PART I.--THE VISIT.

Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was

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THE

SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN,

AND OTHER TALES.

BY

HANNAH MORE.

NEW YORK:

DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET.

1859.

STEREOTYPED BY

THOMAS B. SMITH,

82 & 84 Beckman Street.

PRINTED BY

GEO. RUSSELL & CO.

Beckman St.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Tales for the Common People.

The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain 7

The Two Shoemakers 41

The History of Tom White, the Post Boy 119

The Sunday School 152

The History of Hester Wilmot, being the sequel to the

Sunday School 166

The History of Betty Brown, the St. Giles's Orange Girl;

with some account of Mrs. Sponge, the Money-Lender 191

Black Giles the Poacher; containing some account of a

family who had rather live by their wits than their work 204

Tawney Rachel, or the Fortune-Teller; with some account of

Dreams, Omens, and Conjurers 230

Stories for Persons of Middle Rank.

The History of Mr. Fantom (the new-fashioned Philosopher),

and his man William 245

The Two Wealthy Farmers; or the History of Mr. Bragwell 276

'Tis all for the best 387

A Cure for Melancholy 405

Allegories.

The Pilgrims 423

The Valley of Tears 437

The Strait Gate and the Broad Way 444

Parley the Porter 456

The Grand Assizes; or General Jail Delivery 470

The Servant Man turned Soldier, or the Fair-weather

Christian 479

TALES

FOR THE COMMON PEOPLE.

"Religion is for the man in humble life, and to raise his nature,

and to put him in mind of a state in which the privileges of

opulence will cease, when he will be equal by nature, and may be

more than equal by virtue."--_Burke on the French Revolution._

ADVERTISEMENT.

To improve the habits, and raise the principles of the common

people, at a time when their dangers and temptations, moral and

political, were multiplied beyond the example of any former period,

was the motive which impelled the author of these volumes to devise

and prosecute the institution of the "Cheap Repository." This plan

was established with an humble wish not only to counteract vice and

profligacy on the one hand, but error, discontent, and false

religion on the other. And as an appetite for reading had, from a

variety of causes, been increased among the inferior ranks in this

country, it was judged expedient, at this critical period, to supply

such wholesome aliment as might give a new direction to their taste,

and abate their relish for those corrupt and inflammatory

publications which the consequences of the French Revolution have

been so fatally pouring in upon us.

The success of the plan exceeded the most sanguine expectations of

its projector. Above two millions of the tracts were sold within the

first year, besides very large numbers in Ireland; and they continue

to be very extensively circulated, in their original form of single

tracts, as well as in three bound volumes.

As these stories, though _principally_, are not calculated

_exclusively_ for the middle and lower classes of society, the

author has, at the desire of her friends, selected those which were

written by herself, and presented them to the public in this

collection of her works, in an enlarged and improved form.

THE

SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN.

Mr. Johnson, a very worthy charitable gentleman, was traveling some

time ago across one of those vast plains which are well known in

Wiltshire. It was a fine summer's evening, and he rode slowly that

he might have leisure to admire God in the works of his creation.

For this gentleman was of opinion, that a walk or a ride was as

proper a time as any to think about good things: for which reason,

on such occasions he seldom thought so much about his money or his

trade, or public news, as at other times, that he might with more

ease and satisfaction enjoy the pious thoughts which the wonderful

works of the great Maker of heaven and earth are intended to raise

in the mind.

As this serene contemplation of the visible heavens insensibly

lifted up his mind from the works of God in nature to the same God

as he is seen in revelation, it occurred to him that this very

connexion was clearly intimated by the royal prophet in the

nineteenth Psalm--that most beautiful description of the greatness

and power of God exhibited in the former part, plainly seeming

intended to introduce, illustrate, and unfold the operations of the

word and Spirit of God on the heart in the latter. And he began to

run a parallel in his own mind between the effects of that highly

poetical and glowing picture of the material sun in searching and

warming the earth, in the first six verses, and the spiritual

operation attributed to the "law of God," which fills up the

remaining part of the Psalm. And he persuaded himself that the

divine Spirit which dictated this fine hymn, had left it as a kind

of general intimation to what use we were to convert our admiration

of created things; namely, that we might be led by a sight of them

to raise our views from the kingdom of nature to that of grace, and

that the contemplation of God in his works might draw us to

contemplate him in his word.

In the midst of these reflections, Mr. Johnson's attention was all

of a sudden called off by the barking of a shepherd's dog, and

looking up, he spied one of those little huts which are here and

there to be seen on those great downs; and near it was the shepherd

himself busily employed with his dog in collecting together his vast

flock of sheep. As he drew nearer, he perceived him to be a clean,

well-looking, poor man, near fifty years of age. His coat, though at

first it had probably been of one dark color, had been in a long

course of years so often patched with different sorts of cloth, that

it was now become hard to say which had been the original color. But

this, while it gave a plain proof of the shepherd's poverty, equally

proved the exceeding neatness, industry, and good management of his

wife. His stockings no less proved her good housewifery, for they

were entirely covered with darns of different colored worsteds, but

had not a hole in them; and his shirt, though nearly as coarse as

the sails of a ship, was as white as the drifted snow, and was

neatly mended where time had either made a rent, or worn it thin.

This furnishes a rule of judging, by which one shall seldom be

deceived. If I meet with a laborer, hedging, ditching, or mending

the highways, with his stockings and shirt tight and whole, however

mean and bad his other garments are, I have seldom failed, on

visiting his cottage, to find that also clean and well ordered, and

his wife notable, and worthy of encouragement. Whereas, a poor

woman, who will be lying a-bed, or gossiping with her neighbors when

she ought to be fitting out her husband in a cleanly manner, will

seldom be found to be very good in other respects.

This was not the case with our shepherd: and Mr. Johnson was not

more struck with the decency of his mean and frugal dress, than with

his open honest countenance, which bore strong marks of health,

cheerfulness, and spirit.

Mr. Johnson, who was on a journey, and somewhat fearful from the

appearance of the sky, that rain was at no great distance, accosted

the shepherd with asking what sort of weather he thought it would be

on the morrow. "It will be such weather as pleases me," answered the

shepherd. Though the answer was delivered in the mildest and most

civil tone that could be imagined, the gentleman thought the words

themselves rather rude and surly, and asked him how that could be.

"Because," replied the shepherd, "it will be such weather as shall

please God, and whatever pleases him always pleases me."

Mr. Johnson, who delighted in good men and good things, was very

well satisfied with his reply. For he justly thought that though a

hypocrite may easily contrive to appear better than he really is to

a stranger; and that no one should be too soon trusted, merely for

having a few good words in his mouth; yet as he knew that out of the

abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh, he always accustomed

himself to judge favorably of those who had a serious deportment and

solid manner of speaking. It looks as if it proceeded from a good

habit, said he, and though I may now and then be deceived by it, yet

it has not often happened to me to be so. Whereas if a man accosts

me with an idle, dissolute, vulgar, indecent, or profane expression,

I have never been deceived in him, but have generally on inquiry,

found his character to be as bad as his language gave me room to

expect.

He entered into conversation with the shepherd in the following

manner: "Yours is a troublesome life, honest friend," said he. "To

be sure, sir," replied the shepherd, "'tis not a very lazy life; but

'tis not near so toilsome as that which my GREAT MASTER led for my

sake; and he had every state and condition of life at his choice,

and _chose_ a hard one; while I only submit to the lot that is

appointed to me." "You are exposed to great cold and heat," said the

gentleman. "True, sir," said the shepherd; "but then I am not

exposed to great temptations; and so, throwing one thing against

another, God is pleased to contrive to make things more equal than

we poor, ignorant, short-sighted creatures are apt to think. David

was happier when he kept his father's sheep on such a plain as this,

and employed in singing some of his own Psalms perhaps, than ever he

was when he became king of Israel and Judah. And I dare say we

should never have had some of the most beautiful texts in all those

fine Psalms, if he had not been a shepherd, which enabled him to

make so many fine comparisons and similitudes, as one may say, from

country life, flocks of sheep, hills, and valleys, fields of corn,

and fountains of water."

"You think, then," said the gentleman, "that a laborious life is a

happy one." "I do, sir; and more so especially, as it exposes a man

to fewer sins. If king Saul had continued a poor laborious man to

the end of his days, he might have lived happy and honest, and died

a natural death in his bed at last, which you know, sir, was more

than he did. But I speak with reverence, for it was divine

Providence overruled all that, you know, sir, and I do not presume

to make comparisons. Besides, sir, my employment has been

particularly honored: Moses was a shepherd on the plains of Midian.

It was to 'shepherds keeping their flocks by night,' that the angels

appeared in Bethlehem, to tell the best news, the gladdest tidings,

that ever were revealed to poor sinful men; often and often has the

thought warmed my poor heart in the coldest night, and filled me

with more joy and thankfulness than the best supper could have

done."

Here the shepherd stopped, for he began to feel that he had made too

free, and talked too long. But Mr. Johnson was so well pleased with

what he said, and with the cheerful contented manner in which he

said it, that he desired him to go on freely, for it was a pleasure

to him to meet with a plain man, who, without any kind of learning

but what he had got from the Bible, was able to talk so well on a

subject in which all men, high and low, rich and poor, are equally

concerned.

"Indeed I am afraid I make too bold, sir, for it better becomes me

to listen to such a gentleman as you seem to be, than to talk in my

poor way: but as I was saying, sir, I wonder all working men do not

derive as great joy and delight as I do from thinking how God has

honored poverty! Oh! sir, what great, or rich, or mighty men have

had such honor put on them, or their condition, as shepherds,

tentmakers, fishermen, and carpenters have had! Besides, it seems as

if God honored industry also. The way of duty is not only the way of

safety, but it is remarkable how many, in the exercise of the common

duties of their calling, humbly and rightly performed, as we may

suppose, have found honors, preferment, and blessing: while it does

not occur to me that the whole sacred volume presents a single

instance of a like blessing conferred on idleness. Rebekah, Rachel,

and Jethro's daughters, were diligently employed in the lowest

occupations of a country life, when Providence, by means of those

very occupations, raised them up husbands so famous in history, as

Isaac, Jacob, and the prophet Moses. The shepherds were neither

playing, nor sleeping, but 'watching their flocks,' when they

received the news of a Saviour's birth; and the woman of Samaria, by

the laborious office of drawing water, was brought to the knowledge

of him who gave her to drink of 'living water.'"

"My honest friend," said the gentleman, "I perceive you are well

acquainted with Scripture." "Yes, sir, pretty well, blessed be God!

Through his mercy I learned to read when I was a little boy; though

reading was not so common when I was a child, as, I am told, through

the goodness of Providence and the generosity of the rich, it is

likely to become now-a-days. I believe there is no day, for the last

thirty years, that I have not peeped at my Bible. If we can't find

time to read a chapter, I defy any man to say he can't find time to

read a verse; and a single text, sir, well followed, and put in

practice every day, would make no bad figure at the year's end:

three hundred and sixty-five texts, without the loss of a moment's

time, would make a pretty stock, a little golden treasury, as one

may say, from new-year's day to new-year's day; and if children were

brought up to it, they would come to look for their text as

naturally as they do for their breakfast. No laboring man, 'tis

true, has so much leisure as a shepherd, for while the flock is

feeding I am obliged to be still, and at such times I can now and

then tap a shoe for my children or myself, which is a great saving

to us, and while I am doing that I repeat a chapter or a Psalm,

which makes the time pass pleasantly in this wild solitary place. I

can say the best part of the New Testament by heart: I believe I

should not say the best part, for every part is good, but I mean the

greatest part. I have led but a lonely life, and have often had but

little to eat, but my Bible has been meat, drink, and company to me,

as I may say, and when want and trouble have come upon me, I don't

know what I should have done indeed, sir, if I had not had the

promises of this book for my stay and support."

"You have had great difficulties then?" said Mr. Johnson. "Why, as

to that, sir, not more than neighbors' fare; I have but little cause

to complain, and much to be thankful; but I have had some little

struggles, as I will leave you to judge. I have a wife and eight

children, whom I bred up in that little cottage which you see under

the hill, about half a mile off." "What, that with the smoke coming

out of the chimney?" said the gentleman. "Oh no, sir," replied the

shepherd, smiling, "we have seldom smoke in the evening, for we have

little to cook, and firing is very dear in these parts. 'Tis that

cottage which you see on the left hand of the church, near that

little tuft of hawthorns." "What, that hovel with only one room

above and below, with scarcely any chimney? how is it possible that

you can live there with such a family?" "Oh, it is very possible,

and very certain too," cried the shepherd. "How many better men have

been worse lodged! how many good Christians have perished in prisons

and dungeons, in comparison of which my cottage is a palace! The

house is very well, sir; and if the rain did not sometimes beat down

upon us through the thatch when we are a-bed, I should not desire a

better; for I have health, peace, and liberty, and no man maketh me

afraid."

"Well, I will certainly call on you before it be long; but how can

you contrive to lodge so many children?" "We do the best we can,

sir. My poor wife is a very sickly woman, or we should always have

done tolerably well. There are no gentry in the parish, so that she

has not met with any great assistance in her sickness. The good

curate of the parish, who lives in that pretty parsonage in the

valley, is very willing, but not very able to assist us on these

trying occasions, for he has little enough for himself, and a large

family into the bargain. Yet he does what he can, and more than many

other men do, and more than he can well afford. Besides that, his

prayers and good advice we are always sure of, and we are truly

thankful for that, for a man must give, you know, sir, according to

what he hath, and not according to what he hath not."

"I am afraid," said Mr. Johnson, "that your difficulties may

sometimes lead you to repine."

"No, sir," replied the shepherd, "it pleases God to give me two ways

of bearing up under them. I pray that they may be either removed or

sanctified to me. Besides, if my road be right, I am contented,

though it be rough and uneven. I do not so much stagger at hardships

in the right way, as I dread a false security, and a hollow peace,

while I may be walking in a more smooth, but less safe way. Besides,

sir, I strengthen my faith by recollecting what the best men have

suffered, and my hope, with the view of the shortness of all

suffering. It is a good hint, sir, of the vanity of all earthly

possessions, that though the whole Land of Promise was his, yet the

first bit of ground which Abraham, the father of the faithful, got

possession of, in the land of Canaan, was a _grave_."

"Are you in any distress at present?" said Mr. Johnson. "No, sir,

thank God," replied the shepherd, "I get my shilling a-day, and most

of my children will soon be able to earn something; for we have only

three under five years old." "Only!" said the gentleman, "that is a

heavy burden." "Not at all; God fits the back to it. Though my wife

is not able to do any out-of-door work, yet she breeds up our

children to such habits of industry, that our little maids, before

they are six years old, can first get a half-penny, and then a penny

a day by knitting. The boys, who are too little to do hard work, get

a trifle by keeping the birds off the corn; for this the farmers

will give them a penny or two pence, and now and then a bit of

bread and cheese into the bargain. When the season of crow-keeping

is over, then they glean or pick stones; any thing is better than

idleness, sir, and if they did not get a farthing by it, I would

make them do it just the same, for the sake of giving them early

habits of labor.

"So you see sir, I am not so badly off as many are; nay, if it were

not that it costs me so much in 'pothecary's stuff for my poor wife,

I should reckon myself well off; nay I do reckon myself well off,

for blessed be God, he has granted her life to my prayers, and I

would work myself to a 'natomy, and live on one meal a day, to add

any comfort to her valuable life; indeed I have often done the last,

and thought it no great matter neither."

While they were in this part of the discourse, a fine plump

cherry-cheek little girl ran up out of breath, with a smile on her

young happy face, and without taking any notice of the gentleman,

cried out with great joy--"Look here, father, only see how much I

have got!" Mr. Johnson was much struck with her simplicity, but

puzzled to know what was the occasion of this great joy. On looking

at her he perceived a small quantity of coarse wool, some of which

had found its way through the holes of her clean, but scanty and

ragged woolen apron. The father said, "This has been a successful

day indeed, Molly, but don't you see the gentleman?" Molly now made

a courtesy down to the very ground; while Mr. Johnson inquired into

the cause of mutual satisfaction which both father and daughter had

expressed, at the unusual good fortune of the day.

"Sir," said the shepherd, "poverty is a great sharpener of the wits.

My wife and I can not endure to see our children (poor as they are)

without shoes and stockings, not only on account of the pinching

cold which cramps their poor little limbs, but because it degrades

and debases them; and poor people who have but little regard to

appearances, will seldom be found to have any great regard for

honesty and goodness; I don't say this is always the case; but I am

sure it is too often. Now shoes and stockings being very dear, we

could never afford to get them without a little contrivance. I must

show you how I manage about the shoes when you condescend to call at

our cottage, sir; as to stockings, this is one way we take to help

to get them. My young ones, who are too little to do much work,

sometimes wander at odd hours over the hills for the chance of

finding what little wool the sheep may drop when they rub

themselves, as they are apt to do, against the bushes.[1] These

scattered bits of wool the children pick out of the brambles, which

I see have torn sad holes in Molly's apron to-day; they carry this

wool home, and when they have got a pretty parcel together, their

mother cards it; for she can sit and card in the chimney corner,

when she is not able to wash or work about the house. The biggest

girl then spins it; it does very well for us without dyeing, for

poor people must not stand for the color of their stockings. After

this our little boys knit it for themselves, while they are employed

in keeping cows in the fields, and after they get home at night. As

for the knitting which the girls and their mother do, that is

chiefly for sale, which helps to pay our rent."

[1] This piece of frugal industry is not imaginary, but a real

fact, as is the character of the shepherd, and his uncommon

knowledge of the Scriptures.

Mr. Johnson lifted up his eyes in silent astonishment at the shifts

which honest poverty can make rather than beg or steal; and was

surprised to think how many ways of subsisting there are, which

those who live at their ease little suspect. He secretly resolved to

be more attentive to his own petty expenses than he had hitherto

been; and to be more watchful that nothing was wasted in his

family.

But to return to the shepherd. Mr. Johnson told him that as he must

needs be at his friend's house, who lived many miles off, that

night, he could not, as he wished to do, make a visit to his cottage

at present. "But I will certainly do it," said he, "on my return,

for I long to see your wife and her nice little family, and to be an

eye-witness of her neatness and good management." The poor man's

tears started into his eyes on hearing the commendation bestowed on

his wife; and wiping them off with the sleeve of his coat, for he

was not worth a handkerchief in the world, he said, "Oh, sir, you

just now, I am afraid, called me an humble man, but indeed I am a

very proud one." "Proud!" exclaimed Mr. Johnson, "I hope not. Pride

is a great sin, and as the poor are liable to it as well as the

rich, so good a man as you seem to be ought to guard against it."

"Sir," said he, "you're right, but I am not proud of myself, God

knows I have nothing to be proud of. I am a poor sinner; but indeed,

sir, I am proud of my wife: she is not only the most tidy, notable

woman on the plain, but she is the kindest wife and mother, and the

most contented, thankful Christian that I know. Last year I thought

I should have lost her in a violent fit of the rheumatism, caught by

going to work too soon after her lying-in, I fear; for 'tis but a

bleak, coldish place, as you may see, sir, in winter, and sometimes

the snow lies so long under the hill, that I can hardly make myself

a path to get out and buy a few necessaries in the village; and we

are afraid to send out the children, for fear they should be lost

when the snow is deep. So, as I was saying, the poor soul was very

bad indeed, and for several weeks lost the use of all her limbs

except her hands; a merciful Providence spared her the use of these,

so that when she could not turn in her bed, she could contrive to

patch a rag or two for her family. She was always saying, had it not

been for the great goodness of God, she might have her hands lame

as well as her feet, or the palsy instead of the rheumatism, and

then she could have done nothing--but, nobody had so many mercies as

she had.

"I will not tell you what we suffered during the bitter weather,

sir, but my wife's faith and patience during that trying time, were

as good a lesson to me as any sermon I could hear, and yet Mr.

Jenkins gave us very comfortable ones too, that helped to keep up my

spirits."

"I fear, shepherd," said Mr. Johnson, "you have found this to be but

a bad world."

"Yes, sir," replied the shepherd, "but it is governed by a good God.

And though my trials have now and then been sharp, why then, sir, as

the saying is, if the pain be violent, it is seldom lasting, and if

he but moderate, why then we can bear it the longer, and when it is

quite taken away, ease is the more precious, and gratitude is

quickened by the remembrance; thus every way, and in every case, I

can always find out a reason for vindicating Providence."

"But," said Mr. Johnson, "how do you do to support yourself under

the pressure of actual want. Is not hunger a great weakener of your

faith?"

"Sir," replied the shepherd, "I endeavor to live upon the promises.

