94] do to admiration. His head and foot beat time—humoured the variations both of tone and movement; and "the ſound was a juſt echo to the ſenſe," according to the ſtricteſt laws of poe⯑tical, and (as it ought to be) of muſical compoſition—bravo! bravo! re-echoed from all parts of the dining-room. The muſicians declared the Canary was a greater maſter of muſic than any of their band. And do you not ſhew your ſenſe of this civility, Sir? cried the Bird-catcher with an angry air. The Canary bow'd moſt reſpectfully, to the great delight of the company. His next atchievement was going through martial exerciſe with a ſtraw gun, after which, my poor bijou, ſays the owner, thou haſt had hard work, and muſt be a little weary: a few per⯑formances [95] more, and thou ſhalt repoſe. Shew the ladies how to make a curteſy. The bird here croſſed his taper legs, and ſunk, and roſe with an eaſe and grace that would have put half our ſubſcription-aſſembly belles to the bluſh. That's my fine bird!—and now a bow, head and foot correſponding. Here the ſtriplings for ten miles round Lon⯑don might have bluſhed alſo. Let us finiſh with a hornpipe, my brave little fellow—that's it—keep it up, keep it up. The activity, glee, ſpirit, accuracy, with which this laſt order was obeyed, wound up the applauſe, (in which all the muſicians joined, as well with their inſtruments as with their clappings,) to the higheſt pitch of admiration. Bijou himſelf ſeemed to feel the ſacred thirſt of fame, and ſhook his little [96] plumes, and carroled an Io paean that ſounded like the conſcious notes of victory. Thou haſt done all my bid⯑dings bravely, ſaid the maſter, careſſing his feathered ſervant; now then take a nap, while I take thy place. Here⯑upon the Canary went into a counter⯑feit ſlumber, ſo like the effect of the poppied-god, firſt ſhutting one eye, then the other, then nodding, then dropping ſo much on one ſide, that the hands of ſeveral of the company were ſtretched out to ſave him from falling, and juſt as thoſe hands approached his feathers, ſuddenly recovering, and dropping as much on the other; at length ſleep ſeemed to fix him in a ſteady poſture; whereupon the owner took him from his finger, and laid him flat on the table, where the man aſſured us he would re⯑main [97] in a good ſound ſleep, while he himſelf had the honour to do his beſt to fill up the interval. Accordingly, after drinking a glaſs of wine, (in the progreſs of taking which he was inter⯑rupted by the Canary-bird ſpringing ſuddenly up to aſſert his right to a ſhare, really putting his little bill into the glaſs, and then laying himſelf down to ſleep again) the owner called him a ſaucy fellow, and began to ſhew off his own independent powers of entertain⯑ing. The forte of theſe lay chiefly in balancing with a tobacco-pipe, while he ſmoaked with another; and ſeveral of the poſitions were ſo difficult to be preſerved, yet maintained with ſuch dexterity, that the general attention was fixed upon him. But while he was thus exhibiting, an huge BLACK [98] CAT, who had been no doubt on the watch, from ſome unobſerved corner ſprung upon the table, ſeized the poor Canary in its mouth, and ruſhed out of the window in deſpite of all oppo⯑ſition. Though the dining-room was emptied in an inſtant, it was a vain purſuit; the life of the bird was gone, and its mangled body was brought in by the unfortunate owner in ſuch diſ⯑may, accompanied by ſuch looks and language, as muſt have awakened pity in a miſanthrope. He ſpread himſelf half length over the table, and mourned his Canary-bird with the moſt undiſ⯑ſembled ſorrow. "Well may I grieve for thee, my poor little thing; well may I grieve: more than four years haſt thou fed from my hand, drank from my lip, and ſlept in my boſom. [99] I owe to thee my ſupport, my health, my ſtrength, and my happineſs; with⯑out thee, what will become of me? Thou it was that didſt enſure my wel⯑come in the beſt companies. It was thy genius only made me welcome. Thy death is a juſt puniſhment for my va⯑nity: had I relied on thy happy pow⯑ers, all had been well, and thou hadſt been perched on my finger, or lulled on my breaſt, at this moment! But truſting to my own talents, and glorify⯑ing myſelf in them, a judgment has fallen upon me, and thou art dead and mangled on this table. Accurſed be the hour I entered this houſe! and more accurſed the deteſtable monſter that killed thee! Accurſed be myſelf, for I contributed. I ought not to have taken away my eyes when thine were [100] cloſed in frolic. O Bijou! my deareſt, only Bijou! would I were dead alſo!"