You, who abound in the good things of this world, are apt to set too

high a value on them. Suppose, sir, the king, seeing me at hard

work, were to say to me, that if I would patiently work on till

Christmas, a fine palace and a great estate should be the reward of

my labors. Do you think, sir, that a little hunger, or a little wet,

would make me flinch, when I was sure that a few months would put me

in possession! Should I not say to myself frequently--cheer up,

shepherd, 'tis but till Christmas! Now is there not much less

difference between this supposed day and Christmas, when I should

take possession of the estate and palace, than there is between time

and eternity, when I am sure of entering on a kingdom not made with

hands? There is some comparison between a moment and a thousand

years, because a thousand years are made up of moments, all time

being made up of the same sort of stuff, as I may say; while there

is no sort of comparison between the longest portion of time and

eternity. You know, sir, there is no way of measuring two things,

one of which has length and breadth, which shows it must have an end

somewhere, and another thing, which being eternal, is without end

and without measure."

"But," said Mr. Johnson, "is not the fear of death sometimes too

strong for your faith?"

"Blessed be God, sir," replied the shepherd, "the dark passage

through the valley of the shadow of death is made safe by the power

of him who conquered death. I know, indeed, we shall go as naked out

of this world as we came into it, but an humble penitent will not be

found naked in the other world, sir. My Bible tells me of garments

of praise and robes of righteousness. And is it not a support, sir,

under any of the petty difficulties and distresses here, to be

assured by the word of him who can not lie, that those who were in

white robes came out of tribulation? But, sir, I beg your pardon for

being so talkative. Indeed you great folks can hardly imagine how it

raises and cheers a poor man's heart when such as you condescend to

talk familiarly to him on religious subjects. It seems to be a

practical comment on that text which says, _the rich and the poor

meet together, the Lord is the maker of them all_. And so far from

creating disrespect, sir, and that nonsensical wicked notion about

equality, it rather prevents it. But to turn to my wife. One Sunday

afternoon when she was at the worst, as I was coming out of church,

for I went one part of the day, and my eldest daughter the other, so

my poor wife was never left alone; as I was coming out of church, I

say, Mr. Jenkins, the minister, called out to me and asked me how my

wife did, saying he had been kept from coming to see her by the deep

fall of snow, and indeed from the parsonage-house to my hovel it was

quite impassable. I gave him all the particulars he asked, and I am

afraid a good many more, for my heart was quite full. He kindly gave

me a shilling, and said he would certainly try to pick out his way

and come and see her in a day or two.

"While he was talking to me a plain farmer-looking gentleman in

boots, who stood by listened to all I said, but seemed to take no

notice. It was Mr. Jenkins's wife's father, who was come to pass the

Christmas-holidays at the parsonage-house. I had always heard him

spoken of as a plain frugal man, who lived close himself, but was

remarked to give away more than any of his show-away neighbors.

"Well! I went home with great spirits at this seasonable and

unexpected supply; for we had tapped our last sixpence, and there

was little work to be had on account of the weather; I told my wife

I had not come back empty-handed. 'No, I dare say not,' says she,

'you have been serving a master _who filleth the hungry with good

things, though he sendeth the rich empty away_.' True, Mary, says I,

we seldom fail to get good spiritual food from Mr. Jenkins, but

to-day he has kindly supplied our bodily wants. She was more

thankful when I showed her the shilling, than, I dare say, some of

your great people are when they get a hundred pounds."

Mr. Johnson's heart smote him when he heard such a value set upon a

shilling; surely, said he to himself, I will never waste another;

but he said nothing to the shepherd, who thus pursued his story:

"Next morning before I went out, I sent part of the money to buy a

little ale and brown sugar to put into her water-gruel; which you

know, sir, made it nice and nourishing. I went out to cleave wood

in a farm-yard, for there was no standing out on the plain, after

such snow as had fallen in the night. I went with a lighter heart

than usual, because I had left my poor wife a little better, and

comfortably supplied for this day, and I now resolved more than ever

to trust God for the supplies of the next. When I came back at

night, my wife fell a crying as soon as she saw me. This, I own, I

thought but a bad return for the blessings she had so lately

received, and so I told her,--'Oh,' said she, 'it is too much, we

are too rich; I am now frightened, not lest we should have no

portion in this world, but for fear we should have our whole portion

in it. Look here, John!' So saying, she uncovered the bed whereon

she lay, and showed me two warm, thick, new blankets. I could not

believe my own eyes, sir, because when I went out in the morning, I

had left her with no other covering than our little old thin blue

rug. I was still more amazed when she put half a crown into my hand,

telling me, she had had a visit from Mr. Jenkins, and Mr. Jones, the

latter of whom had bestowed all these good things upon us. Thus,

sir, have our lives been crowned with mercies. My wife got about

again, and I do believe, under Providence, it was owing to these

comforts; for the rheumatism, sir, without blankets by night, and

flannel by day, is but a baddish job, especially to people who have

little or no fire. She will always be a weakly body; but thank God

her soul prospers and is in health. But I beg your pardon, sir, for

talking on at this rate." "Not at all, not at all," said Mr.

Johnson; "I am much pleased with your story; you shall certainly see

me in a few days. Good night." So saying, he slipped a crown into

his hand and rode off. Surely, said the shepherd, _goodness and

mercy have followed me all the days of my life_, as he gave the

money to his wife when he got home at night.

As to Mr. Johnson, he found abundant matter for his thoughts during

the rest of his journey. On the whole, he was more disposed to envy

than to pity the shepherd. I have seldom seen, said he, so happy a

man. It is a sort of happiness which the world could not give, and

which, I plainly see, it has not been able to take away. This must

be the true spirit of religion. I see more and more, that true

goodness is not merely a thing of words and opinions, but a living

principle brought into every common action of a man's life. What

else could have supported this poor couple under every bitter trial

of want and sickness? No, my honest shepherd, I do not pity, but I

respect and even honor thee; and I will visit thy poor hovel on my

return to Salisbury, with as much pleasure as I am now going to the

house of my friend.

If Mr. Johnson keeps his word in sending me an account of his visit

to the shepherd's cottage, I will be very glad to entertain my

readers with it.

PART II.

I am willing to hope that my readers will not be sorry to hear some

further particulars of their old acquaintance, _the Shepherd of

Salisbury Plain_. They will call to mind that at the end of the

first part, he was returning home full of gratitude for the favors

he had received from Mr. Johnson, whom we left pursuing his journey,

after having promised to make a visit to the shepherd's cottage.

Mr. Johnson, after having passed some time with his friend, set out

on his return to Salisbury, and on the Saturday evening reached a

very small inn, a mile or two distant from the shepherd's village;

for he never traveled on a Sunday without such a reason as he might

be able to produce at the day of judgment. He went the next morning

to the church nearest the house where he had passed the night, and

after taking such refreshment as he could get at that house, he

walked on to find out the shepherd's cottage. His reason for

visiting him on a Sunday was chiefly because he supposed it to be

the only day which the shepherd's employment allowed him to pass at

home with his family; and as Mr. Johnson had been struck with his

talk, he thought it would be neither unpleasant nor unprofitable to

observe how a man who carried such an appearance of piety spent his

Sunday: for though he was so low in the world, this gentleman was

not above entering very closely into his character, of which he

thought he should be able to form a better judgment, by seeing

whether his practice at home kept pace with his professions abroad:

for it is not so much by observing how people talk, as how they

live, that we ought to judge of their characters.

After a pleasant walk, Mr. Johnson got within sight of the cottage,

to which he was directed by the clump of hawthorns and the broken

chimney. He wished to take the family by surprise; and walking

gently up to the house he stood awhile to listen. The door being

half open, he saw the shepherd (who looked so respectable in his

Sunday coat that he should hardly have known him), his wife, and

their numerous young family, drawing round their little table, which

was covered with a clean, though very coarse cloth.

There stood on it a large dish of potatoes, a brown pitcher, and a

piece of a coarse loaf. The wife and children stood in silent

attention, while the shepherd, with uplifted hands and eyes,

devoutly begged the blessing of heaven on their homely fare. Mr.

Johnson could not help sighing to reflect, that he had sometimes

seen better dinners eaten with less appearance of thankfulness.

The shepherd and his wife sat down with great seeming cheerfulness,

but the children stood; and while the mother was helping them,

little fresh-colored Molly, who had picked the wool from the bushes

with so much delight, cried out, "Father, I wish I was big enough to

say grace, I am sure I should say it very heartily to-day, for I was

thinking what must _poor_ people do who have no salt to their

potatoes; and do but look, our dish is quite full." "That is the

true way of thinking, Molly," said the father; "in whatever concerns

bodily wants and bodily comforts, it is our duty to compare our own

lot with the lot of those who are worse off, and will keep us

thankful: on the other hand, whenever we are tempted to set up our

own wisdom or goodness, we must compare ourselves with those who are

wiser and better, and that will keep us humble." Molly was now so

hungry, and found the potatoes so good, that she had no time to make

any more remarks; but was devouring her dinner very heartily, when

the barking of the great dog drew her attention from her trencher to

the door, and spying the stranger, she cried out, "Look, father, see

here, if yonder is not the good gentleman!" Mr. Johnson finding

himself discovered, immediately walked in, and was heartily welcomed

by the honest shepherd, who told his wife that this was the

gentleman to whom they were so much obliged.

The good woman began, as some very neat people are rather apt to do,

with making many apologies that her house was not cleaner, and that

things were not in a fitter order to receive such a gentleman. Mr.

Johnson, however, on looking round, could discover nothing but the

most perfect neatness. The trenchers on which they were eating were

almost as white as their linen; and notwithstanding the number and

smallness of the children, there was not the least appearance of

dirt or litter. The furniture was very simple and poor, hardly

indeed amounting to bare necessaries. It consisted of four brown

wooden chairs, which by constant rubbing, were become as bright as a

looking-glass; an iron pot and kettle; a poor old grate, which

scarcely held a handful of coal, and out of which the little fire

that had been in it appeared to have been taken, as soon as it had

answered the end for which it had been lighted--that of boiling

their potatoes. Over the chimney stood an old-fashioned broad bright

candlestick, and a still brighter spit; it was pretty clear that

this last was kept rather for ornament than use. An old carved elbow

chair, and a chest of the same date, which stood in the corner, were

considered the most valuable part of the shepherd's goods, having

been in his family for three generations. But all these were lightly

esteemed by him in comparison of another possession, which, added to

the above, made up the whole of what he had inherited from his

father: and which last he would not have parted with, if no other

could have been had, for the king's ransom: this was a large old

Bible, which lay on the window-seat, neatly covered with brown

cloth, variously patched. This sacred book was most reverently

preserved from dog's ears, dirt, and every other injury but such as

time and much use had made it suffer in spite of care. On the clean

white walls were pasted a hymn on the Crucifixion of our Saviour, a

print of the Prodigal Son, the Shepherd's hymn, a _New History of a

True Book_, an Patient Joe, or the Newcastle Collier.[2]

[2] Printed for the Cheap Repository.

After the first salutations were over, Mr. Johnson said that if they

would go on with their dinner he would sit down. Though a good deal

ashamed, they thought it more respectful to obey the gentleman, who

having cast his eye on their slender provisions, gently rebuked the

shepherd for not having indulged himself, as it was Sunday, with a

morsel of bacon to relish his potatoes. The shepherd said nothing,

but poor Mary colored and hung down her head, saying, "Indeed, sir,

it is not my fault; I did beg my husband to allow himself a bit of

meat to-day out of your honor's bounty; but he was too good to do

it, and it is all for my sake." The shepherd seemed unwilling to

come to an explanation, but Mr. Johnson desired Mary to go on. So

she continued: "You must know, sir, that both of us, next to a sin,

dread a debt, and indeed in some cases a debt is a sin; but with all

our care and pains, we have never been able quite to pay off the

doctor's bill for that bad fit of rheumatism which I had last

winter. Now when you were pleased to give my husband that kind

present the other day, I heartily desired him to buy a bit of meat

for Sunday, as I said before, that he might have a little

refreshment for himself out of your kindness. 'But,' answered he,

'Mary, it is never out of my mind long together that we still owe a

few shillings to the doctor (and thank God it is all we did owe in

the world). Now if I carry him his money directly it will not only

show him our honesty and our good-will, but it will be an

encouragement to him to come to you another time in case you should

be taken once more in such a bad fit; for I must own,' added my poor

husband, 'that the thought of your being so terribly ill without any

help, is the only misfortune that I want courage to face.'"

Here the grateful woman's tears ran down so fast that she could not

go on. She wiped them with the corner of her apron, and humbly

begged pardon for making so free. "Indeed, sir," said the shepherd,

"though my wife is full as unwilling to be in debt as myself, yet I

could hardly prevail on her to consent to my paying this money just

then, because she said it was hard I should not have a taste of the

gentleman's bounty myself. But for once, sir, I would have my own

way. For you must know, as I pass the best part of my time alone,

tending my sheep, 'tis a great point with me, sir, to get

comfortable matter for my own thoughts; so that 'tis rather

self-interest in me to allow myself in no pleasures and no practices

that won't bear thinking on over and over. For when one is a good

deal alone, you know, sir, all one's bad deeds do so rush in upon

one, as I may say, and so torment one, that there is no true comfort

to be had but in keeping clear of wrong doings and false pleasures;

and that I suppose may be one reason why so many folks hate to stay

a bit by themselves. But as I was saying--when I came to think the

matter over on the hill yonder, said I to myself, a good dinner is a

good thing, I grant, and yet it will be but cold comfort to me a

week after, to be able to say--to be sure I had a nice shoulder of

mutton last Sunday for dinner, thanks to the good gentleman! but

then I am in debt. I _had_ a rare dinner, that's certain, but the

pleasure of that has long been over, and the debt still remains. I

have spent the crown; and now if my poor wife should be taken in one

of those fits again, die she must, unless God work a miracle to

prevent it, for I can get no help for her. This thought settled all;

and I set off directly and paid the crown to the doctor with as much

cheerfulness as I should have felt on sitting down to the fattest

shoulder of mutton that ever was roasted. And if I was contented at

the time, think how much more happy I have been at the remembrance!

O, sir, there are no pleasures worth the name but such as bring no

plague or penitence after them."

Mr. Johnson was satisfied with the shepherd's reasons, and agreed

that though a good dinner was not to be despised, yet it was not

worthy to be compared with a _contented mind, which_ (as the Bible

truly says) _is a continual feast_. "But come," said the good

gentleman, "what have we got in this brown mug?" "As good water,"

said the shepherd, "as any in the king's dominions. I have heard of

countries beyond sea, in which there is no wholesome water; nay, I

have been myself in a great town not far off, where they are obliged

to buy all the water which they get, while a good Providence sends

to my very door a spring as clear and fine as Jacob's well. When I

am tempted to repine that I have often no other drink, I call to

mind that it was nothing better than a cup of cold water which the

woman at the well of Sychar drew for the greatest guest that ever

visited this world."

"Very well," replied Mr. Johnson; "but as your honesty has made you

prefer a poor meal to being in debt, I will at least send and get

something for you to drink. I saw a little public house just by the

church, as I came along. Let that little rosy-faced fellow fetch a

mug of beer." So saying, he looked full at the boy, who did not

offer to stir; but cast an eye at his father to know what he was to

do. "Sir," said the shepherd, "I hope we shall not appear ungrateful

if we seem to refuse your favor; my little boy would, I am sure, fly

to serve you on any other occasion. But, good sir, it is Sunday; and

should any of my family be seen at a public house on a Sabbath-day,

it would be a much greater grief to me than to drink water all my

life. I am often talking against these doing to others; and if I

should say one thing and do another, you can't think what an

advantage it would give many of my neighbors over me, who would be

glad enough to report that they had caught the shepherd's son at the

alehouse without explaining how it happened. Christians, you know,

sir, must be doubly watchful; or they will not only bring disgrace

on themselves, but what is much worse, on that holy name by which

they are called."

"Are you not a little too cautious, my honest friend?" said Mr.

Johnson. "I humbly ask your pardon, sir," replied the shepherd, "if

I think that is impossible. In my poor notion, I no more understand

how a man can be too cautious, than how he can be too strong, or too

healthy."

"You are right indeed," said Mr. Johnson, "as a general principle,

but this struck me as a very small thing." "Sir," said the shepherd,

"I am afraid you will think me very bold, but you encourage me to

speak out." "'Tis what I wish," said the gentleman. "Then, sir,"

resumed the shepherd, "I doubt if, where there is a frequent

temptation to do wrong, any fault can be called small; that is, in

short, if there is any such thing as a small willful sin. A poor man

like me is seldom called out to do great things, so that it is not

by a few striking deeds his character can be judged by his

neighbors, but by the little round of daily customs he allows

himself in."

"I should like," said Mr. Johnson, "to know how you manage in this

respect."

"I am but a poor scholar, sir," replied the shepherd, "but I have

made myself a little sort of rule. I always avoid, as I am an

ignorant man, picking out any one single difficult text to distress

my mind about, or to go and build opinions upon, because I know that

puzzles and injures poor unlearned Christians. But I endeavor to

collect what is the _general_ spirit or meaning of Scripture on any

particular subject, by putting a few texts together, which though I

find them dispersed up and down, yet all seem to look the same way,

to prove the same truth, or hold out the same comfort. So when I am

tried or tempted, or any thing happens in which I am at a loss what

to do, I apply to my rule--to the _law and the testimony_. To be

sure I can't always find a particular direction as to the very case,

because then the Bible must have been bigger than all those great

books I once saw in the library at Salisbury palace, which the

butler told me were acts of Parliament; and had that been the case,

a poor man would never have had money to buy, nor a working man time

to read the Bible; and so Christianity could only have been a

religion for the rich, for those who had money and leisure; which,

blessed be God! is so far from being the truth, that in all that

fine discourse of our Saviour to John's disciples, it is enough to

reconcile any poor man in the world to his low condition, to

observe, when Christ reckons up the things for which he came on

earth, to observe, I say, what he keeps for last. _Go tell John_,

says he, _those things which ye do hear and see: the blind receive

their sight, and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the

deaf hear, and the dead are raised up._ Now, sir, all these are

wonders to be sure, but they are nothing to what follows. They are

but like the lower rounds of a ladder, as I may say, by which you

mount to the top--_and the poor have the Gospel preached to them_. I

dare say, if John had any doubts before, this part of the message

must have cleared them up at once. For it must have made him certain

sure at once, that a religion which placed preaching salvation to

the poor above healing the sick, which ranked the soul above the

body, and set heaven above health, must have come from God."

"But," said Mr. Johnson, "you say you can generally pick out your

particular duty from the Bible, though that immediate duty be not

fully explained."

"Indeed, sir," replied the shepherd, "I think I can find out the

principle at least, if I bring but a willing mind. The want of that

is the great hinderance. _Whosoever doeth my will, he shall know of

the doctrine._ You know that text, sir. I believe a stubborn will

makes the Bible harder to be understood than any want of learning.

'Tis corrupt affections which blind the understanding, sir. The more

a man hates sin, the clearer he will see his way, and the more he

loves holiness, the better he will understand his Bible--the more

practical conviction will he get of that pleasant truth, that _the

secret of the Lord is with them that fear him_. Now, sir, suppose I

had time and learning, and possessed of all the books I saw at the

bishop's, where could I find out a surer way to lay the axe to the

root of all covetousness, selfishness, and injustice, than the plain

and ready rule, _to do unto all men as I would they should do unto

me_. If my neighbor does me an injury, can I be at any loss how to

proceed with him, when I recollect the parable of the unforgiving

steward, who refused to pardon a debt of a hundred pence, when his

own ten thousand talents had been remitted to him? I defy any man to

retain habitual selfishness, hardness of heart, or any other allowed

sin, who daily and conscientiously tries his own heart by this

touchstone. The straight rule will show the crooked practice to

every one who honestly tries the one by the other."

"Why you seem to make Scripture a thing of general application,"

said Mr. Johnson, "in cases in which many, I fear, do not apply."

"It applies to every thing, sir," replied the shepherd. "When those

men who are now disturbing the peace of the world, and trying to

destroy the confidence of God's children in their Maker and their

Saviour; when those men, I say, came to my poor hovel with their new

doctrines and their new books, I would never look into one of them;

for I remember it was the first sin of the first pair to lose their

innocence for the sake of a little wicked knowledge; besides, _my

own book_ told me--_To fear God and honor the king--To meddle not

with them who are given to change--Not to speak evil of

dignities--To render honor to whom honor is due_. So that I was

furnished with a little coat of mail, as I may say, which preserved

me, while those who had no such armor fell into the snare."

While they were thus talking, the children who had stood very

quietly behind, and had not stirred a foot, now began to scamper

about all at once, and in a moment ran to the window-seat to pick up

their little old hats. Mr. Johnson looked surprised at this

disturbance; the shepherd asked his pardon, telling him it was the

sound of the church-bell which had been the cause of their rudeness;

for their mother had brought them up with such a fear of being too

late for church, that it was but who could catch the first stroke of

the bell, and be first ready. He had always taught them to think

that nothing was more indecent than to get into church after it was

begun; for as the service opened with an exhortation to repentance,

and a confession of sin, it looked very presumptuous not to feel

ready to join it; it looked as if people did not feel themselves to

be sinners. And though such as lived at a great distance might plead

difference of clocks as an excuse, yet those who lived within the

sound of the bell, could pretend neither ignorance nor mistake.

Mary and her children set forward. Mr. Johnson and the shepherd

followed, taking care to talk the whole way on such subjects as

might fit them for the solemn duties of the place to which they were

going. "I have often been sorry to observe," said Mr. Johnson, "that

many who are reckoned decent, good kind of people, and who would on

no account neglect going to church, yet seem to care but little in

what frame or temper of mind they go thither. They will talk of

their worldly concerns till they get within the door, and then take

them up again the very minute the sermon is over, which makes me

ready to fear they lay too much stress on the mere form of going to

a place of worship. Now, for my part, I always find that it requires

a little time to bring my mind into a state fit to do any _common_

business well, much more this great and most necessary business of

all." "Yes, sir," replied the shepherd; "and then I think too how

busy I should be in preparing my mind, if I were going into the

presence of a great gentleman, or a lord, or the king; and shall the

King of kings be treated with less respect? Besides, one likes to

see people feel as if going to church was a thing of choice and

pleasure, as well as a duty, and that they were as desirous not to

be the last there, as they would be if they were going to a feast or

a fair."

After service, Mr. Jenkins, the clergyman, who was well acquainted

with the character of Mr. Johnson, and had a great respect for him,

accosted him with much civility; expressing his concern that he

could not enjoy just now so much of his conversation as he wished,

as he was obliged to visit a sick person at a distance, but hoped to

have a little talk with him before he left the village. As they

walked along together, Mr. Johnson made such inquiries about the

shepherd, as served to confirm him in the high opinion he

entertained of his piety, good sense, industry, and self-denial.

They parted; the clergyman promising to call in at the cottage in

his way home.

The shepherd, who took it for granted that Mr. Johnson was gone to

the parsonage, walked home with his wife and children, and was

beginning in his usual way to catechise and instruct his family,

when Mr. Johnson came in, and insisted that the shepherd should go

on with his instruction just as if he were not there. This

gentleman, who was very desirous of being useful to his own servants

and workmen in the way of instruction, was sometimes sorry to find

that though he took a good deal of pains, they now and then did not

quite understand him; for though his meaning was very good, his

language was not always very plain; and though the _things_ he said

were not hard to be understood, yet the _words_ were, especially to

such as were very ignorant. And he now began to find out that if

people were ever so wise and good, yet if they had not a simple,

agreeable, and familiar way of expressing themselves, some of their

plain hearers would not be much the better for them. For this reason

he was not above listening to the plain, humble way in which this

honest man taught his family; for though he knew that he himself had

many advantages over the shepherd, had more learning, and could

teach him many things, yet he was not too proud to learn even of so

poor a man, in any point where he thought the shepherd might have

the advantage of him.

This gentleman was much pleased with the knowledge and piety which

he discovered in the answers of the children: and desired the

shepherd to tell him how he contrived to keep up a sense of divine

things in his own mind, and in that of his family, with so little

leisure, and so little reading. "Oh! as to that, sir," said the

shepherd, "we do not read much except in one book, to be sure; but

with my hearty prayer for God's blessing on the use of that book,

what little knowledge is needful seems to come of course, as it

were. And my chief study has been to bring the fruits of the Sunday

reading into the week's business, and to keep up the same sense of

God in the heart, when the Bible is in the cupboard as when it is in

the hand. In short, to apply what I read in the book to what I meet

with in the field."

"I don't quite understand you," said Mr. Johnson. "Sir," replied the

shepherd, "I have but a poor gift at conveying these things to

others, though I have much comfort from them in my own mind; but I

am sure that the most ignorant and hard-working people, who are in

earnest about their salvation, may help to keep up devout thoughts

and good affections during the week, though they have had hardly any

time to look at a book; and it will help them to keep out bad

thoughts too; which is no small matter. But then they must know the

Bible; they must have read the word of God diligently, that is a

kind of stock in trade for a Christian to set up with; and it is

this which makes me so careful in teaching it to my children; and

even in storing their memories with Psalms and chapters. This is a

great help to a poor hard-working man, who will scarcely meet with

any thing in them but what he may turn to some good account. If one

lives in the fear and love of God, almost every thing one sees

abroad will teach one to adore his power and goodness, and bring to

mind some text of Scripture, which shall fill his heart with

thankfulness, and his mouth with praise. When I look upward _the

Heavens declare the glory of God_, and shall I be silent and

ungrateful? If I look round and see the valleys standing thick with

corn, how can I help blessing that Power who _giveth me all things

richly to enjoy_? I may learn gratitude from the beasts of the

field, for the _ox knoweth his master, and the ass his master's

crib_, and shall a Christian not know, shall a Christian not

consider what great things God has done for him? I, who am a

shepherd, endeavor to fill my soul with a constant remembrance of

that good shepherd, who _feedeth me in green pastures and maketh me

to lie down beside the still waters, and whose rod and staff comfort

me_. A religion, sir, which has its seat in the heart, and its

fruits in the life, takes up little time in the study, and yet in

another sense, true religion, which from sound principles brings

forth right practice, fills up the whole time and life too as one

may say."

"You are happy," said Mr. Johnson, "in this retired life, by which

you escape the corruptions of the world." "Sir," replied the

shepherd, "I do not escape the corruptions of my own evil nature.

Even there, on that wild solitary hill, I can find out that my heart

is prone to evil thoughts. I suppose, sir, that different states

have different temptations. You great folks that live in the world,

perhaps, are exposed to some of which such a poor man as I am,

knows nothing. But to one who leads a lonely life like me, evil

thoughts are a chief besetting sin; and I can no more withstand

these without the grace of God, than a rich gentleman can withstand

the snares of evil company, without the same grace. And I find that

I stand in need of God's help continually, and if he should give me

up to my own evil heart I should be lost."

Mr. Johnson approved of the shepherd's sincerity, for he had always

observed, that where there was no humility, and no watchfulness

against sin, there was no religion, and he said that the man who did

not feel himself to be a sinner, in his opinion could not be a

Christian.

Just as they were in this part of their discourse, Mr. Jenkins, the

clergyman, came in. After the usual salutations, he said, "Well,

shepherd, I wish you joy; I know you will be sorry to gain any

advantage by the death of a neighbor; but old Wilson, my clerk, was

so infirm, and I trust so well prepared, that there is no reason to

be sorry for his death. I have been to pray by him, but he died

while I staid. I have always intended you should succeed to his

place: it is no great matter of profit, but every little is

something."

"No great matter, sir," cried the shepherd; "indeed it is a great

thing to me, it will more than pay my rent. Blessed be God for all

his goodness." Mary said nothing, but lifted up her eyes full of

tears in silent gratitude.

"I am glad of this little circumstance," said Mr. Jenkins, "not only

for your sake but for the sake of the office itself. I so heartily

reverence every religious institution, that I would never have the

_amen_ added to the excellent prayers of our church, by vain or

profane lips, and if it depended on me, there should be no such

thing in the land as an idle, drunken, or irreligious parish clerk.

Sorry I am to say that this matter is not always sufficiently

attended to, and that I know some of a very indifferent character."

Mr. Johnson now inquired of the clergyman whether there were many

children in the parish. "More than you would expect," replied he,

"from the seeming smallness of it; but there are some little hamlets

which you do not see." "I think," returned Mr. Johnson, "I recollect

that in the conversation I had with the shepherd on the hill yonder,

he told me you had no Sunday School." "I am sorry to say we have

none," said the minister. "I do what I can to remedy this misfortune

by public catechising; but having two or three churches to serve, I

can not give so much time as I wish to private instruction; and

having a large family of my own, and no assistance from others, I

have never been able to establish a school."

"There is an excellent institution in London," said Mr. Johnson,

"called the Sunday School Society, which kindly gives books and

other helps, on the application of such pious clergymen as stand in

need of their aid, and which I am sure would have assisted you, but

I think we shall be able to do something ourselves. Shepherd,"

continued he, "if I were a king, and had it in my power to make you

a rich and a great man, with a word speaking, I would not do it.

Those who are raised by some sudden stroke, much above the station

in which divine Providence had placed them, seldom turn out very

good, or very happy. I have never had any great things in my power,

but as far as I have been able, I have been always glad to assist

the worthy. I have however, never attempted or desired to set any

poor man much above his natural condition, but it is a pleasure to

me to lend him such assistance as may make that condition more easy

to himself, and put him in a way which shall call him to the

performance of more duties than perhaps he could have performed

without my help, and of performing them in a better manner to

others, and with more comfort to himself. What rent do you pay for

this cottage?"

"Fifty shillings a year, sir."

"It is in a sad tattered condition; is there not a better to be had

in the village?"

"That in which the poor clerk lived," said the clergyman, "is not

only more tight and whole, but has two decent chambers, and a very

large light kitchen." "That will be very convenient," replied Mr.

Johnson; "pray what is the rent?" "I think," said the shepherd,

"poor neighbor Wilson gave somewhat about four pounds a year, or it

might be guineas." "Very well," said Mr. Johnson, "and what will the

clerk's place be worth, think you?" "About three pounds," was the

answer.

"Now," continued Mr. Johnson, "my plan is, that the shepherd should

take that house immediately; for as the poor man is dead, there will

be no need of waiting till quarter-day, if I make up the

difference." "True, sir," said Mr. Jenkins, "and I am sure my wife's

father, whom I expect to-morrow, will willingly assist a little

toward buying some of the clerk's old goods. And the sooner they

remove the better, for poor Mary caught that bad rheumatism by

sleeping under a leaky thatch." The shepherd was too much moved to

speak, and Mary could hardly sob out, "Oh, sir! you are too good;

indeed this house will do very well." "It may do very well for you

and your children, Mary," said Mr. Johnson, gravely, "but it will

not do for a school; the kitchen is neither large nor light enough.

Shepherd," continued he, "with your good minister's leave, and kind

assistance, I propose to set up in this parish a Sunday School, and

to make you the master. It will not at all interfere with your

weekly calling, and it is the only lawful way in which you could

turn the Sabbath into a day of some little profit to your family, by

doing, as I hope, a great deal of good to the souls of others. The

rest of the week you will work as usual. The difference of rent

between this house and the clerk's I shall pay myself, for to put

you in a better house at your own expense would be no great act of

kindness. As for honest Mary, who is not fit for hard labor, or any

other out-of-door work, I propose to endow a small weekly school, of

which she shall be the mistress, and employ her notable turn to good

account, by teaching ten or a dozen girls to knit, sew, spin, card,

or any other useful way of getting their bread; for all this I shall

only pay her the usual price, for I am not going to make you rich,

but useful."

"Not rich, sir?" cried the shepherd; "How can I ever be thankful

enough for such blessings? And will my poor Mary have a dry thatch

over her head? and shall I be able to send for the doctor when I am

like to lose her? Indeed my cup runs over with blessings; I hope God

will give me humility." Here he and Mary looked at each other and

burst into tears. The gentlemen saw their distress, and kindly

walked out upon the little green before the door, that these honest

people might give vent to their feelings. As soon as they were alone

they crept into one corner of the room, where they thought they

could not be seen, and fell on their knees, devoutly blessing and

praising God for his mercies. Never were more hearty prayers

presented, than this grateful couple offered up for their

benefactors. The warmth of their gratitude could only be equaled by

the earnestness with which they besought the blessing of God on the

work in which they were going to engage.

The two gentlemen now left this happy family, and walked to the

parsonage, where the evening was spent in a manner very edifying to

Mr. Johnson, who the next day took all proper measures for putting

the shepherd in immediate possession of his now comfortable

habitation. Mr. Jenkins's father-in-law, the worthy gentleman who

gave the shepherd's wife the blankets, in the first part of this

history, arrived at the parsonage before Mr. Johnson left it, and

assisted in fitting up the clerk's cottage.

Mr. Johnson took his leave, promising to call on the worthy minister

and his new clerk once a year, in his summer's journey over the

plain, as long as it should please God to spare his life. He had

every reason to be satisfied with the objects of his bounty. The

shepherd's zeal and piety made him a blessing to the rising

generation. The old resorted to his school for the benefit of

hearing the young instructed; and the clergyman had the pleasure of

seeing that he was rewarded for the protection he gave the school by

the great increase in his congregation. The shepherd not only

exhorted both parents and children to the indispensable duty of a

regular attendance at church, but by his pious counsels he drew them

thither, and by his plain and prudent instructions enabled them to

understand, and of course to delight in the public worship of God.

THE TWO SHOEMAKERS

JACK BROWN and JAMES STOCK, were two lads apprenticed at nearly the

same time, to Mr. Williams, a shoemaker, in a small town in

Oxfordshire: they were pretty near the same age, but of very

different characters and dispositions.

Brown was eldest son to a farmer in good circumstances, who gave the

usual apprentice fee with him. Being a wild, giddy boy, whom his

father could not well manage or instruct in farming, he thought it

better to send him out to learn a trade at a distance, than to let

him idle about at home; for Jack always preferred bird's-nesting and

marbles to any other employment; he would trifle away the day, when

his father thought he was at school, with any boys he could meet

with, who were as idle as himself; and he could never be prevailed

upon to do, or to learn any thing, while a game at taw could be had

for love or money. All this time his little brothers, much younger

than himself, were beginning to follow the plow, or to carry the

corn to the mill as soon as they were able to mount a cart-horse.

Jack, however, who was a lively boy, and did not naturally want

either sense or good-nature, might have turned out well enough, if

he had not had the misfortune to be his mother's favorite. She

concealed and forgave all his faults. To be sure he was a little

wild, she would say, but he would not make the worse man for that,

for Jack had a good spirit of his own, and she would not have it

broke, and so make a mope of the boy. The farmer, for a quiet life,

as it is called, gave up all these points to his wife, and, with

them, gave up the future virtue and happiness of his child. He was a

laborious and industrious man, but had no religion; he thought only

of the gains and advantages of the present day, and never took the

future into the account. His wife managed him entirely, and as she

was really notable, he did not trouble his head about any thing

further. If she had been careless in her dairy, he would have

stormed and sworn; but as she only ruined one child by indulgence,

and almost broke the heart of the rest by unkindness, he gave

himself little concern about the matter. The cheese, certainly was

good, and that indeed is a great point; but she was neglectful of

her children, and a tyrant to her servants. Her husband's substance,

indeed, was not wasted, but his happiness was not consulted. His

house, it is true, was not dirty, but it was the abode of fury,

ill-temper, and covetousness. And the farmer, though he did not care

for liquor, was too often driven to the public-house in the evening,

because his own was neither quiet nor comfortable. The mother was

always scolding, and the children were always crying.

Jack, however, notwithstanding his idleness, picked up a little

reading and writing, but never would learn to cast an account: that

was too much labor. His mother was desirous he should continue at

school, not so much for the sake of his learning, which she had not

sense enough to value, but to save her darling from the fatigue of

labor: for if he had not gone to school, she knew he must have gone

to work, and she thought the former was the least tiresome of the

two. Indeed, this foolish woman had such an opinion of his genius,

that she used, from a child, to think he was too wise for any thing

but a parson, and hoped she would live to see him one. She did not

wish to see her son a minister because she loved either learning or

piety, but because she thought it would make Jack a gentleman, and

set him above his brothers.

Farmer Brown still hoped that though Jack was likely to make but an

idle and ignorant farmer, yet he might make no bad tradesman, when

he should be removed from the indulgences of a father's house, and

from a silly mother, whose fondness kept him back in every thing.

This woman was enraged when she found that so fine a scholar, as she

took Jack to be, was to be put apprentice to a shoemaker. The

farmer, however, for the first time in his life, would have his own

way, and too apt to mind only what is falsely called _the main

chance_, instead of being careful to look out for a sober, prudent,

and religious master for his son, he left all that to accident, as

if it had been a thing of little or no consequence. This is a very

common fault; and fathers who are guilty of it, are in a great

measure answerable for the future sins and errors of their children,

when they come out into the world, and set up for themselves. If a

man gives his son a good education, a good example, and a good

master, it is indeed _possible_ that the son may not turn out well,

but it does not often happen; and when it does, the father has no

blame resting on him, and it is a great point toward a man's comfort

to have his conscience quiet in that respect, however God may think

fit to overrule events.

The farmer, however, took care to desire his friends to inquire for

a shoemaker who had good business, and was a good workman; and the

mother did not forget to put in her word, and desired that it might

be one who was not _too strict_, for Jack had been brought up

tenderly, was a meek boy, and could not bear to be contradicted in

any thing. And this is the common notion of meekness among people

who do not take up their notions on rational and Christian grounds.

Mr. Williams was recommended to the farmer as being the best

shoemaker in the town in which he lived, and far from a strict

master, and, without further inquiries, to Mr. Williams he went.

James Stock, who was the son of an honest laborer in the next

village, was bound out by the parish in consideration of his father

having so numerous a family, that he was not able to put him out

himself. James was in every thing the very reverse of his new

companion. He was a modest, industrious, pious youth, and though so

poor, and the child of a laborer, was a much better scholar than

Jack, who was a wealthy farmer's son. His father had, it is true,

been able to give him but very little schooling, for he was obliged

to be put to work when quite a child. When very young, he used to

run of errands for Mr. Thomas, the curate of the parish; a very

kind-hearted young gentleman, who boarded next door to his father's

cottage. He used also to rub down and saddle his horse, and do any

other little job for him, in the most civil, obliging manner. All

this so recommended him to the clergyman, that he would often send

for him of an evening, after he had done his day's work in the

field, and condescend to teach him himself to write and cast

accounts, as well as to instruct him in the principles of his

religion. It was not merely out of kindness for the little

good-natured services James did him, that he showed him this favor,

but also for his readiness in the catechism, and his devout behavior

at church.

The first thing that drew the minister's attention to this boy, was

the following: he had frequently given him half-pence and pence for

holding his horse and carrying him to water before he was big enough

to be further useful to him. On Christmas day he was surprised to

see James at church, reading out of a handsome new prayer-book; he

wondered how he came by it, for he knew there was nobody in the

parish likely to have given it to him, for at that time there were

no Sunday Schools; and the father could not afford it, he was sure.

"Well, James," said he, as he saw him when they came out, "you made

a good figure at church to-day: it made you look like a man and a

Christian, not only to have so handsome a book, but to be so ready

in all parts of the service. How can you buy that book?" James owned

modestly that he had been a whole year saving up the money by single

half-pence, all of which had been of the minister's own giving, and

that in all that time he had not spent a single farthing on his own

diversions. "My dear boy," said the good Mr. Thomas, "I am much

mistaken if thou dost not turn out well in the world, for two

reasons:--first, from thy saving turn and self-denying temper; and

next, because thou didst devote the first eighteen-pence thou wast

ever worth in the world to so good a purpose."

James bowed and blushed, and from that time Mr. Thomas began to take

more notice of him, and to instruct him as I said above. As James

soon grew able to do him more considerable service, he would now and

then give him a sixpence. This he constantly saved till it became a

little sum, with which he bought shoes and stockings; well knowing

that his poor father, with a large family and low wages, could not

buy them for him. As to what little money he earned himself by his

daily labor in the field, he constantly carried it to his mother

every Saturday night, to buy bread for the family, which was a

pretty help to them.

As James was not overstout in his make, his father thankfully

accepted the offer of the parish officers to bind out his son to a

trade. This good man, however, had not, like farmer Brown, the

liberty of choosing a master for his son; or he would carefully have

inquired if he was a proper man to have the care of youth; but

Williams the shoemaker was already fixed on, by those who were to

put the boy out, who told him if he wanted a master it must be him

or none; for the overseers had a better opinion of Williams than he

deserved, and thought it would be the making of the boy to go to

him. The father knew that beggars must not be choosers, so he fitted

out James for his new place, having indeed little to give him

besides his blessing.

The worthy Mr. Thomas, however, kindly gave him an old coat and

waistcoat, which his mother, who was a neat and notable woman,

contrived to make up for him herself without a farthing expense, and

when it was turned and made fit for his size, it made a very

handsome suit for Sundays, and lasted him a couple of years.

And here let me stop to remark what a pity it is, that poor women so

seldom are able or willing to do these sort of little handy jobs

themselves; and that they do not oftener bring up their daughters to

be more useful in family work. They are great losers by it every

way, not only as they are disqualifying their girls from making good

wives hereafter but they are losers in point of present advantage;

for gentry could much oftener afford to give a poor boy a jacket or

a waistcoat, if it was not for the expense of making it, which adds

very much to the cost. To my certain knowledge, many poor women

would often get an old coat, or a bit of coarse new cloth given to

them to fit out a boy, if the mother or sisters were known to be

able to cut out to advantage, and to make it up decently themselves.

But half a crown for the making a bit of kersey, which costs but a

few shillings, is more than many very charitable gentry can afford

to give--so they often give nothing at all, when they see the

mothers so little able to turn it to advantage. It is hoped they

will take this hint kindly, as it is meant for their good.