As near as the ſpirit of his diſordered mind can be transfuſed, ſuch was the language and ſentiment of the forlorn Bird-catcher; whoſe deſpairing motion and frantic air no words can paint. He took from his pocket a little green bag of faded velvet, and drawing from out of it ſome wool and cotton, that were the wrapping of whiſtles, bird-calls, and other inſtruments of his trade, all of which he threw on the table, "as in ſcorn," and making a couch, placed the mutilated limbs and ra⯑vaged feathers of his Canary upon it, and renewed his lamentations. Theſe were now much ſoftened, as is ever the caſe when the rage of grief yields to [101] its tenderneſs; when it is too much overpowered by the effect to advert to the cauſe. It is needleſs to obſerve, that every one of the company ſym⯑pathized with him. But none more than the band of muſicians, who, being engaged in a profeſſion that naturally keeps the ſenſibilities more or leſs in exerciſe, felt the diſtreſs of the poor Bird-man with peculiar force. It was really a banquet to ſee theſe people gathering themſelves into a knot, and, after whiſpering, wiping their eyes, and blowing their noſes, depute one from amongſt them to be the medium of conveying into the pocket of the Bird-man, the very contribution they had juſt before received for their own efforts. The poor fellow perceiving them, took from the pocket the little [102] parcel they had rolled up, and brought with it, by an unlucky accident, ano⯑ther little bag, at the ſight of which he was extremely agitated; for it con⯑tained the canary-ſeed, the food of the "dear loſt companion of his heart." There is no giving language to the effect of this trifling circumſtance upon the poor fellow; he threw down the contribution-money that he brought from his pocket along with it, not with an ungrateful, but a deſperate hand. He opened the bag, which was faſ⯑tened with red tape, and taking out ſome of the ſeed, put it to the very bill of the lifeleſs bird, exclaiming, "No, poor Bijou! no,—thou can'ſt not peck any more out of this hand that has been thy feeding place ſo many years: —thou can'ſt not remember how happy [103] we both were when I bought this bag full for thee. Had it been filled with gold thou hadſt deſerved it."—It ſhall be filled—and with gold, ſaid the maſter of the houſe, if I could afford it. The good man roſe from his ſeat, which had been long uneaſy to him, and gently taking the bag, put into it ſome ſilver; ſaying as he handed it to his neareſt neighbour, who will refuſe to follow my example? It is not a ſubſcription for mere charity; it is a tribute to one of the rareſt things in the whole world; namely, to real feeling, in this ſophiſti⯑cal, pretending, parading age. If ever the paſſion of love and gratitude was in the heart of man, it is in the heart of that unhappy fellow; and whether the object that calls out ſuch feelings be bird, beaſt, fiſh, or man, it is alike [104] virtue, and—Ought to be rewarded— ſaid his next neighbour, putting into the bag his quota. It is ſuperfluous to tell you, that after the ſeed had been taken wholly away, and put very deli⯑cately out of the poor man's ſight, every body moſt cheerfully contributed to make up a purſe, to repair, as much as money could, the Bird-man's loſs. The laſt perſon applied to was a very beautiful German young lady, who, as ſhe placed her bounty into the bag, cloſed it immediately after, and bluſhed. As there are all ſorts of bluſhes (at leaſt one to every action of our lives that is worth any characteriſtic feeling, ſup⯑poſing the actor can feel at all) Suſpicion would have thought this young lady, who was ſo anxious to conceal her gift, gave little or nothing; but Candour, who [105] reaſons in a different manner, would ſuppoſe what was really the caſe—that it was a bluſh not of avarice or decep⯑tion, but of benevolence, graced with modeſty. Curioſity, however, caught the bag, opened it, and turned out its con⯑tents, amongſt which were a golden ducat, that, by its date and brightneſs, had been hoarded. Ah! ha! ſaid