But to return to our two young shoemakers. They were both now

settled, at Mr. Williams's who, as he was known to be a good workman

had plenty of business--he had sometimes two or three journeymen,

but no apprentices but Jack and James.

Jack, who, with all his faults, was a keen, smart boy, took to learn

the trade quick enough, but the difficulty was to make him stick two

hours together to his work. At every noise he heard in the street

down went the work--the last one way, the upper leather another; the

sole dropped on the ground, and the thread dragged after him, all

the way up the street. If a blind fiddler, a ballad singer, a

mountebank, a dancing bear, or a drum were heard at a distance out

ran Jack, nothing could stop him, and not a stitch more could he be

prevailed on to do that day. Every duty, every promise was forgotten

for the present pleasure--he could not resist the smallest

temptation--he never stopped for a moment to consider whether a

thing was right or wrong, but whether he liked or disliked it. And

as his ill-judging mother took care to send him privately a good

supply of pocket-money, that deadly bane to all youthful virtue, he

had generally a few pence ready to spend, and to indulge in the

present diversion, whatever it was. And what was still worse even

than spending his money, he spent his time too, or rather his

master's time. Of this he was continually reminded by James, to whom

he always answered, "What have you to complain about? It is nothing

to you or any one else; I spend nobody's money but my own." "That

may be," replied the other, "but you can not say it is your own time

that you spend." He insisted upon it, that it was; but James fetched

down their indentures, and there showed him that he had solemnly

bound himself by that instrument, not to waste his master's

property. "Now," quoth James, "thy own time is a very valuable part

of thy master's property." To this he replied, "every one's time

was his own, and he should not sit moping all day over his last--for

his part, he thanked God he was no parish 'prentice."

James did not resent this piece of foolish impertinence, as some

silly lads would have done; nor fly out into a violent passion: for

even at this early age he had begun to learn of Him _who was meek

and lowly of heart_; and therefore _when he was reviled, he reviled

not again_. On the contrary he was so very kind and gentle, that

even Jack, vain and idle as he was, could not help loving him,

though he took care never to follow his advice.

Jack's fondness for his boyish and silly diversions in the street,

soon produced the effects which might naturally be expected; and the

same idleness which led him to fly out into the town at the sound of

a fiddle or the sight of a puppet-show soon led him to those places

to which all these fiddles and shows naturally led; I mean the

_ale-house_. The acquaintance picked up in the street was carried on

at the Grayhound; and the idle pastimes of the boy soon led to the

destructive vices of the man.

As he was not an ill-tempered youth, nor naturally much given to

drink, a sober and prudent master, who had been steady in his

management and regular in his own conduct, who would have

recommended good advice by a good example, might have made something

of Jack. But I am sorry to say, that Mr. Williams, though a good

workman, and not a very hard or severe master, was neither a sober

nor a steady man--so far from it that he spent much more time at the

Grayhound than at home. There was no order either in his shop or

family, he left the chief care of his business to his two young

apprentices; and being but a worldly man, he was at first disposed

to show favor to Jack, much more than to James, because he had more

money, and his father was better in the world than the father of

poor James.

At first, therefore, he was disposed to consider James as a sort of

drudge; who was to do all the menial work of the family, and he did

not care how little he taught him of his trade. With Mrs. Williams

the matter was still worse; she constantly called him away from the

business of his trade to wash the house, nurse the child, turn the

spit, or run of errands. And here I must remark, that though parish

apprentices are bound in duty to be submissive to both master and

mistress, and always to make themselves as useful as they can in the

family, and to be civil and humble; yet on the other hand, it is the

duty of masters always to remember, that if they are paid for

instructing them in their trade, they ought conscientiously to

instruct them in it, and not to employ them the greater part of

their time in such household or other drudgery, as to deprive them

of the opportunity of acquiring their trade. This practice is not

the less unjust because it is common.

Mr. Williams soon found out that his favorite Jack would be of

little use to him in the shop; for though he worked well enough, he

did not care how little he did. Nor could he be of the least use to

his master in keeping an account, or writing out a bill upon

occasion, for, as he never could be made to learn to cipher, he did

not know addition from multiplication.

One day one of the customers called at the shop in a great hurry,

and desired his bill might be made out that minute. Mr. Williams,

having taken a cup too much, made several attempts to put down a

clear account, but the more he tried, the less he found himself able

to do it. James, who was sitting at his last, rose up, and with

great modesty asked his master if he would please give him leave to

make out the bill, saying, that though but a poor scholar, he would

do his best, rather than keep the gentleman waiting. Williams gladly

accepted his offer, and confused as his head was with liquor, he

yet was able to observe with what neatness, dispatch, and exactness,

the account was drawn out. From that time he no longer considered

James as a drudge, but as one fitted for the high departments of the

trade, and he was now regularly employed to manage the accounts,

with which all the customers were so well pleased, that it

contributed greatly to raise him in his master's esteem; for there

were now never any of those blunders of false charges for which the

shop had before been so famous.

James went on in a regular course of industry, and soon became the

best workman Mr. Williams had; but there were many things in the

family which he greatly disapproved. Some of the journeymen used to

swear, drink, and sing very licentious songs. All these things were

a great grief to his sober mind; he complained to his master, who

only laughed at him; and, indeed, as Williams did the same himself,

he put it out of his power to correct his servants, if he had been

so disposed. James, however, used always to reprove them, with great

mildness indeed, but with great seriousness also. This, but still

more his own excellent example, produced at length very good effects

on such of the men as were not quite hardened in sin.

What grieved him most, was the manner in which the Sunday was spent.

The master lay in bed all the morning; nor did the mother or her

children ever go to church, except there was some new finery to be

shown, or a christening to be attended. The town's-people were

coming to the shop all the morning, for work which should have been

sent home the night before, had not the master been at the

ale-house. And what wounded James to the very soul was, that the

master expected the two apprentices to carry home shoes to the

country customers on the Sunday morning; which he wickedly thought

was a saving of time, as it prevented their hindering their work on

the Saturday. These shameful practices greatly afflicted poor

James; he begged his master with tears in his eyes, to excuse him,

but he only laughed at his squeamish conscience, as he called it.

Jack did not dislike this part of the business, and generally after

he had delivered his parcel, wasted good part of the day in nutting,

playing at fives, or dropping in at the public house: any thing was

better to Jack than going to church.

James, on the other hand, when he was compelled, sorely against his

conscience, to carry home any goods on a Sunday morning, always got

up as soon as it was light, knelt down and prayed heartily to God to

forgive him a sin which it was not in his power to avoid; he took

care not to lose a moment by the way, but as he was taking his walk

with the utmost speed, to leave his shoes with the customers, he

spent his time in endeavoring to keep up good thoughts in his mind,

and praying that the day might come when his conscience might be

delivered from this grievous burden. He was now particularly

thankful that Mr. Thomas had formerly taught him so many psalms and

chapters, which he used to repeat in these walks with great

devotion.

He always got home before the rest of the family were up, dressed

himself very clean, and went twice to church; as he greatly disliked

the company and practices of his master's house, particularly on the

Sabbath-day; he preferred spending his evening alone, reading the

Bible, which I had forgot to say the worthy clergyman had given him

when he left his native village. Sunday evening, which is to some

people such a burden, was to James the highest holiday. He had

formerly learned a little how to sing a psalm of the clerk of his

own parish, and this was now become a very delightful part of his

evening exercise. And as Will Simpson, one of the journeymen, by

James's advice and example, was now beginning to be of a more

serious way of thinking, he often asked him to sit an hour with

him, when they read the Bible, and talked it over together in a

manner very pleasant and improving; and as Will was a famous singer,

a psalm or two sung together was a very innocent pleasure.

James's good manners and civility to the customers drew much

business to the shop; and his skill as a workman was so great, that

every one desired that his shoes might be made by James. Williams

grew so very idle and negligent, that he now totally neglected his

affairs, and to hard drinking added deep gaming. All James's care,

both of the shop and the accounts, could not keep things in any

tolerable order: he represented to his master that they were growing

worse and worse, and exhorted him, if he valued his credit as a

tradesman, his comfort as a husband and father, his character as a

master, and his soul as a Christian, to turn over a new leaf.

Williams swore a great oath, that he would not be restrained in his

pleasures to please a canting parish 'prentice, nor to humor a

parcel of squalling brats--that let people say what they would of

him, they should never say he was a _hypocrite_, and as long as they

could not call him that, he did not care what else they called him.

In a violent passion he immediately went to the Grayhound, where he

now spent not only every evening, which he had long done, but good

part of the day and night also. His wife was very dressy,

extravagant, and fond of company, and wasted at home as fast as her

husband spent abroad, so that all the neighbors said, if it had not

been for James, his master must have been a bankrupt long ago, but

they were sure he could not hold it much longer.

As Jack Brown sung a good song, and played many diverting tricks,

Williams liked his company; and often allowed him to make one at the

Grayhound, where he would laugh heartily at his stories; so that

every one thought Jack was much the greater favorite--so he was as a

companion in frolic, and foolery, and _pleasure_, as it is called;

but he would not trust him with an inch of leather or sixpence in

money: No, no--when business was to be done, or trust was to be

reposed, James was the man: the idle and the drunken never trust one

another, if they have common sense. They like to laugh, and sing,

and riot, and drink together, but when they want a friend, a

counselor, a helper in business or in trouble, they go further

afield; and Williams, while he would drink with Jack, would trust

James with untold gold; and even was foolishly tempted to neglect

his business the more from knowing that he had one at home who was

taking care of it.

In spite of all James's care and diligence, however, things were

growing worse and worse; the more James saved, the more his master

and mistress spent. One morning, just as the shop was opened, and

James had set every body to their respective work, and he himself

was settling the business for the day, he found that his master was

not yet come from the Grayhound. As this was now become a common

case, he only grieved but did not wonder at it. While he was

indulging sad thoughts on what would be the end of all this, in ran

the tapster from the Grayhound out of breath, and with a look of

terror and dismay, desired James would step over to the public house

with him that moment, for that his master wanted him.

James went immediately, surprised at this unusual message. When

he got into the kitchen of the public house, which he now entered

for the first time in his life, though it was just opposite to the

house in which he lived, he was shocked at the beastly disgusting

appearance of every thing he beheld. There was a table covered

with tankards, punch-bowls, broken glasses, pipes, and dirty

greasy packs of cards, and all over wet with liquor; the floor was

strewed with broken earthen cups, old cards, and an EO table which

had been shivered to pieces in a quarrel; behind the table stood a

crowd of dirty fellows, with matted locks, hollow eyes, and faces

smeared with tobacco; James made his way after the tapster,

through this wretched looking crew, to a settle which stood in the

chimney-corner. Not a word was uttered, but the silent horror

seemed to denote something more than a mere common drunken bout.

What was the dismay of James, when he saw his miserable master

stretched out on the settle, in all the agonies of death! He had

fallen into a fit; after having drunk hard best part of the night,

and seemed to have but a few minutes to live. In his frightful

countenance, was displayed the dreadful picture of sin and death,

for he struggled at once under the guilt of intoxication, and the

pangs of a dying man. He recovered his senses for a few moments, and

called out to ask if his faithful servant was come. James went up to

him, took him by his cold hand, but was too much moved to speak.

"Oh! James, James," cried he in a broken voice, "pray for me,

comfort me." James spoke kindly to him, but was too honest to give

him false comfort, as it is too often done by mistaken friends in

these dreadful moments.

"James," said he, "I have been a bad master to you--you would have

saved me, soul and body, but I would not let you--I have ruined my

wife, my children, and my own soul. Take warning, oh, take warning

by my miserable end," said he to his stupefied companions: but none

were able to attend to him but James, who bid him lift up his heart

to God, and prayed heartily for him himself. "Oh!" said the dying

man, "it is too late, too late for me--but you have still time,"

said he to the half-drunken, terrified crew around him. "Where is

Jack?" Jack Brown came forward, but was too much frightened to

speak. "Oh, wretched boy!" said he, "I fear I shall have the ruin of

thy soul, as well as my own to answer for. Stop short! Take

warning--now in the days of thy youth. O James, James, thou dost not

pray for me. Death is dreadful to the wicked--Oh, the sting of death

to a guilty conscience!" Here he lifted up his ghastly eyes in

speechless horror, grasped hard at the hand of James, gave a deep

hollow groan, and closed his eyes, never to open them but in an

awful eternity.

This was death in all its horrors! The gay companions of his sinful

pleasures could not stand the sight; all slunk away like guilty

thieves from their late favorite friend--no one was left to assist

him, but his two apprentices. Brown was not so hardened but that he

shed many tears for his unhappy master; and even made some hasty

resolutions of amendment, which were too soon forgotten.

While Brown stepped home to call the workmen to come and assist in

removing their poor master, James staid alone with the corpse, and

employed these awful moments in indulging the most serious thoughts,

and praying heartily to God, that so terrible a lesson might not be

thrown away upon him; but that he might be enabled to live in a

constant state of preparation for death. The resolutions he made at

this moment, as they were not made in his own strength, but in an

humble reliance on God's gracious help, were of use to him as long

as he lived; and if ever he was for a moment tempted to say, or do a

wrong thing, the remembrance of his poor dying master's long

agonies, and the dreadful words he uttered, always operated as an

instant check upon him.

When Williams was buried, and his affairs came to be inquired into,

they were found to be in a sad condition. His wife, indeed, was the

less to be pitied, as she had contributed her full share to the

common ruin. James, however, did pity her, and by his skill in

accounts, his known honesty, and the trust the creditors put in his

word, things came to be settled rather better than Mrs. Williams had

expected.

Both Brown and James were now within a month or two of being out of

their time. The creditors, as we said before, employed James to

settle his late master's accounts, which he did in a manner so

creditable to his abilities, and his honesty, that they proposed to

him to take the shop himself. He assured them it was utterly out of

his power for want of money. As the creditors had not the least fear

of being repaid, if it should please God to spare his life, they

generously agreed among themselves to advance him a small sum of

money without any security but his bond; for this he was to pay a

very reasonable interest, and to return the whole in a given number

of years. James shed tears of gratitude at this testimony to his

character, and could hardly be prevailed on to accept their

kindness, so great was his dread of being in debt.

He took the remainder of the lease from his mistress; and in

settling affairs with her, took care to make every thing as

advantageous to her as possible. He never once allowed himself to

think how unkind she had been to him; he only saw in her the needy

widow of his deceased master, and the distressed mother of an infant

family; and was heartily sorry it was not in his power to contribute

to their support; it was not only James's duty, but his delight, to

return good for evil--for he was a Christian.

James Stock was now, by the blessing of God, on his own earnest

endeavors, master of a considerable shop, and was respected by the

whole town for his prudence, honesty, and piety. How he behaved in

his new station, and also what befell his comrade Brown, must be

the subject of another book; and I hope my readers will look forward

with some impatience for some further account of this worthy young

man. In the mean time, other apprentices will do well to follow so

praiseworthy an example, and to remember that the respectable master

of a large shop, and of a profitable business, was raised to that

creditable situation, without money, friends, or connections, from

the low beginning of a parish apprentice, by sobriety, industry, the

fear of God, and an obedience to the divine principles of the

Christian religion.

PART II.

THE APPRENTICE TURNED MASTER.

The first part of this history left off with the dreadful sudden

death of Williams, the idle shoemaker, who died in a drunken fit at

the Grayhound. It also showed how James Stock, his faithful

apprentice, by his honest and upright behavior, so gained the love

and respect of his late master's creditors, that they set him up in

business, though he was not worth a shilling of his own--such is the

power of a good character! And when we last parted from him he had

just got possession of his master's shop.

This sudden prosperity was a time of trial for James, who, as he was

now become a creditable tradesman, I shall hereafter think proper to

call Mr. James Stock. I say, this sudden rise in life was a time of

trial; for we hardly know what we are ourselves till we become our

own masters. There is indeed always a reasonable hope that a good

servant will not make a bad master, and that a faithful apprentice

will prove an honest tradesman. But the heart of man is deceitful,

and some folks who seem to behave very well while they are under

subjection, no sooner get a little power than their heads are

turned, and they grow prouder than those who are gentlemen born.

They forget at once that they were lately poor and dependent

themselves, so that one would think that with their poverty they had

lost their memory too. I have known some who had suffered most

hardships in their early days, become the most hard and oppressive

in their turn: so that they seem to forget that fine considerate

reason, which God gives to the children of Israel why they should be

merciful to their servants, _remembering_, said he, _that thou

thyself wast a bond-man_.

Young Mr. Stock did not so forget himself. He had indeed the only

sure guard from falling into this error. It was not from any

easiness in his natural disposition, for that only just serves to

make folks good-natured when they are pleased, and patient when they

have nothing to vex them. James went upon higher ground. He brought

his religion into all his actions; he did not give way to abusive

language, because he knew it was a sin. He did not use his

apprentices ill, because he knew he had himself a Master in heaven.

He knew he owed his present happy situation to the kindness of the

creditors. But did he grow easy and careless because he knew he had

such friends? No indeed. He worked with double diligence in order to

get out of debt, and to let these friends see he did not abuse their

kindness. Such behavior as this is the greatest encouragement in the

world to rich people to lend a little money. It creates friends, and

it keeps them.

His shoes and boots were made in the best manner; this _got_ him

business; he set out with a rule to tell no lies, and deceive no

customers; this _secured_ his business. He had two reasons for not

promising to send home goods when he knew he should not be able to

keep his word. The first, because he knew a lie was a sin, the next,

because it was a folly. There is no credit sooner worn out than that

which is gained by false pretenses. After a little while no one is

deceived by them. Falsehood is so soon detected, that I believe most

tradesmen are the poorer for it in the long run. Deceit is the worst

part of a shopkeeper's stock in trade.

James was now at the head of a family. This is a serious situation

(said he to himself, one fine summer's evening, as he stood leaning

over the half-door of his shop to enjoy a little fresh air); I am

now master of a family. My cares are doubled, and so are my duties.

I see the higher one gets in life the more one has to answer for.

Let me now call to mind the sorrow I used to feel when I was made to

carry work home on a Sunday by an ungodly master: and let me now

_keep_ the resolution I then formed.

So what his heart found right to do, he resolved to do quickly; and

he set out at first as he meant to go on. The Sunday was truly a day

of rest at Mr. Stock's. He would not allow a pair of shoes to be

given out on that day, to oblige the best customer he had. And what

did he lose by it? Why, nothing. For when the people were once used

to it, they liked Saturday night just as well. But had it been

otherwise, he would have given up his gains to his conscience.

SHOWING HOW MR. STOCK BEHAVED TO HIS APPRENTICES.

When he got up in the world so far as to have apprentices, he

thought himself as accountable for their behavior as if they had

been his children. He was very kind to them, and had a cheerful

merry way of talking to them, so that the lads who had seen too much

of swearing, reprobate masters, were fond of him. They were never

afraid of speaking to him; they told him all their little troubles,

and considered their master as their best friend, for they said they

would do any thing for a good word and a kind look. As he did not

swear at them when they had been guilty of a fault, they did not lie

to him to conceal it, and thereby make one fault two. But though he

was very kind, he was very watchful also, for he did not think

neglect any part of kindness. He brought them to adopt one very

pretty method, which was, on a Sunday evening to divert themselves

with writing out half a dozen texts of Scripture in a neat copy-book

with gilt covers. You have the same at any of the stationers; they

do not cost above fourpence and will last nearly a year.

When the boys carried him their books, he justly commended him whose

texts were written in the fairest hand. "And now, my boys," said he,

"let us see which of you will learn your texts best in the course of

the week; he who does this shall choose for next Sunday." Thus the

boys soon got many psalms and chapters by heart, almost without

knowing how they came by them. He taught them how to make a

practical use of what they learned: "for," said he, "it will answer

little purpose to learn texts if we do not try to live up to them."

One of the boys being apt to play in his absence, and to run back

again to his work when he heard his master's step, he brought him to

a sense of his fault by the last Sunday's text, which happened to be

the sixth of Ephesians. He showed him what was meant by _being

obedient to his master in singleness of heart as unto Christ_, and

explained to him with so much kindness what it was, _not to work

with eye-service as men-pleasers, but doing the will of God from the

heart_, that the lad said he should never forget it, and it did

more toward curing him of idleness than the soundest horse-whipping

would have done.

HOW MR. STOCK GOT OUT OF DEBT.

Stock's behavior was very regular, and he was much beloved for his

kind and peaceable temper. He had also a good reputation for skill

in his trade, and his industry was talked of through the whole town,

so that he had soon more work than he could possibly do. He paid all

his dealers to the very day, and took care to carry his interest

money to the creditors the moment it became due. In two or three

years he was able to begin to pay off a small part of the principal.