Curio⯑ſity, who does this belong to, I wonder? Guilt and innocence, avarice and benig⯑nity, are alike honeſt in one point; ſince they all in the moment of attack, by ſome means or other, diſcover what they wiſh to conceal. There was not in the then large company a ſingle per⯑ſon, who could not have exclaimed to this young lady, with aſſurance of the truth—Thou art the woman! There was no denying the fact; it was written [106] on every feature of her enchanting face. She ſtruggled, however, with the ac⯑cuſation almoſt to tears, but they were ſuch tears as would have given luſtre to the fineſt eyes in the world; for they gave luſtre to her's, and would have added effulgence to a ray of the ſun. Well, then, if nobody elſe will own this neglected ducat, ſaid the maſter of the houſe, who was uncle to the lady above-mentioned, I will: whereupon he took it from the heap, exchanged it for two others, which enriched the collec⯑tion. While the buſineſs of the heart was thus carrying on, the poor Bird⯑man, who was the occaſion and object of it, was at firſt divided by contrary emotions of pain and pleaſure: his eye ſometimes directed to the maſſacred Canary, ſometimes to the company; at [107] length generoſity proved the ſtronger emotion, and grief ebbed away. He had loſt a bird, but he had gained the good-will of human beings. The bird, it was true, was his pride and ſupport, but this was not the criſis any longer to bewail his fate. He accepted the con⯑tribution-purſe, by one means or other filled like the ſack of Benjamin, even to the brim, and bowed; but ſpoke not; then folding up the corpſe of the Canary in its wool and cotton ſhroud, departed with one of thoſe looks, that the mo⯑ment it is ſeen it is felt and underſtood; but for which, being too powerful for deſcription, no language has yet been provided. On going out he beckoned the muſicians to follow. They did ſo, ſtriking a few chords that would have graced the funeral of Juliet. The very [108] ſoul of the Engliſh gentleman purſued the ſounds, and ſo did his feet. He haſtened to the outer door, and ſaw the Bird-man contending about returning the money, which the founders of the benevolence—for ſuch were the muſi⯑cians—had ſubſcribed. On his coming down to breakfaſt the next morning, he ſaw the footman departing with the cat who killed the bird, "not" ſaid his maſter, "to put her to death for an act that was natural to her; but to put her where I know ſhe will be out of my ſight; for I never could look on her again without being reminded of the moſt uncomfortable part of yeſterday's adventure: Poor Bijou! I have not a doubt but all we have done atones but ſcantily for the loſs of ſuch a friend. Juſt as he ſaid this the niece, whoſe [109] perſon and mind I have already par⯑ticularized, came into the breakfaſt room: And now, ſaid the old gentle⯑man, to finiſh the buſineſs: Look ye, Henrietta, I gave you this new ducat to lay out at the fair, in any manner you liked beſt; and though I think the way in which you diſpoſed of it the very beſt you could have choſen—nay, no more bluſhing — I think it never ought to go out of our family; for do you know that I have taken it into my ſuperſtitious old head, that the bleſſing of the giver of all good will ſtay with us while ſuch a ducat remains amongſt us. I therefore bought it back cheaply with two others. Age is ſuperſtitious, you know, my dear. Indulge me then, love, and take care of it while I live, after which it ſhall be your's: — and [110] in the mean time, that you may not loſe your fairing, in this little purſe are ten others, that, though not ſo diſtin⯑guiſhed by what, to my old heart, is more precious than the gold of Ophir, may ſerve well enough the common purpoſes of life." Much of this was ſpoken with tender difficulty, and the gift was received with more: but ſhe loved the hand which in the firſt in⯑ſtance had enabled her to be generous, too well not to reward it. Was not this, indeed, an illuſtration of the virtue of the man of Roſs, who "did good, yet bluſhed to find it fame?"