His reason for being so eager to pay money as soon as it became due,

was this: he had observed tradesmen, and especially his old master,

put off the day of payment as long as they could, even though they

had the means of paying in their power. This deceived them: for

having money in their pockets they forgot it belonged to the

creditor, and not to themselves, and so got to fancy they were rich

when they were really poor. This false notion led them to indulge in

idle expenses, whereas, if they had paid regularly, they would have

had this one temptation the less: a young tradesman, when he is

going to spend money, should at least ask himself, "Whether this

money is his own or his creditors'?" This little question might help

to prevent many a bankruptcy.

A true Christian always goes heartily to work to find out what is

his besetting sin; and when he has found it (which he easily may if

he looks sharp), against this sin he watches narrowly. Now I know it

is the fashion among some folks (and a bad fashion it is), to fancy

that good people have no sin; but this only shows their ignorance.

It is not true. That good man, St. Paul, knew better.[3] And when

men do not own their sins, it is not because there is no sin in

their hearts, but because they are not anxious to search for it, nor

humble to confess it, nor penitent to mourn over it. But this was

not the case with James Stock. "Examine yourselves truly," said he,

"is no bad part of the catechism." He began to be afraid that his

desire of living creditably, and without being a burden to any one,

might, under the mask of honesty and independence, lead him into

pride and covetousness. He feared that the bias of his heart lay

that way. So instead of being proud of his sobriety; instead of

bragging that he never spent his money idly, nor went to the

ale-house; instead of boasting how hard he worked and how he denied

himself, he strove in secret that even these good qualities might

not grow out of a wrong root. The following event was of use to him

in the way of indulging any disposition to covetousness.

[3] See Romans, vii.

One evening as he was standing at the door of his shop, a poor dirty

boy, without stockings and shoes, came up and asked him for a bit of

broken victuals, for he had eaten nothing all day. In spite of his

dirt and rags he was a very pretty, lively, civil spoken boy, and

Mr. Stock could not help thinking he knew something of his face. He

fetched him out a good piece of bread and cheese, and while the boy

was devouring it, asked him if he had no parents, and why he went

about in that vagabond manner? "Daddy has been dead some years,"

said the boy; "he died in a fit over at the Grayhound. Mammy says he

used to live at this shop, and then we did not want for clothes nor

victuals neither." Stock was melted almost to tears on finding that

this dirty beggar boy was Tommy Williams, the son of his old master.

He blessed God on comparing his own happy condition with that of

this poor destitute child, but he was not prouder at the comparison;

and while he was thankful for his own prosperity, he pitied the

helpless boy. "Where have you been living of late?" said he to him,

"for I understand you all went home to your mother's friends." "So

we did, sir," said the boy, "but they are grown tired of maintaining

us, because they said that mammy spent all the money which should

have gone to buy victuals for us, on snuff and drams. And so they

have sent us back to this place, which is daddy's parish."

"And where do you live here?" said Mr. Stock. "O, sir, we were all

put into the parish poor-house." "And does your mother do any thing

to help to maintain you?" "No, sir, for mammy says she was not

brought up to work like poor folks, and she would rather starve than

spin or knit; so she lies a-bed all the morning, and sends us about

to pick up what we can, a bit of victuals or a few half-pence." "And

have you any money in your pocket now?" "Yes, sir, I have got three

half-pence which I have begged to-day." "Then, as you were so very

hungry, how came you not to buy a roll at that baker's over the

way?" "Because, sir, I was going to lay it out in tea for mammy, for

I never lay out a farthing for myself. Indeed mammy says she _will_

have her tea twice a-day if we beg or starve for it." "Can you read,

my boy?" said Mr. Stock: "A little, sir, and say my prayers too."

"And can you say your catechism?" "I have almost forgotten it all,

sir, though I remember something about _honoring my father and

mother_, and that makes me still carry the half-pence home to mammy

instead of buying cakes." "Who taught you these good things?" "One

Jemmy Stock, sir, who was a parish 'prentice to my daddy. He taught

me one question out of the catechism every night, and always made me

say my prayers to him before I went to bed. He told me I should go

to the wicked place if I did not fear God, so I am still afraid to

tell lies like the other boys. Poor Jemmy gave me a piece of ginger

bread every time I learnt well; but I have no friend now; Jemmy was

very good to me, though mammy did nothing but beat him."

Mr. Stock was too much moved to carry on the discourse; he did not

make himself known to the boy, but took him over to the baker's

shop; as they walked along he could not help repeating aloud a verse

or two of that beautiful hymn so deservedly the favorite of all

children:

"Not more than others I deserve,

Yet God hath given me more;

For I have food while others starve,

Or beg from door to door."

The little boy looked up in his face, saying, "Why, sir, that's the

very hymn which Jemmy Stock gave me a penny for learning." Stock

made no answer, but put a couple of threepenny loaves into his hand

to carry home, and told him to call on him again at such a time in

the following week.

HOW MR. STOCK CONTRIVED TO BE CHARITABLE WITHOUT ANY EXPENSE.

Stock had abundant subject for meditation that night. He was puzzled

what to do with the boy. While he was carrying on his trade upon

borrowed money, he did not think it right to give any part of that

money, to assist the idle, or even help the distressed. "I must be

just," said he, "before I am generous." Still he could not bear to

see this fine boy given up to a certain ruin. He did not think it

safe to take him into his shop in his present ignorant, unprincipled

state. At last he hit upon this thought: I work for myself twelve

hours in the day. Why shall I not work one hour or two for this boy

in the evening? It will be but for a year, and I shall then have

more right to do what I please. My money will then be my own: I

shall have paid my debts.

So he began to put his resolution in practice that very night,

sticking to his old notion of not putting off till to-morrow what

should be done to-day: and it was thought he owed much of his

success in life, as well as his growth in goodness, to this little

saying: "I am young and healthy," said he, "one hour's work more

will do me no harm; I will set aside all I get by these over-hours,

and put the boy to school. I have not only no right to punish this

child for the sins of his father, but I consider that though God

hated those sins, he has made them to be instrumental to my

advancement."

Tommy Williams called at the time appointed. In the mean time Mr.

Stock's maid had made him a neat little suit of clothes of an old

coat of her master's. She had also knit him a pair of stockings, and

Mr. Stock made him sit down in the shop, while he fitted him with a

pair of new shoes. The maid having washed and dressed him, Stock

took him by the hand, and walked along with him to the parish

poor-house to find his mother. They found her dressed in ragged,

filthy finery, standing at the door, where she passed most of her

time, quarreling with half a dozen women as idle and dirty as

herself. When she saw Tommy so neat and well-dressed, she fell a

crying for joy. She said "it put her in mind of old times, for Tommy

always used to be dressed like a gentleman." "So much the worse,"

said Mr. Stock; "if you had not begun by making him look like a

gentleman, you needed not have ended by making him look like a

beggar." "Oh Jem!" said she (for though it was four years since she

had seen him she soon recollected him), "fine times for you! Set a

beggar on horseback--you know the proverb. I shall beat Tommy well

for finding you out and exposing me to you."

Instead of entering into a dispute with this bad woman, or praising

himself at her expense; instead of putting her in mind of her past

ill behavior to him, or reproaching her with the bad use she had

made of her prosperity, he mildly said to her, "Mrs. Williams I am

sorry for your misfortunes; I am come to relieve you of part of your

burden. I will take Tommy off your hands. I will give him a year's

board and schooling, and by that time I shall see what he is fit

for. I will promise nothing, but if the boy turns out well, I will

never forsake him. I shall make but one bargain with you, which is,

that he must not come to this place to hear all this railing and

swearing, nor shall he keep company with these pilfering, idle

children. You are welcome to go and see him when you please, but

here he must not come."

The foolish woman burst out a crying, saying, "she should lose her

poor dear Tommy forever. Mr. Stock might give _her_ the money he

intended to pay at the school, for nobody could do so well by him,

as his own mother." The truth was, she wanted to get these new

clothes into her clutches, which would have been pawned at the

dramshop before the week was out. This Mr. Stock well knew. From

crying she fell to scolding and swearing. She told him he was an

unnatural wretch, that wanted to make a child despise his own mother

because she was poor. She even went so far as to say she would not

part from him; she said she hated your godly people, they had no

bowels of compassion, but tried to set men, women, and children

against their own flesh and blood.

Mr. Stock now almost lost his patience, and for one moment a thought

came across him, to strip the boy, carry back the clothes, and leave

him to his unnatural mother. "Why," said he, "should I work

over-hours, and wear out my strength for this wicked woman?" But

soon he checked this thought, by reflecting on the patience and

long-suffering of God with rebellious sinners. This cured his anger

in a moment, and he mildly reasoned with her on her folly and

blindness in opposing the good of her child.

One of the neighbors who stood by said, "What a fine thing it was

for the boy! but some people were born to be lucky. She wished Mr.

Stock would take a fancy to _her_ child, he should have him soon

enough." Mrs. Williams now began to be frightened lest Mr. Stock

should take the woman at her word, and sullenly consented to let the

boy go, from envy and malice, not from prudence and gratitude; and

Tommy was sent to school that very night, his mother crying and

roaring instead of thanking God for such a blessing.

And here I can not forbear telling a very good-natured thing of Will

Simpson, one of the workmen. By the by, it was that very young

fellow who was reformed by Stock's good example, when he was an

apprentice, and who used to sing psalms with him on a Sunday

evening, when they got out of the way of Williams's junketing. Will

coming home early one evening was surprised to find his master at

work by himself, long after the usual time. He begged so heartily to

know the reason, that Stock owned the truth. Will was so struck with

this piece of kindness, that he snatched up a last, crying out,

"Well, master, you shall not work by yourself, however; we will go

snacks in maintaining Tommy: it shall never be said that Will

Simpson was idling about when his master was working for charity."

This made the hour pass cheerfully, and doubled the profits.

In a year or two Mr. Stock, by God's blessing on his labors, became

quite clear of the world. He now paid off his creditors, but he

never forgot his obligation to them, and found many opportunities of

showing kindness to them, and to their children after them. He now

cast about for a proper wife, and as he was thought a prosperous

man, and was very well looking besides, most of the smart girls of

the place, with their tawdry finery, used to be often parading

before the shop, and would even go to church in order to put

themselves in his way. But Mr. Stock when he went to church, had

other things in his head; and if ever he thought about these gay

damsels at all, it was with concern in seeing them so improperly

tricked out, so that the very means they took to please him made him

dislike them.

There was one Betsy West, a young woman of excellent character, and

very modest appearance. He had seldom seen her out, as she was

employed night and day in waiting on an aged, widowed mother, who

was both lame and blind. This good girl was almost literally eyes

and feet to her helpless parent, and Mr. Stock used to see her,

through the little casement window, lifting her up, and feeding her

with a tenderness which greatly raised his esteem for her. He used

to tell Will Simpson, as they sat at work, that such a dutiful

daughter could hardly help to make a faithful wife. He had not,

however, the heart to try to draw her off from the care of her sick

mother. The poor woman declined very fast. Betsy was much employed

in reading or praying by her, while she was awake, and passed a good

part of the night while she slept, in doing some fine works to sell,

in order to supply her sick mother with little delicacies which

their poor pittance could not afford, while she herself lived on a

crust.

Mr. Stock knew that Betsy would have little or nothing after her

mother's death, as she had only a life income. On the other hand,

Mr. Thompson, the tanner, had offered him two hundred pounds with

his daughter Nancy; but he was almost sorry that he had not in this

case an opportunity of resisting his natural bias, which rather lay

on the side of loving money. "For," said he, "putting principle and

putting affection out of the question, I shall do a more prudent

thing by marrying Betsy West, who will conform to her station, and

is a religious, humble, industrious girl, without a shilling, than

by having an idle dressy lass, who will neglect my family and fill

my house with company, though she should have twice the fortune

which Nancy Thompson would bring."

At length poor old Mrs. West was released from all her sufferings.

At a proper time Mr. Stock proposed marriage to Betsy, and was

accepted. All the disappointed girls in the town wondered what any

body could like in such a dowdy as that. Had the man no eyes? They

thought Mr. Stock had more taste. Oh! how it did provoke all the

vain, idle things to find, that staying at home, dressing plainly,

serving God, and nursing a blind mother, should do that for Betsy

West, which all their contrivances, flaunting, and dancing, could

not do for them.

He was not disappointed in his hope of meeting with a good wife in

Betsy, as indeed those who marry on right grounds seldom are. But if

religious persons will, for the sake of money, choose partners for

life who have no religion, do not let them complain that they are

unhappy: they might have known that beforehand.

Tommy Williams was now taken home to Mr. Stock's house and bound

apprentice. He was always kind and attentive to his mother; and

every penny which Will Simpson or his master gave him for learning a

chapter, he would save to buy a bit of tea and sugar for her. When

the other boys laughed at him for being so foolish as to deny

himself cakes and apples to give his money to her who was so bad a

woman, he would answer, "It may be so, but she is my mother for all

that."

Mr. Stock was much moved at the change in this boy, who turned out a

very good youth. He resolved, as God should prosper him, that he

would try to snatch other helpless creatures from sin and ruin.

"For," said he, "it is owing to God's blessing on the instructions

of my good minister when I was a child, that I have been saved from

the broad way of destruction." He still gave God the glory of every

thing he did aright: and when Will Simpson one day said to him,

"Master, I wish I were half as good as you are." "Hold, William,"

answered he gravely, "I once read in a book, that the devil is

willing enough we should appear to do good actions, if he can but

make us proud of them."

But we must not forget our other old acquaintance, Mr. Stock's

fellow 'prentice. So next month you may expect a full account of the

many tricks and frolics of idle Jade Brown.

PART III.

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE FROLICS OF IDLE JACK BROWN.

You shall now hear what befell idle Jack Brown, who, being a

farmer's son, had many advantages to begin life with. But he who

wants prudence may be said to want every thing, because he turns all

his advantages to no account.

Jack Brown was just out of his time when his master Williams died in

that terrible drunken fit at the Grayhound. You know already how

Stock succeeded to his master's business, and prospered in it. Jack

wished very much to enter into partnership with him. His father and

mother too were desirous of it, and offered to advance a hundred

pounds with him. Here is a fresh proof of the power of character!

The old farmer, with all his covetousness, was eager to get his son

into partnership with Stock, though the latter was not worth a

shilling; and even Jack's mother, with all her pride, was eager for

it, for they had both sense enough to see it would be the making of

Jack. The father knew that Stock would look to the main chance; and

the mother that he would take the laboring oar, and so her darling

would have little to do. The ruling passion operated in both. One

parent wished to secure the son a life of pleasure, the other a

profitable trade. Both were equally indifferent to whatever related

to his eternal good.

Stock, however, young as he was, was too old a bird to be caught

with chaff. His wisdom was an overmatch for their cunning. He had a

kindness for Brown, but would on no account enter into business with

him. "One of these three things," said he, "I am sure will happen if

I do; he will either hurt my principles, my character, or my trade;

perhaps all." And here by-the-by, let me drop a hint to other young

men who are about to enter into partnership. Let them not do that in

haste which they may repent at leisure. Next to marriage it is a tie

the hardest to break; and next to that it is an engagement which

ought to be entered into with the most caution. Many things go to

the making such a connection suitable, safe, and pleasant. There is

many a rich merchant need not be above taking a hint in this

respect, from James Stock the shoemaker.

Brown was still unwilling to part from him; indeed he was too idle

to look out for business, so he offered Stock to work with him as a

journeyman, but this he also mildly refused. It hurt his good nature

to do so; but he reflected that a young man who has his way to make

in the world, must not only be good-natured, he must be prudent

also. "I am resolved," said he, "to employ none but the most sober,

regular young men I can get. Evil communications corrupt good

manners, and I should be answerable for all the disorders of my

house, if I knowingly took a wild, drinking young fellow into it.

That which might be kindness to one, would be injustice to many, and

therefore a sin in myself."

Brown's mother was in a great rage when she heard that her son had

stooped so low as to make this offer. She valued herself on being

proud, for she thought pride was a grand thing. Poor woman! She did

not know that it is the meanest thing in the world. It was her

ignorance which made her proud, as is apt to be the case. "You

mean-spirited rascal," she said to Jack, "I had rather follow you to

your grave, as well as I love you, than see you disgrace your family

by working under Jem Stock, the parish apprentice." She forgot

already what pains she had taken about the partnership, but pride

and passion have bad memories.

It is hard to say which was now uppermost in her mind, her desire to

be revenged on Stock, or to see her son make a figure. She raised

every shilling she could get from her husband, and all she could

crib from the dairy to set up Jack in a showy way. So the very next

market day she came herself, and took for him the new white house,

with the two little sash windows painted blue, and blue posts before

the door. It is that house which has the old cross just before it,

as you turn down between the church and the Grayhound. Its being so

near the church to be sure was no recommendation to Jack, but its

being so near the Grayhound was, and so taking one thing with the

other it was to be sure no bad situation; but what weighed most with

the mother was, that it was a much more showy shop than Stock's; and

the house, though not half so convenient, was far more smart.

In order to draw custom, his foolish mother advised him to undersell

his neighbors just at first; to buy ordinary but showy goods, and

to employ cheap workmen. In short she charged him to leave no stone

unturned to ruin his old comrade Stock. Indeed she always thought

with double satisfaction of Jack's prosperity, because she always

joined to it the hope that his success would be the ruin of Stock,

for she owned it would be the joy of her heart to bring that proud

upstart to a morsel of bread. She did not understand, for her part,

why such beggars must become tradesmen; it was making a velvet purse

of a sow's ear.

Stock, however, set out on quite another set of principles. He did

not allow himself to square his own behavior to others by theirs to

him. He seldom asked himself what he should _like_ to do: but he had

a mighty way of saying, "I wonder now what is my _duty_ to do?" And

when he was once clear in that matter he generally did it, always

begging God's blessing and direction. So instead of setting Brown at

defiance; instead of all that vulgar selfishness, of catch he that

catch can--and two of a trade can never agree--he resolved to be

friendly toward him. Instead of joining in the laugh against Brown

for making his house so fine, he was sorry for him, because he

feared he would never be able to pay such a rent. He very kindly

called upon him, told him there was business enough for them both,

and gave him many useful hints for his going on. He warned him to go

oftener to church and seldomer to the Grayhound: put him in mind how

following the one and forsaking the other had been the ruin of their

poor master, and added the following

ADVICE TO YOUNG TRADESMEN.

Buy the best goods; cut the work out yourself; let the eye of

the master be everywhere; employ the soberest men; avoid all the

low deceits of trade; never lower the credit of another to raise

your own; make short payments; keep exact accounts; avoid idle

company, and be very strict to your word.

For a short time things went on swimmingly. Brown was merry and

civil. The shop was well situated for gossip; and every one who had

something to say, and nothing to do was welcome. Every idle story

was first spread, and every idle song first sung, in Brown's shop.

Every customer who came to be measured was promised that his shoes

should be done first. But the misfortune was, if twenty came in a

day the same promise was made to all, so that nineteen were

disappointed, and of course affronted. He never said _no_ to any

one. It is indeed a word which it requires some honesty to

pronounce. By all these false promises he was thought the most

obliging fellow that ever made a shoe. And as he set out on the

principle of underselling, people took a mighty fancy to the cheap

shop. And it was agreed among all the young and giddy, that he would

beat Stock all hollow, and that the old shop would be knocked up.

ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLISTENS.

After a few months, however, folks began to be not quite so fond of

the cheap shop; one found out that the leather was bad, another that

the work was slight. Those who liked substantial goods went all of

them to Stock's, for they said Brown's heel-taps did not last a

week; his new boots let in water; and they believed he made his

soles of brown paper. Besides, it was thought by most, that this

promising all, and keeping his word with none, hurt his business as

much as any thing. Indeed, I question, putting religion out of the

question, if lying ever answers, even in a political view.

Brown had what is commonly called a _good heart_; that is, he had a

thoughtless good nature, and a sort of feeling for the moment which

made him very sorry when others were in trouble. But he was not apt

to put himself to any inconvenience, nor go a step out of his way,

nor give up any pleasure to serve the best friend he had. He loved

_fun_; and those who do should always see that it be harmless, and

that they do not give up more for it than it is worth. I am not

going to say a word against innocent merriment. I like it myself.

But what the proverb says of gold, may be said of mirth; it may be

bought too dear. If a young man finds that what he fancies is a good

joke may possibly offend God, hurt his neighbor, afflict his parent,

or make a modest girl blush, let him then be assured it is not fun,

but wickedness, and he had better let it alone.

Jack Brown then, as _good a heart_ as he had, did not know what it

was to deny himself any thing. He was so _good-natured_ indeed, that

he never in his life refused to make one of a jolly set; but he was

not good-natured enough to consider that those men whom he kept up

all night roaring and laughing, had wives and children at home, who

had little to eat, and less to wear, because _they_ were keeping up

the character of merry fellows, and good hearts at the public house.

THE MOUNTEBANK.