THE ROBIN.

IN times of old, lived a man, near a great foreſt. He was a keeper of ſheep, and had (as the ſtory goes) a numerous family. Some of his children were grown up, and ſome were infants. One was rocked in the cradle, and two were lulled upon the lap. The mother was a noted ſpinner, and when they could hold the wool in their hands, and [112] had ſtrength enough to turn round the wheel, ſhe ſet her daughters to work; while the father took care to find ſuf⯑ficient out-door buſineſs for the boys; ſome were to tend the herd, and ſome that were too weak for hard work, ſcared the birds from the corn. Now it is reported by the neighbours of the adjacent village, that the old ſhepherd, the father, was a mighty odd character, and bred up his family in a very differ⯑ent manner from his poor neighbours. As he was unable to give them the advantage of an education like ours, and teach them Latin and Greek, he was reſolved to furniſh them with ſuch accompliſhments as his ſituation per⯑mitted. He was a man of tenderneſs and ſimplicity, and often ſpoke to his children in this manner: "Do all the [113] good you can, boys and girls, and be ſure you do no harm. You muſt labour for a livelihood, but you may always get your bread innocently; and the bread that is earned honeſtly, will be always the ſweeter for it. I am myſelf obliged to attend a flock; your mother is compelled to ſpin; to the poor ſheep we are therefore all in⯑debted; they afford us food and rai⯑ment, they ſhield us from the cold, and prevent us falling into the jaws of famine. I therefore love the harmleſs creatures, and would not hurt them for all that they are worth: let this conduct teach you, children, to behave properly to poor dumb animals, and to uſe them as they deſerve to be uſed. You are their friends, and they are yours. Prove yourſelves their protec⯑tors; [114] but I charge you preſume not to think you have any right of tyranny; and be aſſured, wanton cruelty will always be returned upon the tormentor." The whole family liſtened to the old man's argument, and it would have been well for them if they had always obeyed the precepts of their father. But now comes the cream of the ſtory, pray therefore attend. The eldeſt ſon had one day taken the neſt of a Robin, which conſiſted of five young ones, and a ſixth juſt burſting from the ſhell. He carried them home to his brothers and ſiſters, to each of which he gave a bird; but the little neſtling he gave to one of the children in the lap, who wrap⯑ping it up in a piece of flannel, put it into a ſmall wicker baſket, and ſet it by the fire. The boy that found the neſt, [115] tied a ſtring to the leg of his bird, and cruelly dragged it after him. The ſe⯑cond ſon run pins through the eyes of his bird, and took a delight in ſeeing it bleed to death. The third gave his to the cat, or rather pretended to give it, for he held it firſt pretty cloſe to puſs's whiſkers, and then pulled it away from her, but at laſt ſhe pounced upon it, and carried off one of the legs. The eldeſt daughter intended to have taken care of her's, but one of her brothers having murdered his own, ſeized upon her property, and both pulling the poor wretch different ways, betwixt com⯑paſſion and cruelty, it died in the con⯑teſt. And the younger girl, now in poſſeſſion of the only bird that was left, put her's into a cage, and covered it over with wool. At this criſis the mother, [116] who had been gleaning, and the poor old ſhepherd, returned home. The limbs of the dead birds were ſeen upon the floor, and the cat was buſily em⯑ployed in a corner, at clearing them away. The old man inſiſted upon the truth. The trembling boy confeſſed it. "Barbarous wretches! cried the ſhepherd, is this the return for my care and inſtruction? But I will puniſh you for it." The eldeſt ſon he tied by the leg, and did to him as he did to the bird; the ſecond ſon he ſcratched with pins till his hands were all over blood; at the third he ſet his dog, who caught him by the leg as he uſed to catch the ſheep; the eldeſt daughter, who had loſt her bird, he pitied. He kiſſed the ſecond daughter, which had put her poor thing into the cage; but [117] hugged to his very heart the little crea⯑ture that had placed the neſtling in a warm baſket. Now it pleaſed God, that about ſix or ſeven months after this, the eldeſt ſon (which had been the cauſe of all this miſchief) fell ſick, and died; and many people are now living who ſay, that as he was going to be put into the ground, the ravens, rooks, kites, and other vaſt birds, all flew over his coffin, ſcreamed, and could by no means be got away, nor could he reſt in his grave for them; becauſe the animals were always digging up the earth under where he lay, as if they were reſolved to eat him up—and ſome declare he is actually gone. I beg par⯑don, ſchool-fellows, for this long ſtory, but I ſhall finiſh directly. I cannot help mentioning to you the different [118] fate of the good little girl who treated the animal tenderly. A year after the death of her brother, ſhe died herſelf of the ſmall-pox, and I do aſſure you, it has been told to me as fact, that her grave is a perfect garden, for the Ro⯑bins do not ſuffer a ſingle weed to grow upon it, and God Almighty has adorned it with wild flowers, as innocent as the baby which they cover.

THE OLD HORSE ON HIS TRAVELS. RELATED BY HIS MASTER.

THE whole life of this poor ſlave, till within the two laſt years, has been a continued trial of ſtrength, la⯑bour, and patience. He was broken to the bit by a Yorkſhire jockey, to be rode, the moment he was fit for ſervice, by an Oxonian ſcholar, who, whatever might have been his learning in the [120] abſtruſer ſciences, was little converſant. in the rudiments of humanity, though they are level with the loweſt under⯑ſtanding, and founded on the tender code of that great Lawgiver, who has told us, "a juſt man is merciful to his beaſt." During the very firſt vacation, this ſprightly youth ſo completely out⯑rode the ſtrength of his ſteed, that he ſold him, on the ſame day that he re⯑gained his college, at the recommence⯑ment of the term, for two guineas, to one of thoſe perſons who keep livery ſtables, and at the ſame time have horſes to let. It was not eaſily poſſible for a poor wretch, ſo badly ſituated before, to change ſo much for the worſe: and of all the fates that attend a hackney horſe, that which belongs to the drudge of a public univerſity is the [121] moſt ſevere: it is even harder than that of the ſervitors of the college. He remained in this ſervitude, however, ſixteen years, during which he was a thouſand times not only prieſt-ridden, but pariſh ridden, and yet was rarely known to ſtumble, and never to fall. Is it not queſtionable whether half the pariſhioners, or even the prieſts (with reverence be it ſpoken) could ſay as much for their own travels in the rugged journey of life? His maſter, rather from policy than compaſſion, thought it moſt for his future intereſt to allow his four-footed ſervant a ſhort reſpite, and he was accordingly favour⯑ed with a month's run in what is called a ſalt marſh; but, before his furlow was expired, he was borrowed by ſome ſmugglers, who then infeſted the coaſt, [122] and who made him the receiver of con⯑traband commodities, as well as aider and abettor in practices, which, like many other underhand actions, are beſt carried on in the night time. We ſay borrowed, becauſe after a winter's hard work in the company of theſe land-pirates, the horſe was thrown up by his temporary employers in the very marſh out of which he had been preſſed into their ſervice, and a lea⯑thern label, on which was marked this facetious intelligence, faſtened to his fetlock—Owner, I have been ſmuggled. By theſe means he unexpectedly came again into his quondam maſter's poſſeſ⯑ſion, out of which, however, he de⯑parted, the ſummer after, in the ſociety of an old fellow commoner, who, after many years cloſe confinement in the [123] cloiſters, was diſpoſed to relinquiſh them in favour of a piece of church preferment in Norfolk, which hap⯑pened to be in the gift of a lady about his own ſtanding in life, and who, in the days of her youth, avowed ſo ſtrong a partiality for this gentleman, that her father, diſapproving her alliance with a perſon who had only the hopes of a curacy before his eyes, thought fit to clog her inheritance, over which he had complete authority, with a formid⯑able condition of forfeiting the whole eſtates, ſhould ſhe marry a ſon of the church: ſhutting out, hereby, the whole body of divinity, to exclude the afore⯑ſaid individual member. Faithful, how⯑ever, to the merits of the man who had won her heart, ſhe was glad to find that the parental tyranny which had tied her [124] hand, had left free her fortune: ſhe, therefore, took the firſt opportunity to preſent the object