One day he saw his father's plow-boy come galloping up to the door

in great haste. This boy brought Brown word that his mother was

dangerously ill, and that his father had sent his own best bay mare

Smiler, that his son might lose no time, but set out directly to see

his mother before she died. Jack burst into tears, lamented the

danger of so fond a mother, and all the people in the shop extolled

his _good heart_.

He sent back the boy directly, with a message that he would follow

him in half an hour, as soon as the mare had baited: for he well

knew that his father would not thank him for any haste he might make

if Smiler was hurt.

Jack accordingly set off, and rode with such speed to the next town,

that both himself and Smiler had a mind to another bait. They

stopped at the Star; unluckily it was fair-day, and as he was

walking about while Smiler was eating her oats, a bill was put in

his hand setting forth, that on the stage opposite the Globe a

mountebank was showing away, and his Andrew performing the finest

tricks that ever were seen. He read--he stood still--he went on--"It

will not hinder me," said he; "Smiler must rest; and I shall see my

poor dear mother quite as soon if I just take a peep, as if I sit

moping at the Star."

The tricks were so merry that the time seemed short, and when they

were over he could not forbear going into the Globe and treating

these choice spirits with a bowl of punch. Just as they were taking

the last glass, Jack happened to say he was the best fives player in

the country. "That is lucky," said the Andrew, "for there is a

famous match now playing at the court, and you may never again have

such an opportunity to show your skill." Brown declared "he could

not stay, for that he had left his horse at the Star, and must set

off on urgent business." They now all pretended to call his skill in

question. This roused his pride, and he thought another half hour

could break no squares. Smiler had now had a good feed of corn, and

he would only have to push her on a little more; so to it he went.

He won the first game. This spurred him on; and he played till it

was so dark they could not see a ball. Another bowl was called for

from the winner. Wagers and bets now drained Brown not only of all

the money he had won, but of all he had in his pocket, so that he

was obliged to ask leave to go to the house where his horse was, to

borrow enough to discharge his reckoning at the Globe.

All these losses brought his poor dear mother to his mind, and he

marched off with rather a heavy heart to borrow the money, and to

order Smiler out of the stable. The landlord expressed much surprise

at seeing him, and the ostler declared there was no Smiler there;

that he had been rode off above two hours ago by the merry Andrew,

who said he come by order of the owner, Mr. Brown, to fetch him to

the Globe, and to pay for his feed. It was indeed one of the neatest

tricks the Andrew ever performed, for he made such a clean

conveyance of Smiler, that neither Jack nor his father ever heard of

her again.

It was night: no one could tell what road the Andrew took, and it

was another hour or two before an advertisement could be drawn up

for apprehending the horse-stealer. Jack had some doubts whether he

should go on or return back. He knew that though his father might

fear his wife most, yet he loved Smiler best. At length he took that

courage from a glass of brandy which he ought to have taken from a

hearty repentance, and he resolved to pursue his journey. He was

obliged to leave his watch and silver buckles in pawn for a little

old hack, which was nothing but skin and bone, and would hardly trot

three miles an hour.

He knocked at his father's door about five in the morning. The

family were all up. He asked the boy who opened the door how his

mother was? "She is dead," said the boy; "she died yesterday

afternoon." Here Jack's heart smote him, and he cried aloud, partly

from grief, but more from the reproaches of his own conscience, for

he found by computing the hours, that had he come straight on, he

should have been in time to receive his mother's blessing.

The farmer now came from within, "I hear Smiler's step. Is Jack

come?" "Yes, father," said Jack, in a low voice. "Then," cried the

farmer, "run every man and boy of you and take care of the mare.

Tom, do thou go and rub her down; Jem, run and get her a good feed

of corn. Be sure walk her about that she may not catch cold." Young

Brown came in. "Are you not an undutiful dog?" said the father; "you

might have been here twelve hours ago. Your mother could not die in

peace without seeing you. She said it was cruel return for all her

fondness, that you could not make a little haste to see her; but it

was always so, for she had wronged her other children to help you,

and this was her reward." Brown sobbed out a few words, but his

father replied, "Never cry, Jack, for the boy told me that it was

out of regard for Smiler, that you were not here as soon as he was,

and if 'twas your over care of her, why there's no great harm done.

You could not have saved your poor mother, and you might have hurt

the mare." Here Jack's double guilt flew into his face. He knew that

his father was very covetous, and had lived on bad terms with his

wife; and also that his own unkindness to her had been forgiven him

out of love to the horse; but to break to him how he had lost that

horse through his own folly and want of feeling, was more than Jack

had courage to do. The old man, however, soon got at the truth, and

no words can describe his fury. Forgetting that his wife lay dead

above stairs, he abused his son in a way not fit to be repeated; and

though his covetousness had just before found an excuse for a

favorite son neglecting to visit a dying parent, yet he now vented

his rage against Jack as an unnatural brute, whom he would cut off

with a shilling, and bade him never see his face again.

Jack was not allowed to attend his mother's funeral, which was a

real grief to him; nor would his father advance even the little

money, which was needful to redeem his things at the Star. He had

now no fond mother to assist him, and he set out on his return home

on his borrowed hack, full of grief. He had the added mortification

of knowing that he had also lost by his folly a little hoard of

money which his mother had saved up for him.

When Brown got back to his own town he found that the story of

Smiler and the Andrew had got thither before him, and it was thought

a very good joke at the Grayhound. He soon recovered his spirits as

far as related to the horse, but as to his behavior to his dying

mother it troubled him at times to the last day of his life, though

he did all he could to forget it. He did not, however, go on at all

better, nor did he engage in one frolic the less for what had passed

at the Globe; his _good heart_ continually betrayed him into acts of

levity and vanity.

Jack began at length to feel the reverse of that proverb, _Keep your

shop and your shop will keep you_. He had neglected his customers,

and they forsook him. Quarter-day came round; there was much to pay

and little to receive. He owed two years' rent. He was in arrears to

his men for wages. He had a long account with his currier. It was in

vain to apply to his father. He had now no mother. Stock was the

only true friend he had in the world, and had helped him out of many

petty scrapes, but he knew Stock would advance no money in so

hopeless a case. Duns came fast about him. He named a speedy day for

payment; but as soon as they were out of the house, and the danger

put off to a little distance, he forgot every promise, was as merry

as ever, and run the same round of thoughtless gayety. Whenever lie

was in trouble, Stock did not shun him, because that was the moment

to throw in a little good advice. He one day asked him if he always

intended to go on in this course? "No," said he, "I am resolved by

and by to reform, grow sober, and go to church. Why I am but five

and twenty, man; I am stout and healthy, and likely to live long; I

can repent, and grow melancholy and good at any time."

"Oh Jack!" said Stock, "don't cheat thyself with that false hope.

What thou dost intend to do, do quickly. Didst thou never read about

the heart growing hardened by long indulgence in sin? Some folks,

who pretend to mean well, show that they mean nothing at all, by

never beginning to put their good resolutions into practice; which

made a wise man once say, that hell is paved with good intentions.

We can not repent when we please. _It is the goodness of God which

leadeth us to repentance._"

"I am sure," replied Jack, "I am no one's enemy but my own."

"It is as foolish," said Stock, "to say a bad man is no one's enemy

but his own, as that a good man is no one's friend but his own.

There is no such neutral character. A bad man corrupts or offends

all within reach of his example, just as a good man benefits or

instructs all within the sphere of his influence. And there is no

time when we can say that this transmitted good and evil will end. A

wicked man may be punished for sins he never committed himself, if

he has been the cause of sin in others, as surely as a saint will be

rewarded for more good deeds than he himself has done, even for the

virtues and good actions of all those who are made better by his

instruction, his example, or his writings."

Michaelmas-day was at hand. The landlord declared he would be put

off no longer, but would seize for rent if it was not paid him on

that day, as well as for a considerable sum due to him for leather.

Brown at last began to be frightened. He applied to Stock to be

bound for him. This, Stock flatly refused. Brown now began to dread

the horrors of a jail, and really seemed so very contrite, and made

so many vows and promises of amendment, that at length Stock was

prevailed on, together with two or three of Brown's other friends,

to advance each a small sum of money to quiet the landlord. Brown

promising to make over to them every part of his stock, and to be

guided in future by their advice, declaring that he would turn over

a new leaf, and follow Mr. Stock's example, as well as his direction

in every thing.

Stock's good nature was at length wrought upon, and he raised the

money. The truth is, he did not know the worst, nor how deeply Brown

was involved. Brown joyfully set out on the very quarter-day to a

town at some distance, to carry his landlord this money, raised by

the imprudent kindness of his friend. At his departure Stock put him

in mind of the old story of Smiler and the Merry Andrew, and he

promised to his own head that he would not even call at a public

house till he had paid the money.

He was as good as his word. He very triumphantly passed by several.

He stopped a little under the window of one where the sounds of

merriment and loud laughter caught his ear. At another he heard the

enticing notes of a fiddle and the light heels of the merry dancers.

Here his heart had well-nigh failed him, but the dread of a jail on

the one hand, and what he feared almost as much, Mr. Stock's anger

on the other, spurred him on; and he valued himself not a little at

having got the better of this temptation. He felt quite happy when

he found he had reached the door of his landlord without having

yielded to one idle inclination.

He knocked at the door. The maid who opened it said her master was

not at home. "I am sorry for it," said he, strutting about; and with

a boasting air he took out his money. "I want to pay him my rent: he

needed not to have been afraid of _me_." The servant, who knew her

master was very much afraid of him, desired him to walk in, for her

master would be at home in half an hour. "I will call again," said

he; "but no, let him call on me, and the sooner the better: I shall

be at the Blue Posts." While he had been talking, he took care to

open his black leather case, and to display the bank bills to the

servant, and then, in a swaggering way, he put up his money and

marched off to the Blue Posts.

He was by this time quite proud of his own resolution, and having

tendered the money, and being clear in his own mind that it was the

landlord's own fault and not his that it was not paid, he went to

refresh himself at the Blue Posts. In a barn belonging to this

public house a set of strollers were just going to perform some of

that sing-song ribaldry, by which our villages are corrupted, the

laws broken, and that money drawn from the poor for pleasure, which

is wanted by their families for bread. The name of the last new song

which made part of the entertainment, made him think himself in high

luck, that he should have just that half hour to spare. He went into

the barn, but was too much delighted with the actor, who sung his

favorite song, to remain a quiet hearer. He leaped out of the pit,

and got behind the two ragged blankets which served for a curtain.

He sung so much better than the actors themselves, that they praised

and admired him to a degree which awakened all his vanity. He was so

intoxicated with their flattery, that he could do no less than

invite them all to supper, an invitation which they were too hungry

not to accept.

He did not, however, quite forget his appointment with his landlord;

but the half hour was long since past by. "And so," says he, "as I

know he is a mean curmudgeon, who goes to bed by daylight to save

candles, it will be too late to speak with him to-night; besides,

let him call upon me; it is his business and not mine. I left word

where I was to be found; the money is ready, and if I don't pay him

to-night, I can do it before breakfast."

By the time these firm resolutions were made, supper was ready.

There never was a more jolly evening. Ale and punch were as plenty

as water. The actors saw what a vain fellow was feasting them, and

as they wanted victuals and he wanted flattery, the business was

soon settled. They ate, and Brown sung. They pretended to be in

raptures. Singing promoted drinking, and every fresh glass produced

a new song or a story still more merry than the former. Before

morning, the players, who were engaged to act in another barn a

dozen miles off, stole away quietly. Brown having dropt asleep, they

left him to finish his nap by himself. As to him his dreams were gay

and pleasant, and the house being quite still, he slept comfortably

till morning.

As soon as he had breakfasted, the business of the night before

popped into his head. He set off once more to his landlord's in high

spirits, gayly singing by the way, scraps of all the tunes he had

picked up the night before from his new friends. The landlord opened

the door himself, and reproached him with no small surliness for not

having kept his word with him the evening before, adding, that he

supposed he was come now with some more of his shallow excuses.

Brown put on all that haughtiness which is common to people who,

being generally apt to be in the wrong, happen to catch themselves

doing a right action; he looked big, as some sort of people do when

they have money to pay. "You need not have been so anxious about

your money," said he, "I was not going to break or run away." The

landlord well knew this was the common language of those who are

ready to do both. Brown haughtily added, "You shall see I am a man

of my word; give me a receipt." The landlord had it ready and gave

it him.

Brown put his hand in his pocket for his black leathern case in

which the bills were; he felt, he searched, he examined, first one

pocket, then the other; then both waistcoat pockets, but no leather

case could he find. He looked terrified. It was indeed the face of

real terror, but the landlord conceived it to be that of guilt, and

abused him heartily for putting his old tricks upon him; he swore he

would not be imposed upon any longer; the money or a jail--there lay

his choice.

Brown protested for once with great truth that he had no intention

to deceive; declared that he had actually brought the money, and

knew not what was become of it; but the thing was far too unlikely

to gain credit. Brown now called to mind that he had fallen asleep

on the settle in the room where they had supped. This raised his

spirits; for he had no doubt but the case had fallen out of his

pocket; he said he would step to the public house and search for it,

and would be back directly. Not one word of this did the landlord

believe, so inconvenient is it to have a bad character. He swore

Brown should not stir out of his house without a constable, and made

him wait while he sent for one. Brown, guarded by the constable,

went back to the Blue Posts, the landlord charging the officer not

to lose sight of the culprit. The caution was needless; Brown had

not the least design of running away, so firmly persuaded was he

that he should find his leather case.

But who can paint his dismay, when no tale or tidings of the leather

case could be had! The master, the mistress, the boy, the maid of

the public house, all protested they were innocent. His suspicions

soon fell on the strollers with whom he had passed the night; and he

now found out for the first time, that a merry evening did not

always produce a happy morning. He obtained a warrant, and proper

officers were sent in pursuit of the strollers. No one, however,

believed he had really lost any thing; and as he had not a shilling

left to defray the expensive treat he had given, the master of the

inn agreed with the other landlord in thinking this story was a

trick to defraud them both, and Brown remained in close custody. At

length the officers returned, who said they had been obliged to let

the strollers go, as they could not fix the charge on any one, and

they had offered to swear before a justice that they had seen

nothing of the leather case. It was at length agreed that as he had

passed the evening in a crowded barn, he had probably been robbed

there, if at all; and among so many, who could pretend to guess at

the thief?

Brown raved like a madman; he cried, tore his hair, and said he was

ruined for ever. The abusive language of his old landlord, and his

new creditor at the Blue Posts, did not lighten his sorrow. His

landlord would be put off no longer. Brown declared he could neither

find bail nor raise another shilling; and as soon as the forms of

law were made out, he was sent to the county jail.

Here it might have been expected that hard living and much leisure

would have brought him to reflect a little on his past follies. But

his heart was not truly touched. The chief thing which grieved him

at first was his having abused the kindness of Stock, for to him he

should appear guilty of a real fraud, where indeed he had been only

vain, idle, and imprudent. And it is worth while here to remark,

that vanity, idleness, and imprudence, often bring a man to utter

ruin both of soul and body, though silly people do not put them in

the catalogue of heavy sins, and those who indulge in them are often

reckoned honest, merry fellows, with _the best hearts in the world_.

I wish I had room to tell my readers what befell Jack in his

present doleful habitation, and what became of him afterward. I

promise them, however, that they shall certainly know the first of

next month, when I hope they will not forget to inquire for the

fourth part of the Shoemakers, or Jack Brown in prison.

PART IV.

JACK BROWN IN PRISON.

Brown was no sooner lodged in his doleful habitation, and a little

recovered from his first surprise, than he sat down and wrote his

friend Stock the whole history of the transaction. Mr. Stock, who

had long known the exceeding lightness and dissipation of his mind,

did not so utterly disbelieve the story as all the other creditors

did. To speak the truth, Stock was the only one among them who had

good sense enough to know, that a man may be completely ruined, both

in what relates to his property and his soul, without committing Old

Bailey crimes. He well knew that idleness, vanity, and the love of

_pleasure_, as it is falsely called, will bring a man to a morsel of

bread, as surely as those things which are reckoned much greater

sins, and that they undermine his principles as certainly, though

not quite so fast.

Stock was too angry with what had happened to answer Brown's letter,

or to seem to take the least notice of him. However, he kindly and

secretly undertook a journey to the hard-hearted old farmer, Brown's

father, to intercede with him, and to see if he would do any thing

for his son. Stock did not pretend to excuse Jack, or even to lessen

his offenses; for it was a rule of his never to disguise truth or

to palliate wickedness. Sin was still sin in his eyes, though it

were committed by his best friend; but though he would not soften

the sin, he felt tenderly for the sinner. He pleaded with the old

farmer on the ground that his son's idleness and other vices would

gather fresh strength in a jail. He told him that the loose and

worthless company which he would there keep, would harden him in

vice, and if he was now wicked, he might there become irreclaimable.

But all his pleas were urged in vain. The farmer was not to be

moved; indeed he argued, with some justice, that he ought not to

make his industrious children beggars to save one rogue from the

gallows. Mr. Stock allowed the force of his reasoning, though he saw

the father was less influenced by this principle of justice than by

resentment on account of the old story of Smiler. People, indeed,

should take care that what appears in their conduct to proceed from

justice, does not really proceed from revenge. Wiser men than Farmer

Brown often deceive themselves, and fancy they act on better

principles than they really do, for want of looking a little more

closely into their own hearts, and putting down every action to its

true motive. When we are praying against deceit, we should not

forget to take self-deceit into the account.

Mr. Stock at length wrote to poor Jack; not to offer him any help,

that was quite out of the question, but to exhort him to repent of

his evil ways; to lay before him the sins of his past life, and to

advise him to convert the present punishment into a benefit, by

humbling himself before God. He offered his interest to get his

place of confinement exchanged for one of those improved prisons,

where solitude and labor have been made the happy instruments of

bringing many to a better way of thinking, and ended by saying,

that if he ever gave any solid signs of real amendment he would

still be his friend, in spite of all that was past.

If Mr. Stock had sent him a good sum of money to procure his

liberty, or even to make merry with his wretched companions, Jack

would have thought him a friend indeed. But to send him nothing but

dry advice, and a few words of empty comfort, was, he thought, but a

cheap, shabby way of showing his kindness. Unluckily the letter came

just as he was going to sit down to one of those direful

merry-makings which are often carried on with brutal riot within the

doleful walls of a jail on the entrance of a new prisoner, who is

often expected to give a feast to the rest.

When his companions were heated with gin; "Now," said Jack, "I'll

treat you with a sermon, and a very pretty preachment it is." So

saying, he took out Mr. Stock's kind and pious letter, and was

delighted at the bursts of laughter it produced. "What a canting

dog!" said one. "Repentance, indeed!" cried Tom Crew; "No, no, Jack,

tell this hypocritical rogue that if we have lost our liberty, it is

only for having been jolly, hearty fellows, and we have more spirit

than to repent of that I hope: all the harm we have done is living a

little too fast, like honest bucks as we are." "Ay, ay," said Jolly

George, "had we been such sneaking miserly fellows as Stock, we need

not have come hither. But if the ill nature of the laws has been so

cruel as to clap up such fine hearty blades, we are no _felons_,

however. We are afraid of no Jack Ketch; and I see no cause to

repent of any sin that's not hanging matter. As to those who are

thrust into the condemned hole indeed, and have but a few hours to

live, they _must_ see the parson, and hear a sermon, and such stuff.

But I do not know what such stout young fellows as we are have to do

with repentance. And so, Jack, let us have that rare new catch which

you learnt of the strollers that merry night when you lost your

pocket-book."

This thoughtless youth soon gave a fresh proof of the power of evil

company, and of the quick progress of the heart of a sinner from bad

to worse. Brown, who always wanted principle, soon grew to want

feeling also. He joined in the laugh which was raised against Stock,

and told many _good stories_, as they were called, in derision of

the piety, sobriety, and self-denial of his old friend. He lost

every day somewhat of those small remains of shame and decency which

he had brought with him to the prison. He even grew reconciled to

this wretched way of life, and the want of money seemed to him the

heaviest evil in the life of a jail.

Mr. Stock finding from the jailor that his letter had been treated

with ridicule, would not write to him any more. He did not come to

see him nor send him any assistance, thinking it right to let him

suffer that want which his vices had brought upon him. But as he

still hoped that the time would come when he might be brought to a

sense of his evil courses, he continued to have an eye upon him by

means of the jailor, who was an honest, kind-hearted man.