of her early choice with the only piece of ſervice in her power — a preſentation to the living of which ſhe was become the patro⯑neſs, thinking this a better evidence of her ſtill exiſting partiality, than if ſhe had ſet fortune at defiance, and ſacrificed not only her own advantages but her lover's, to gratifying a paſſion which would have impoveriſhed both. An example of tenderneſs, this, well worthy the imitation of more romantic minds. It was to be inducted to this living our learned clerk now journeyed on the ancient ſteed whoſe memoirs I am now writings and as he did not intend to reviſit the banks of the Iſis, and had often been ſecurely carried to a [125] neighbouring chapel, where he offici⯑ated, on the back of this identical horſe, he purchaſed him, to the intent that he ſhould get into a good living alſo. But the turbulent part of this poor brute's adventures was not yet performed. His patron died without himſelf deriv⯑ing what might have been expected from his benefice; and ſoon after the deceaſe of the maſter, the ſervant fell into the hands of a man in the ſame pariſh, who, to a variety of other en⯑deavours to ſubſiſt a large and needy family, added that of letting out occa⯑ſionally a horſe. Our hero, ſtill un⯑broken in either knees or conſtitution, was deemed fit for his purpoſe, and being thought of little value, was ob⯑tained at an eaſy price. His new maſter removed ſoon after to Loweſtoft, [126] which you know is a conſiderable ſea-bathing town by the ſea-ſide, in the county of Suffolk, where the toils im⯑poſed by his Oxford tyrant were more than accumulated; for, beſides drag⯑ging a cart all the morning with loads of bread (a baker being amongſt the buſineſſes of his maſter,) he was, on account of his gentle diſpoſition, the Horſe fixed upon to take a couple of gouty invalids in the bathing machine, after the more vigorous divers and dippers had finiſhed their ablutions. In the afternoon he was harneſſed to the London poſt-coach, which daily paſt from Loweſtoft to Yarmouth. The next morning, by day-break, he came with the return of the ſaid coach, and was then ready for the diurnal rotation at home, unleſs a more profitable offer [127] happened to take him another way. Four years of his life were paſſed in this miſerable round of labours, and it was at this period of his hiſtory he and I became acquainted.

My affections were engaged, and I was pre-determined to make a preſent to them of this Horſe, for a ſight of which I immediately ſent my ſervant; but when he was led to the door of my friend's houſe, and though my reſolu⯑tion to mark him for my own grew firmer as I gazed upon his pity-moving carcaſe, I totally gave up all ideas of his utility. The owner himſelf, con⯑feſſed he was almoſt done up, at which thought a long ſigh enſued, and a con⯑feſſion that he had been the chief ſup⯑port of the family, obſerving, while he [128] patted his neck, that the poor fellow might be ſaid not only to carry his children's bread to be ſold, but to make it.—"But its all over with you now, my old boy—continued the baker—you may get me through the autumn, mayhap, and then"—"What then, ſaid I?" "He muſt hobble away to the kennel"— "To the kennel?" "Even ſo, maſter— What muſt be, muſt be: I can't afford to let him die by inches; and if I could, I don't ſee the humanity of that: better give him to the dogs while they can make a meal of him, and pay me a ſmall matter for their entertainment.— He will, however, carry your honour this month to come creditably."