Brown spent one part of his time in thoughtless riot, and the other

in gloomy sadness. Company kept up his spirits; with his new friends

he contrived to drown thought; but when he was alone he began to

find that a _merry fellow_, when deprived of his companions and his

liquor, is often a most forlorn wretch. Then it is that even a merry

fellow says, _Of laughter, what is it? and of mirth, it is madness._

As he contrived, however, to be as little alone as possible his

gayety was commonly uppermost till that loathsome distemper, called

the jail fever, broke out in the prison. Tom Crew, the ring-leader

in all their evil practices, was first seized with it. Jack staid a

little while with his comrade to assist and divert him, but of

assistance he could give little, and the very thought of diversion

was now turned into horror. He soon caught the distemper, and that

in so dreadful a degree, that his life was in great danger. Of those

who remained in health not a soul came near him, though he shared

his last farthing with them. He had just sense enough left to feel

this cruelty. Poor fellow! he did not know before, that the

friendship of the worldly is at an end when there is no more drink

or diversion to be had. He lay in the most deplorable condition; his

body tormented with a dreadful disease, and his soul terrified and

amazed at the approach of death: that death which he thought at so

great a distance, and of which his comrades had so often assured

him, that a young fellow of five and twenty was in no danger. Poor

Jack! I can not help feeling for him. Without a shilling! without a

friend! without one comfort respecting this world, and, what is far

more terrible, without one hope respecting the next.

Let not the young reader fancy that Brown's misery arose entirely

from his altered circumstances. It was not merely his being in want,

and sick, and in prison, which made his condition so desperate. Many

an honest man unjustly accused, many a persecuted saint, many a holy

martyr has enjoyed sometimes more peace and content in a prison than

wicked men have ever tasted in the height of their prosperity. But

to any such comforts, to any comfort at all, poor Jack was an utter

stranger.

A Christian friend generally comes forward at the very time when

worldly friends forsake the wretched. The other prisoners would not

come near Brown, though he had often entertained, and had never

offended them; even his own father was not moved with his sad

condition. When Mr. Stock informed him of it, he answered, "'Tis no

more than he deserves. As he brews so he must bake. He has made his

own bed, and let him lie in it." The hard old man had ever at his

tongue's end some proverb of hardness, or frugality, which he

contrived to turn in such a way as to excuse himself.

We shall now see how Mr. Stock behaved. He had his favorite sayings

too; but they were chiefly on the side of kindness, mercy, or some

other virtue. "I must not," said he, "pretend to call myself a

Christian, if I do not requite evil with good." When he received the

jailor's letter with the account of Brown's sad condition, Will

Simpson and Tommy Williams began to compliment him on his own wisdom

and prudence, by which he had escaped Brown's misfortunes. He only

gravely said, "Blessed be God that I am not in the same misery. It

is _He_ who has made us to differ. But for _his_ grace I might have

been in no better condition. Now Brown is brought low by the hand of

God, it is my time to go to him." "What, you!" said Will, "whom he

cheated of your money?" "This is not a time to remember injuries,"

said Mr. Stock. "How can I ask forgiveness of my own sins, if I

withhold forgiveness from him?" So saying, he ordered his horse, and

set off to see poor Brown; thus proving that his was a religion not

of words, but of deeds.

Stock's heart nearly failed him as he passed through the prison. The

groans of the sick and dying, and, what to such a heart as his was

still more moving, the brutal merriment of the healthy in such a

place, pierced his very soul. Many a silent prayer did he put up as

he passed along, that God would yet be pleased to touch their

hearts, and that now (during this infectious sickness) might be the

accepted time. The jailor observed him drop a tear, and asked the

cause. "I can not forget," said he, "that the most dissolute of

these men is still my fellow creature. The same God made them; the

same Saviour died for them; how then can I hate the worst of them?

With my advantages they might have been much better than I am;

without the blessing of God on my good minister's instructions, I

might have been worse than the worst of these. I have no cause for

pride, much for thankfulness; '_Let us not be high-minded, but

fear._'"

It would have moved a heart of stone to have seen poor miserable

Jack Brown lying on his wretched bed, his face so changed by pain,

poverty, dirt, and sorrow, that he could hardly be known for that

merry soul of a jack-boot, as he used to be proud to hear himself

called. His groans were so piteous that it made Mr. Stock's heart

ache. He kindly took him by the hand, though he knew the distemper

was catching. "How dost do, Jack?" said he, "dost know me?" Brown

shook his head and said, "Know you? ay, that I do. I am sure I have

but one friend in the world who would come to see me in this woeful

condition. O, James! what have I brought myself to? What will become

of my poor soul? I dare not look back, for that is all sin; nor

forward, for that is all misery and woe."

Mr. Stock spoke kindly to him, but did not attempt to cheer him with

false comfort, as is too often done. "I am ashamed to see you in

this dirty place," says Brown. "As to the place, Jack," replied the

other, "if it has helped to bring you to a sense of your past

offenses, it will be no bad place for you. I am heartily sorry for

your distress and your sickness; but if it should please God by them

to open your eyes, and to show you that sin is a greater evil than

the prison to which it has brought you, all may yet be well. I had

rather see you in this humble penitent state, lying on this dirty

bed, in this dismal prison, than roaring and rioting at the

Grayhound, the king of the company, with handsome clothes on your

back, and plenty of money in your pocket."

Brown wept bitterly, and squeezed his hand, but was too weak to say

much. Mr. Stock then desired the jailor to let him have such things

as were needful, and he would pay for them. He would not leave the

poor fellow till he had given him, with his own hands, some broth

which the jailor got ready for him, and some medicines which the

doctor had sent. All this kindness cut Brown to the heart. He was

just able to sob out, "My unnatural father leaves me to perish, and

my injured friend is more than a father to me." Stock told him that

one proof he must give of his repentance, was, that he must forgive

his father, whose provocation had been very great. He then said he

would leave him for the present to take some rest, and desired him

to lift up his heart to God for mercy. "Dear James," replied Brown,

"do you pray for me; God perhaps may hear you, but he will never

hear the prayer of such a sinner as I have been." "Take care how you

think so," said Stock. "To believe that God can not forgive you

would be still a greater sin than any you have yet committed against

him." He then explained to him in a few words, as well as he was

able, the nature of repentance and forgiveness through a Saviour,

and warned him earnestly against unbelief and hardness of heart.

Poor Jack grew much refreshed in body with the comfortable things he

had taken; and a little cheered with Stock's kindness in coming so

far to see and to forgive such a forlorn outcast, sick of an

infectious distemper, and locked within the walls of a prison.

Surely, said he to himself, there must be some mighty power in a

religion which can lead men to do such things! things so much

against the grain as to forgive such an injury, and to risk catching

such a distemper; but he was so weak he could not express this in

words. He tried to pray, but he could not; at length overpowered

with weariness, he fell asleep.

When Mr. Stock came back, he was surprised to find him so much

better in body; but his agonies of mind were dreadful, and he had

now got strength to express part of the horrors which he felt.

"James," said he (looking wildly) "it is all over with me. I am a

lost creature. Even your prayers can not save me." "Dear Jack,"

replied Mr. Stock, "I am no minister; it does not become me to talk

much to thee: but I know I may adventure to say whatever is in the

Bible. As ignorant as I am I shall be safe while I stick to that."

"Ay," said the sick man, "you used to be ready enough to read to me,

and I would not listen, or if I did it was only to make fun of what

I heard, and now you will not so much as read a bit of a chapter to

me."

This was the very point to which Stock longed to bring him. So he

took a little Bible out of his pocket, which he always carried with

him on a journey, and read slowly, verse by verse, the fifty-fifth

chapter of Isaiah. When he came to the sixth and seventh verses,

poor Jack cried so much that Stock was forced to stop. The words

were, _Let the wicked man forsake his way, and the unrighteous man

his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord._ Here Brown stopped

him, saying, "Oh, it is too late, too late for me." "Let me finish

the verse," said Stock, "and you will see your error; you will see

that it is never too late." So he read on--_Let him return unto the

Lord, and he will have mercy upon him, and to our God, and he will

abundantly pardon._ Here Brown started up, snatched the book out of

his hand, and cried out, "Is that really there? No, no; that's of

your own putting in, in order to comfort me; let me look at the

words myself." "No, indeed," said Stock, "I would not for the world

give you unfounded comfort, or put off any notion of my own for a

Scripture doctrine." "But is it possible," cried the sick man, "that

God may really pardon me? Dost think he can? Dost think he will?"

"I dare not give thee false hopes, or indeed any hopes of my own.

But these are God's own words, and the only difficulty is to know

when we are really brought into such a state as that the words may

be applied to us. For a text may be full of comfort, and yet may not

belong to us."

Mr. Stock was afraid of saying more. He would not venture out of his

depth; nor indeed was poor Brown able to bear more discourse just

now. So he made him a present of the Bible, folding down such places

as he thought might be best suited to his state, and took his leave,

being obliged to return home that night. He left a little money with

the jailor, to add a few comforts to the allowance of the prison,

and promised to return in a short time.

When he got home, he described the sufferings and misery of Brown in

a very moving manner; but Tommy Williams, instead of being properly

affected by it, only said, "Indeed, master, I am not very sorry; he

is rightly served." "How, Tommy," said Mr. Stock (rather sternly),

"not sorry to see a fellow creature brought to the lowest state of

misery; one too whom you have known so prosperous?" "No, master, I

can't say I am; for Mr. Brown used to make fun of you, and laugh at

you for being so godly, and reading your Bible."

"Let me say a few words to you, Tommy," said Mr. Stock. "In the

first place you should never watch for the time of a man's being

brought low by trouble to tell of his faults. Next, you should never

rejoice at his trouble, but pity him, and pray for him. Lastly, as

to his ridiculing me for my religion, if I can not stand an idle

jest, I am not worthy the name of a Christian. _He that is ashamed

of me and my word_--dost remember what follows, Tommy?" "Yes,

master, it was last Sunday's text--_of him shall the Son of Man be

ashamed when he shall judge the world._"

Mr. Stock soon went back to the prison. But he did not go alone. He

took with him Mr. Thomas, the worthy minister who had been the guide

and instructor of his youth, who was so kind as to go at his request

and visit this forlorn prisoner. When they got to Brown's door, they

found him sitting up in his bed with the Bible in his hand. This was

a joyful sight to Mr. Stock, who secretly thanked God for it. Brown

was reading aloud; they listened; it was the fifteenth of St. Luke.

The circumstances of this beautiful parable of the prodigal son were

so much like his own, that the story pierced him to the soul: and he

stopped every minute to compare his own case with that of the

prodigal. He was just got to the eighteenth verse, _I will arise and

go to my father_--at that moment he spied his two friends; joy

darted into his eyes. "Oh, dear Jem," said he, "it is _not_ too

late, I will arise and go to my Father, my heavenly Father, and you,

sir, will show me the way, won't you?" said he to Mr. Thomas, whom

he recollected. "I am very glad to see you in so hopeful a

disposition," said the good minister. "Oh, sir," said Brown, "what a

place is this to receive you in? Oh, see to what I have brought

myself!"

"Your condition, as to this world, is indeed very low," replied the

good divine. "But what are mines, dungeons, or galleys, to that

eternal hopeless prison to which your unrepented sins must soon have

consigned you? Even in the gloomy prison, on this bed of straw, worn

down by pain, poverty, and want, forsaken by your worldly friends,

an object of scorn to those with whom you used to carouse and riot;

yet here, I say, brought thus low, if you have at last found out

your own vileness, and your utterly undone state by sin, you may

still be more an object of favor in the sight of God, than when you

thought yourself prosperous and happy; when the world smiled upon

you, and you passed your days and nights in envied gayety and

unchristian riot. If you will but improve the present awful

visitation; if you do but heartily renounce and abhor your present

evil courses; if you even now turn to the Lord your Saviour with

lively faith, deep repentance, and unfeigned obedience, I shall

still have more hope of you than of many who are going on quite

happy, because quite insensible. The heavy laden sinner, who has

discovered the iniquity of his own heart, and his utter inability to

help himself, may be restored to God's favor, and become happy,

though in a dungeon. And be assured, that he who from deep and

humble contrition dares not so much as lift up his eyes to heaven,

when with a hearty faith he sighs out, _Lord, be merciful to me a

sinner_, shall in no wise be cast out. These are the words of him

who can not lie."

It is impossible to describe the self-abasement, the grief, the joy,

the shame, the hope, and the fear which filled the mind of this poor

man. A dawn of comfort at length shone on his benighted mind. His

humility and fear of falling back into his former sins, if he should

ever recover, Mr. Thomas thought were strong symptoms of a sound

repentance. He improved and cherished every good disposition he saw

arising in his heart, and particularly warned him against

self-deceit, self-confidence, and hypocrisy.

After Brown had deeply expressed his sorrow for his offenses, Mr.

Thomas thus addressed him. "There are two ways of being sorry for

sin. Are you, Mr. Brown, afraid of the guilt of sin because of the

punishment annexed to it, or are you afraid of sin itself? Do you

wish to be delivered from the power of sin? Do you hate sin because

you know it is offensive to a pure and holy God? Or are you only

ashamed of it because it has brought you to a prison and exposed you

to the contempt of the world? It is not said that the wages of this

or that particular sin is death, but of sin in general; there is no

exception made because it is a more creditable or a favorite sin, or

because it is a little one. There are, I repeat, two ways of being

sorry for sin. Cain was sorry--_My punishment is greater than I can

bear_, said he; but here you see the punishment seemed to be the

cause of concern, not the sin. David seems to have had a good notion

of godly sorrow, when he says, _Wash me from mine iniquity, cleanse

me from my sin_. And when Job _repented in dust and ashes_, it is

not said he excused himself, but he _abhorred himself_. And the

prophet Isaiah called himself undone, because he was a _man of

unclean lips_; for, said he 'I have seen the King, the Lord of

hosts;' that is, he could not take the proper measure of his own

iniquity till he had considered the perfect holiness of God."

One day, when Mr. Thomas and Mr. Stock came to see him, they found

him more than commonly affected. His face was more ghastly pale than

usual, and his eyes were red with crying. "Oh, sir," said he, "what

a sight have I just seen! Jolly George, as we used to call him, the

ring-leader of all our mirth, who was at the bottom of all the fun,

and tricks, and wickedness that are carried on within these walls,

Jolly George is just dead of the jail distemper! He taken, and I

left! I _would_ be carried into his room to speak to him, to beg him

to take warning by me, and that I might take warning by him. But

what did I see! what did I hear! not one sign of repentance; not one

dawn of hope. Agony of body, blasphemies on his tongue, despair in

his soul; while I am spared and comforted with hopes of mercy and

acceptance. Oh, if all my old friends at the Grayhound could but

then have seen Jolly George! A hundred sermons about death, sir,

don't speak so home, and cut so deep, as the sight of one dying

sinner."

Brown grew gradually better in his health, that is, the fever

mended, but the distemper settled on his limbs, so that he seemed

likely to be a poor, weakly cripple the rest of his life. But as he

spent much of his time in prayer, and in reading such parts of the

Bible as Mr. Thomas directed, he improved every day in knowledge and

piety, and of course grew more resigned to pain and infirmity.

Some months after this, the hard-hearted father, who had never been

prevailed upon to see him, or offer him the least relief, was taken

off suddenly by a fit of apoplexy; and, after all his threatenings,

he died without a will. He was one of those silly, superstitious

men, who fancy they shall die the sooner for having made one; and

who love the world and the things that are in the world so dearly,

that they dread to set about any business which may put them in mind

that they are not always to live in it. As, by this neglect, his

father had not fulfilled his threat of cutting him off with a

shilling, Jack, of course, went shares with his brothers in what

their father left. What fell to him proved to be just enough to

discharge him from prison, and to pay all his debts, but he had

nothing left. His joy at being thus enabled to make restitution was

so great that he thought little of his own wants. He did not desire

to conceal the most trifling debt, nor to keep a shilling for

himself.

Mr. Stock undertook to settle all his affairs. There did not remain

money enough after every creditor was satisfied, even to pay for his

removal home. Mr. Stock kindly sent his own cart for him with a bed

in it, made as comfortable as possible, for he was too weak and lame

to be removed any other way, and Mrs. Stock gave the driver

particular charge to be tender and careful of him, and not to drive

hard, nor to leave the cart a moment.

Mr. Stock would fain have taken him into his own house, at least for

a time, so convinced was he of the sincere reformation both of

heart and life; but Brown would not be prevailed on to be further

burdensome to this generous friend. He insisted on being carried to

the parish work-house, which he said was a far better place than he

deserved. In this house Mr. Stock furnished a small room for him,

and sent him every day a morsel of meat from his own dinner. Tommy

Williams begged that he might always be allowed to carry it, as some

atonement for his having for a moment so far forgotten his duty, as

rather to rejoice than sympathize in Brown's misfortunes. He never

thought of the fault without sorrow, and often thanked his master

for the wholesome lesson he then gave him, and he was the better for

it all his life.

Mrs. Stock often carried poor Brown a dish of tea, or a basin of

good broth herself. He was quite a cripple, and never able to walk

out as long as he lived. Mr. Stock, Will Simpson, and Tommy Williams

laid their heads together, and contrived a sort of barrow on which

he was often carried to church by some of his poor neighbors, of

which Tommy was always one; and he requited their kindness, by

reading a good book to them whenever they would call in; and he

spent his time in teaching their children to sing psalms or say the

catechism.

It was no small joy to him thus to be enabled to go to church.

Whenever he was carried by the Grayhound, he was much moved, and

used to put up a prayer full of repentance for the past, and praise

for the present.

PART V.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN JAMES STOCK AND WILL SIMPSON, THE SHOEMAKERS, AS

THEY SAT AT WORK, ON THE DUTY OF CARRYING RELIGION INTO OUR COMMON

BUSINESS.

James Stock, and his journeyman Will Simpson, as I informed my

readers in the second part, had resolved to work together one hour

every evening, in order to pay for Tommy Williams's schooling. This

circumstance brought them to be a good deal together when the rest

of the men were gone home. Now it happened that Mr. Stock had a

pleasant way of endeavoring to turn all common events to some use;

and he thought it right on the present occasion to make the only

return in his power to Will Simpson for his great kindness. For,

said he, if Will gives up so much of his time to help to provide for

this poor boy, it is the least I can do to try to turn part of that

time to the purpose of promoting Will's spiritual good. Now as the

bent of Stock's own mind was religion, it was easy to him to lead

their talk to something profitable. He always took especial care,

however, that the subject should be introduced properly, cheerfully,

and without constraint. As he well knew that great good may be

sometimes done by a prudent attention in seizing proper

opportunities, so he knew that the cause of piety had been sometimes

hurt by forcing serious subjects where there was clearly no

disposition to receive them. I say he had found out that two things

were necessary to the promoting of religion among his friends; a

warm zeal to be always on the watch for occasions, and a cool

judgment to distinguish which was the right time and place to make

use of them. To know _how_ to do good is a great matter, but to know

_when_ to do it is no small one.

Simpson was an honest, good-natured, young man; he was now become

sober, and rather religiously disposed. But he was ignorant; he did

not know much of the grounds of religion, or of the corruption of

his own nature. He was regular at church, but was first drawn

thither rather by his skill in psalm-singing than by any great

devotion. He had left off going to the Grayhound, and often read the

Bible, or some other good book on the Sunday evening. This he

thought was quite enough; he thought the Bible was the prettiest

history book in the world, and that religion was a very good thing

for Sundays. But he did not much understand what business people had

with it on working days. He had left off drinking because it had

brought Williams to the grave, and his wife to dirt and rags; but

not because he himself had seen the evil of sin. He now considered

swearing and Sabbath-breaking as scandalous and indecent, but he had

not found out that both were to be left off because they are highly

offensive to God, and grieve his Holy Spirit. As Simpson was less

self-conceited than most ignorant people are, Stock had always a

good hope that when he should come to be better acquainted with the

word of God, and with the evil of his own heart, he would become one

day a good Christian. The great hinderance to this was, that he

fancied himself so already.

One evening Simpson had been calling to Stock's mind how disorderly

the house and shop, where they were now sitting quietly at work, had

formerly been, and he went on thus:

_Will._ How comfortably we live now, master, to what we used to do

in Williams's time! I used then never to be happy but when we were

keeping it up all night, but now I am as Merry as the day is long. I

find I am twice as happy since I am grown good and sober.

_Stock._ I am glad you are happy, Will, and I rejoice that you are

sober; but I would not have you take too much pride in your own

_goodness_, for fear it should become a sin, almost as great as some

of those you have left off. Besides, I would not have you make quite

so sure that you _are_ good.

_Will._ Not good, master! Why, don't you find me regular and orderly

at work?

_Stock._ Very much so; and accordingly I have a great respect for

you.

_Will._ I pay every one his own, seldom miss church, have not been

drunk since Williams died, have handsome clothes for Sundays, and

save a trifle every week.

_Stock._ Very true, and very laudable it is; and to all this you may

add that you very generously work an hour for poor Tommy's

education, every evening without fee or reward.

_Will._ Well, master, what can a man do more? If all this is not

being good, I don't know what is.

_Stock._ All these things are very right, as far as they go, and you

could not well be a Christian without doing them. But I shall make

you stare, perhaps, when I tell you, you may do all these things,

and many more, and yet be no Christian.

_Will._ No Christian! Surely, master, I do hope that after all I

have done, you will not be so unkind as to say I am no Christian?