Pre-determined as I ſaid to ſpare the remains of this poor wretch, I bought [129] him on the ſpot, convinced that it would be difficult to find any other perſon who would receive him on any terms. His appearance was ſuch as would have juſtified Roſinante in re⯑fuſing his acquaintance on the etiquette of comparative poverty. The aſſocia⯑tion would have diſgraced that cele⯑brated ſpectre; nor did Quixote him⯑ſelf exhibit ſo woeful a countenance. If ever, therefore, I could boaſt of an action purely diſintereſted, and which had unalloyed compaſſion for its baſis, it was the giving five times more than he was worth, that is to ſay, five guineas, for this old horſe; intending only, at the time, that he ſhould paſs the reſidue of his days in peaceful in⯑dolence, broke in upon by the infirmi⯑ties of life, and die a natural death. [130] To this end I obtained him the run of a friend's park, where I conſidered him as a reſpectable veteran retired on a penſion. In this verdant hoſpital he remained, unſought, unſeen, a whole year; at the end of which, being invited to paſs the Chriſtmas with the noble and generous owners of the park aforeſaid, I paid a viſit alſo to my pen⯑ſioner, who had grown ſo much beyond himſelf on their unmeaſured bounty, that he ſeemed to be renovated. Do not wonder that I ſcarce knew him in his improvements, for he appeared not to know himſelf. The poor fellow's very character was inverted; the al⯑teration reached from head to heel: he neighed, ſnorted, kicked, and fro⯑licked about the paſture, on my firſt attempt to ſtop him, with the airs of a [131] ſilly-foal. I reminded him that he ought to deport more humbly, conſi⯑dering the melancholy ſituation from which he was but recently delivered; yet, ſo far from paying any attention, he turned from my morality with another ſnort of diſdain, toſſed up his ſaucy head, and threw up his heels, wholly forgetting, like other ingrates, his form⯑er condition. Like them too, he ap⯑peared to conſider the world now made for him; and, therefore, betwixt jeſt and earneſt, I was reſolved once more to ſhew him he was made for the world.

The very next day I cauſed him to be taken from his green receſs, and performed the tour of the environs on his back. More airily, more pleaſantly, [132] I could not have been carried, nor, to⯑wards the end of the ride, more ſober⯑ly. The ſpirit which he ſhewed in the paſture was but as the levities of a hearty and happy old age in the pleni⯑tude of uncurbed leiſure; like the gaiety of a veteran, who, finding him⯑ſelf in health, might take it into his head to finiſh in a country dance; but theſe are ſallies for a moment. Ah! my friend, how many poor ſtarving wretches, worn down by their cruel taſk-maſters, goaded like this horſe by the "whips and ſpurs of the time," and driven out of one hard ſervice to another, might, like him, be reſcued, in the extremity, at ſmall expence, and by the hand of bounty be protected from farther rigours! even till they were renewed for a ſerviceable, inſtead of a [133] diſeaſed, old age! How many half-famiſhed, hard-ridden creatures of the human race, I ſay, might, in like man⯑ner, be repleniſhed. Reject not this long ſtory—this epiſode—this heroi-comi-epic if you pleaſe—but I cannot allow you to call it a digreſſion. You will admit it to be in point when you are given to underſtand, that on this very horſe, thus reſtored by a little indulgence, I have meaſured a thouſand miles, and find my aſſociate in ſufficient heart to meaſure a thouſand more. In the four-and-twentieth year of his age we ſallied forth; and if the maſter had in courſe of his travels made as few trips, as few falſe ſteps, as the ſervant, he might be a match for the ſafeſt goer on the road of life.

THE OX AND THE LAMB.

ABOUT a mile from the weſtern-gate of the town of Cleves, a traveller perceived a man and boy buſied in doing ſomething; to the moſt beautiful Ox he ever beheld: as he came nearer, he found they were adorn⯑ing it with a great variety of fanciful ornaments; a large collar of yew branches, tied with ribbon, and wreath⯑ed with other ever-greens, was thrown [141] over its neck: papers, on which were drawn herds, flocks, and ſhepherds, and folded into large beau-knots, were fixed, it is to be feared pinned with large corkers, to its ſkin, in various parts of the body: bunches of the ſame were tied to the tail, braided into the mane, and the brows were hung with a garland of holly, of which there was a twiſt, faſtened by a red filleting, even to the horns, the tips of which were ſtuck with little May-buſhes in bloom. His attention was preſently called from this, by the bleat of a Sheep and its Lamb: thoſe creatures were bound to an he [...]ge in a corner of the ſame en⯑cloſure. They were dreſſed nearly in the taſte of the Ox, with this variation in the Lamb, a collar of early opening flowers of the field, and ſome twigs of [142] hawthorn in bud, and which, betwixt ſport and earneſt, it was trying to get into its mouth. On aſking the cauſe of all this finery, he was told it was upon account of its being a jour-de-féte, and alſo the day before that of the greateſt beef, mutton, and lamb market in the whole year! And pray, friend, ſaid the traveller, where is the neceſſity of dreſſing the animals in that manner? 'Tis our cuſtom, Sir, replies the man driving the Ox towards the town, and the boy with the Sheep and Lamb, now unbound, following his example. The traveller had not time for more interrogatories, being wholly taken up with the anticks of the Lamb, which frolicking ſometimes with its mother, and ſometimes with the boy, and ſome⯑times even with its own ſhadow, [143] brought ſo cloſe under his eye, and ſo near indeed to his very heart, the fine lines of Mr. Pope, that he re⯑peated them over and over. Every image of this deſcription had its im⯑mediate illuſtration in the object before him:

They gained Cleves as the traveller pronounced, for the tenth time, that impreſſive verſe, which gives the moral in the following line— ‘O blindneſs to the future! KINDLY given.’

The animals were led, or rather driven, through the principal ſtreets, [144] literally for ſhew, it being the practice of WESTPHALIA for the butchers to exhibit their meat alive the day pre⯑ceding the ſlaughter. "I pretend," ſays our traveller, "to queſtion neither the uſe nor the neceſſity of all this; nor by any means to ſtretch pity or feeling beyond its bounds. I only obſerve, that my affections followed theſe crea⯑tures in their funeral proceſſion through the town of CLEVES, and could not leave them till on turning a narrow lane I ſaw, with a kind of emotion eaſily gueſſed, the door of the place deſtined for their deſtruction; it being a practice in this country to ſlaughter their meat, and a very filthy one it is ^*, in the open ſtreet; the pavements and [145] kennels of which are ſtained, running with blood. I will carry you no fur⯑ther into this little adventure than juſt to note, that being the next day obliged to paſs the end of the ſtreet, where I took leave of my poor dumb compa⯑nions, I obſerved not only ſeveral parts of them hung upon hooks at the butcher's ſhop, but ſeveral of the or⯑naments. Even the flowers that were wreathed about the face of the Lamb were now crowded into its mouth, and ſpotted with its harmleſs blood. "Poor little fellow," ſaid the traveller, "thou wert yeſterday the merrieſt of the friſk⯑ing tribe! Would I had never met thee! If in the courſe of the week, it was my lot to eat any part of theſe animals at the tables where I then viſited, as was moſt probably the caſe, conſider poor [146] human nature, and forgive me! I am not prepoſterous enough to adviſe a being, who is made up of appetites to abſtain from the gratification of ſuch as are neceſſary to exiſtence, but while we yield to the ſtern laws of our mor⯑tality, let us not ſpurn all ſort of feel⯑ing, like the man, who, on ſeeing ſome lambs at ſport in a meadow, exclaimed, "Ah, ye dear innocent, beautiful crea⯑tures, would to heaven I had a joint of ye to-day for dinner, with nice ſpinnage and butter!" A very different ſenti⯑ment ſprung up in the mind of the ſpectator of this ſcene as he ſurveyed the amputated limbs of theſe his late aſſociates, and he could not but remem⯑ber what the heart-melting Otway ſays on the ſubject:

Never can this affecting paſſage be more touchingly illuſtrated than in the caſe of the Lamb of WESTPHALIA.