_Stock._ God forbid that I should say so, Will. I hope better things

of you. But come now, what do you think it is to be a Christian?

_Will._ What! why to be christened when one is a child; to learn the

catechism when one can read; to be confirmed when one is a youth;

and to go to church when one is a man.

_Stock._ These are all very proper things, and quite necessary.

They make part of a Christian's life. But for all that, a man may be

exact in them all, and yet not be a Christian.

_Will._ Not be a Christian! ha! ha! ha! you are very comical,

master.

_Stock._ No, indeed, I am very serious, Will. At this rate it would

be a very easy thing to be a Christian, and every man who went

through certain forms would be a good man; and one man who observed

those forms would be as good as another. Whereas, if we come to

examine ourselves by the word of God, I am afraid there are but few

comparatively whom our Saviour would allow to be real Christians.

What is your notion of a Christian's practice?

_Will._ Why, he must not rob, nor murder, nor get drunk. He must

avoid scandalous things, and do as other decent orderly people do.

_Stock._ It is easy enough to be what the world calls a Christian,

but not to be what the Bible calls so.

_Will._ Why, master, we working men are not expected to be saints,

and martyrs, and apostles, and ministers.

Stock. We are not. And yet, Will, there are not two sorts of

Christianity; we are called to practice the same religion which they

practiced, and something of the same spirit is expected in us which

we reverence in them. It was not saints and martyrs only to whom our

Saviour said that they must _crucify the world, with its affections

and lusts_. We are called to _be holy_ in our measure and degree, as

_he who hath called us is holy_. It was not only saints and martyrs

who were told that they must be _like-minded with Christ_. That

_they must do all to the glory of God_. That _they must renounce the

spirit of the world, and deny themselves_. It was not to apostles

only that Christ said, _They must have their conversation in

heaven_. It was not to a few holy men, set apart for the altar, that

he said, _They must set their affections on things above_. That

_they must not be conformed to the world_. No, it was to fishermen,

to publicans, to farmers, to day-laborers, to poor tradesmen, that

he spoke when he told them, they must _love not the world nor the

things of the world. That they must renounce the hidden things of

dishonesty, grow in grace, lay up for themselves treasures in

Heaven._

_Will._ All this might be very proper for _them_ to be taught,

because they had not been bred up Christians, but heathens or Jews:

and Christ wanted to make them his followers, that is, Christians.

But thank God we do not want to be taught all this, for we _are_

Christians, born in a Christian country, of Christian parents.

_Stock._ I suppose, then, you fancy that Christianity comes to

people in a Christian country by nature?

_Will._ I think it comes by a good education, or a good example.

When a fellow who has got any sense, sees a man cut off in his prime

by drinking, like Williams, I think he will begin to leave it off.

When he sees another man respected, like you, master, for honesty

and sobriety, and going to church, why he will grow honest, and

sober, and go to church: that is, he will see it his advantage to be

a Christian.

_Stock._ Will, what you say is the truth, but 'tis not the whole

truth. You are right as far as you go, but you do not go far enough.

The worldly advantages of piety, are, as you suppose, in general

great. Credit, prosperity, and health, almost naturally attend on a

religious life, both because a religious life supposes a sober and

industrious life, and because a man who lives in a course of duty

puts himself in the way of God's blessing. But a true Christian has

a still higher aim in view, and will follow religion even under

circumstances when it may hurt his credit and ruin his prosperity,

if it should ever happen to be the will of God that he should be

brought into such a trying state.

_Will._ Well, master, to speak the truth, if I go to church on

Sundays, and follow my work in the week, I must say I think that is

being good.

_Stock._ I agree with you, that he who does both, gives the best

outward signs that he is good, as you call it. But our going to

church, and even reading the Bible, are no proofs that we are as

good as we need be, but rather that we do both these in order to

make us better than we are. We do both on Sundays, as means, by

God's blessing, to make us better all the week. We are to bring the

fruits of that chapter or of that sermon into our daily life, and

try to get our inmost heart and secret thoughts, as well as our

daily conduct, amended by them.

_Will._ Why, sure, master, you won't be so unreasonable as to want a

body to be religious always? I can't do that, neither. I'm not such

a hypocrite as to pretend to it.

_Stock._ Yes, you can be so in every action of your life.

_Will._ What, master! always to be thinking about religion?

_Stock._ No, far from it, Will; much less to be always talking about

it. But you must be always under its power and spirit.

_Will._ But surely 'tis pretty well if I do this when I go to

church; or while I am saying my prayers. Even you, master, as strict

as you are, would not have me always on my knees, nor always at

church, I suppose: for then how would your work be carried on? and

how would our town be supplied with shoes?

_Stock._ Very true, Will. 'Twould be no proof of our religion to let

our customers go barefoot; but 'twould be a proof of our laziness,

and we should starve, as we ought to do. The business of the world

must not only be carried on, but carried on with spirit and

activity. We have the same authority for not being _slothful in

business_, as we have for being _fervent in spirit_. Religion has

put godliness and laziness as wide asunder as any two things in the

world; and what God has separated let no man pretend to join.

Indeed, the spirit of religion can have no fellowship with sloth,

indolence, and self-indulgence. But still, a Christian does not

carry on his common trade quite like another man, neither; for

something of the spirit which he labors to attain at church, he

carries with him into his worldly concerns. While there are some

that set up for Sunday Christians, who have no notion that they are

bound to be week-day Christians too.

_Will._ Why, master, I do think, if God Almighty is contented with

one day in seven, he won't thank you for throwing him the other six

into the bargain. I thought he gave us them for our own use; and I

am sure nobody works harder all the week than you do.

_Stock._ God, it is true, sets apart one day in seven for actual

rest from labor, and for more immediate devotion to his service. But

show me that text wherein he says, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God

on _Sundays_--Thou shalt keep my commandments on the _Sabbath

day_--To be carnally minded on _Sundays, is death_--Cease to do

evil, and learn to do well _one day in seven_--Grow in grace on the

_Lord's day_--Is there any such text?

_Will._ No, to be sure there is not; for that would be encouraging

sin on all the other days.

_Stock._ Yes, just as you do when you make religion a thing for the

church, and not for the world. There is no one lawful calling, in

pursuing which we may not serve God acceptably. You and I may serve

him while we are stitching this pair of boots. Farmer Furrow, while

he is plowing yonder field. Betsy West, over the way, while she is

nursing her sick mother. Neighbor Incle, in measuring out his tapes

and ribands. I say all these may serve God just as acceptably in

those employments as at church; I had almost said more so.

_Will._ Ay, indeed; how can that be? Now you're too much on t'other

side.

_Stock._ Because a man's trials in trade being often greater, they

give him fresh means of glorifying God, and proving the sincerity of

religion. A man who mixes in business, is naturally brought into

continual temptations and difficulties. These will lead him, if he

be a good man, to look more to God, than he perhaps would otherwise

do; he sees temptations on the right hand and on the left; he knows

that there are snares all around him: this makes him watchful; he

feels that the enemy within is too ready to betray him: this makes

him humble himself; while a sense of his own difficulties makes him

tender to the failings of others.

_Will._ Then you would make one believe, after all, that trade or

business must be sinful in itself, since it brings a man into all

these snares and scrapes.

_Stock._ No, no, Will; trade and business don't create evil

passions--they were in the heart before--only now and then they seem

to lie snug a little--our concerns with the world bring them out

into action a little more, and thus show both others and ourselves

what we really are. But then as the world offers more trials on the

one hand, so on the other it holds out more duties. If we are called

to battle oftener, we have more opportunities of victory. Every

temptation resisted, is an enemy subdued; and _he that ruleth his

own spirit, is better than he that taketh a city_.

_Will._ I don't quite understand you, master.

_Stock._ I will try to explain myself. There is no passion more

called out by the transactions of trade than covetousness. Now, 'tis

impossible to withstand such a master sin as that, without carrying

a good deal of the spirit of religion into one's trade.

_Will._ Well, I own I don't yet see how I am to be religious when

I'm hard at work, or busy settling an account. I can't do two things

at once; 'tis as if I were to pretend to make a shoe and cut out a

boot at the same moment.

_Stock._ I tell you both must subsist together. Nay, the one must be

the motive to the other. God commands us to be industrious, and if

we love him, the desire of pleasing him should be the main spring of

our industry.

_Will._ I don't see how I can always be thinking about pleasing God.

_Stock._ Suppose, now, a man had a wife and children whom he loved,

and wished to serve; would he not be often thinking about them while

he was at work? and though he would not be _always_ thinking nor

always talking about them, yet would not the very love he bore them

be a constant spur to his industry? He would always be pursuing the

same course from the same motive, though his words and even his

thoughts must often be taken up in the common transactions of life.

_Will._ I say first one, then the other; now for labor, now for

religion.

_Stock._ I will show that both must go together. I will suppose

you were going to buy so many skins of our currier--that is quite a

worldly transaction--you can't see what a spirit of religion has to

do with buying a few calves' skins. Now, I tell you it has a great

deal to do with it. Covetousness, a desire to make a good bargain,

may rise up in your heart. Selfishness, a spirit of monopoly, a

wish to get all, in order to distress others; these are evil

desires, and must be subdued. Some opportunity of unfair gain

offers, in which there may be much sin, and yet little scandal.

Here a Christian will stop short; he will recollect, _That he who

maketh haste to be rich shall hardly be innocent_. Perhaps the sin

may be on the side of your dealer--_he_ may want to overreach

_you_--this is provoking--you are tempted to violent anger, perhaps

to swear; here is a fresh demand on you for a spirit of patience

and moderation, as there was before for a spirit of justice and

self-denial. If, by God's grace, you get the victory over these

temptations, you are the better man for having been called out to

them; always provided, that the temptations be not of your own

seeking. If you give way, and sink under these temptations, don't

go and say trade and business have made you covetous, passionate

and profane. No, no; depend upon it, you were so before; you would

have had all these evil seeds lurking in your heart, if you had

been loitering about at home and doing nothing, with the additional

sin of idleness into the bargain. When you are busy, the devil

often tempts you; when you are idle, you tempt the devil. If

business and the world call these evil tempers into action,

business and the world call that religion into action too which

teaches us to resist them. And in this you see the week-day fruit

of the Sunday's piety. 'Tis trade and business in the week which

call us to put our Sunday readings, praying, and church-going into

practice.

_Will._ Well, master, you have a comical way, somehow, of coming

over one. I never should have thought there would have been any

religion wanted in buying and selling a few calves' skins. But I

begin to see there is a good deal in what you say. And, whenever I

am doing a common action, I will try to remember that it must be

done _after a godly sort_.

_Stock._ I hear the clock strike nine--let us leave off our work. I

will only observe further, that one good end of our bringing

religion into our business is, to put us in mind not to undertake

more business than we can carry on consistently with our religion. I

shall never commend that man's diligence, though it is often

commended by the world, who is not diligent about the salvation of

his soul. We are as much forbidden to be overcharged with the

_cares_ of life, as with its _pleasures_. I only wish to prove to

you, that a discreet Christian may be wise for both worlds; that he

may employ his hands without entangling his soul, and labor for the

meat that perisheth, without neglecting that which endureth unto

eternal life; that he may be prudent for time while he is wise for

eternity.

PART VI.

DIALOGUE THE SECOND. ON THE DUTY OF CARRYING RELIGION INTO OUR

AMUSEMENTS.

The next evening Will Simpson being got first to his work, Mr. Stock

found him singing very cheerfully over his last. His master's

entrance did not prevent his finishing his song, which concluded

with these words:

"Since life is no more than a passage at best,

Let us strew the way over with flowers."

When Will had concluded his song, he turned to Mr. Stock, and said,

"I thank you, master, for first putting it into my head how wicked

it is to sing profane and indecent songs. I never sing any now which

have any wicked words in them."

_Stock._ I am glad to hear it. So far you do well. But there are

other things as bad as wicked words, nay worse perhaps, though they

do not so much shock the ear of decency.

_Will._ What is that, master? What can be so bad as wicked words?

_Stock._ Wicked _thoughts_, Will. Which thoughts, when they are

covered with smooth words, and dressed out in pleasing rhymes, so as

not to shock modest young people by the sound, do more harm to their

principles, than those songs of which the words are so gross and

disgusting, that no person of common decency can for a moment listen

to them.

_Will._ Well, master, I am sure that was a very pretty song I was

singing when you came in, and a song which very sober, good people

sing.

_Stock._ Do they? Then I will be bold to say that singing such songs

is no part of their goodness. I heard indeed but two lines of it,

but they were so heathenish that I desire to hear no more.

_Will._ Now you are really too hard. What harm could there be in it?

There was not one indecent word.

_Stock._ I own, indeed, that indecent words are particularly

offensive. But, as I said before, though immodest expressions offend

the ear more, they do not corrupt the heart, perhaps, much more than

songs of which the words are decent, and the principle vicious. In

the latter case, because there is nothing that shocks his ear, a man

listens till the sentiment has so corrupted his heart, that his ears

grow hardened too; by long custom he loses all sense of the danger

of profane diversions; and I must say I have often heard young women

of character sing songs in company, which I should be ashamed to

read by myself. But come, as we work, let us talk over this business

a little; and first let us stick to this sober song of yours, that

you boast so much about. (_repeats_)

"Since life is no more than a passage at best,

Let us strew the way over with flowers."

Now what do you learn by this?

_Will._ Why, master, I don't pretend to learn much by it. But 'tis a

pretty tune and pretty words.

_Stock._ But what do these pretty words mean?

_Will._ That we must make ourselves merry because life is short.

_Stock._ Will! Of what religion are you?

_Will._ You are always asking one such odd questions, master; why a

Christian, to be sure.

_Stock._ If I often ask you or others this question, it is only

because I like to know what grounds I am to go upon when I am

talking with you or them. I conceive that there are in this country

two sorts of people, Christians and no Christians. Now, if people

profess to be of this first description, I expect one kind of

notions, opinions, and behavior from them; if they say they are of

the latter, then I look for another set of notions and actions from

them. I compel no man to think with me. I take every man at his

word. I only expect him to think and believe according to the

character he takes upon himself, and to act on the principles of

that character which he professes to maintain.

_Will._ That's fair enough--I can't say but it is--to take a man at

his own word, and on his own grounds.

_Stock._ Well then. Of whom does the Scripture speak when it says,

_Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die_?

_Will._ Why of heathens, to be sure, not of Christians.

_Stock._ And of whom when it says, _Let us crown ourselves with

rosebuds before they are withered_?

_Will._ O, that is Solomon's worldly fool.

_Stock._ You disapprove of both, then.

_Will._ To be sure I do. I should not be a Christian if I did not.

_Stock._ And yet, though a Christian, you are admiring the very same

thought in the song you were singing. How do you reconcile this?

_Will._ O, there is no comparison between them. These several texts

are designed to describe loose, wicked heathens. Now I learn texts

as part of my religion. But religion, you know, has nothing to do

with a song. I sing a song for my pleasure.

_Stock._ In our last night's talk, Will, I endeavored to prove to

you that religion was to be brought into our _business_. I wish now

to let you see that it is to be brought into our _pleasure_ also.

And that he who is really a Christian, must be a Christian in his

very diversions.

_Will._ Now you are too strict again, master; as you last night

declared, that in our business you would not have us always praying,

so I hope that in our pleasure you would not have us always

psalm-singing. I hope you would not have all one's singing to be

about good things.

_Stock._ Not so, Will; but I would not have any part either of our

business or our pleasure to be about evil things. It is one thing to

be singing _about_ religion, it is another thing to be singing

_against_ it. Saint Peter, I fancy, would not much have approved

your favorite song. He, at least seemed to have another view of the

matter, when he said, _The end of all things is at hand_. Now this

text teaches much the same awful truth with the first line of your

song. But let us see to what different purposes the apostle and the

poet turn the very same thought. Your song says, because life is so

short, let us make it merry. Let us divert ourselves so much on the

road, that we may forget the end. Now what says the apostle,

_Because the end of all things is at hand be ye therefore sober and

watch unto prayer_.

_Will._ Why, master, I like to be sober too, and have left off

drinking. But still I never thought that we were obliged to carry

texts out of the Bible to try the soundness of a song; and to enable

us to judge if we might be both merry and wise in singing it.

_Stock._ Providence has not so stinted our enjoyments, Will, but he

has left us many subjects of harmless merriment; but, for my own

part, I am never certain that any one is quite harmless till I have

tried it by this rule that you seem to think so strict. There is

another favorite catch which I heard you and some of the workmen

humming yesterday.

_Will._ I will prove to you that there is not a word of harm in

_that_; pray listen now. (_sings._)

"Which is the best day to drink--Sunday, Monday,

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday?"

_Stock._ Now, Will, do you really find you unwillingness to drink is

so great that you stand in need of all these incentives to provoke

you to it? Do you not find temptation strong enough without exciting

your inclinations, and whetting your appetites in this manner? Can

any thing be more unchristian than to persuade youth by pleasant

words, set to the most alluring music, that the pleasures of

drinking are so great, that every day in the week, naming them all

successively, by way of fixing and enlarging the idea, is equally

fit, equally proper, and equally delightful, for what?--for the low

and sensual purpose of getting drunk. Tell me, Will, are you so

_very_ averse to pleasure? Are you naturally so cold and dead to all

passion and temptation, that you really find it necessary to inflame

your imagination, and disorder your senses, in order to excite a

quicker relish for the pleasure of sin?

_Will._ All this is true enough, indeed; but I never saw it in this

light before.

_Stock._ As I passed by the Grayhound last night, in my way to my

evening's walk in the fields, I caught this one verse of a song

which the club were singing:

"Bring the flask, the music bring,

Joy shall quickly find us;

Drink, and dance, and laugh, and sing,

And cast dull care behind us."

When I got into the fields, I could not forbear comparing this song

with the second lesson last Sunday evening at church; these were the

words: _Take heed lest at any time your heart be overcharged with

drunkenness, and so that day come upon you unawares, for as a snare

shall it come upon all them that are on the face of the earth._

_Will._ Why, to be sure, if the second lesson was right, the song

must be wrong.

_Stock._ I ran over in my mind also a comparison between such songs

as that which begins with

"Drink, and drive care away,"

with those injunctions of holy writ, _Watch and pray, therefore,

that you enter not into temptation_; and again, _Watch and pray that

you may escape all these things_. I say I compared this with the

song I allude to,

"Drink and drive care away,

Drink and be merry;

You'll ne'er go the faster

To the Stygian ferry."

I compared this with that awful admonition of Scripture how to pass

the time. _Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and

wantonness, but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not

provision for the flesh to fulfill the lusts thereof._

_Will._ I am afraid then, master, you would not much approve of what

I used to think a very pretty song, which begins with,

"A plague on those musty old lubbers

Who teach us to fast and to think."

_Stock._ Will, what would you think of any one who should sit down

and write a book or a song to abuse the clergy?

_Will._ Why I should think he was a very wicked fellow, and I hope

no one would look into such a book, or sing such a song.

_Stock._ And yet it must certainly be the clergy who are scoffed at

in that verse, it being their professed business to teach us to

think and be serious.

_Will._ Ay, master, and now you have opened my eyes, I think I can

make some of those comparisons myself between the spirit of the

Bible, and the spirit of these songs.

"Bring the flask, the goblet bring,"

won't stand very well in company with the threat of the prophet:

_Woe unto them that rise early, that they may mingle strong drink._

_Stock._ Ay, Will; and these thoughtless people who live up to their

singing, seem to be the very people described in another place as

glorying in their intemperance, and acting what their songs

describe: _They look at the wine and say it is red, it moveth itself

aright in the cup._

_Will._ I do hope I shall for the future not only become more

careful what songs I sing myself, but also not to keep company with

those who sing nothing else but what in my sober judgment I now see

to be wrong.

_Stock._ As we shall have no _body_ in the world to come, it is a

pity not only to make our pleasures here consist entirely in the

delights of animal life, but to make our very songs consist in

extolling and exalting those delights which are unworthy of the man

as well as of the Christian. If, through temptation or weakness, we

fall into errors, let us not establish and confirm them by picking

up all the songs and scraps of verses which excuse, justify, and

commend sin. That time is short, is a reason given by these

song-mongers why we should give into greater indulgences. That time

is short, is a reason given by the apostle why we should enjoy our

dearest comforts as if we enjoyed them not.

Now, Will, I hope you will see the importance of so managing, that

our diversions (for diversions of some kind we all require), may be

as carefully chosen as our other employments. For to make them such

as effectually drive out of our minds all that the Bible and the

minister have been putting into them, seems to me as imprudent as it

is unchristian. But this is not all. Such sentiments as these songs

contain, set off by the prettiest music, heightened by liquor and

all the noise and spirit of what is called jovial company, all this,

I say, not only puts every thing that is right out of the mind, but

puts every thing that is wrong into it. Such songs, therefore, as

tend to promote levity, thoughtlessness, loose imaginations, false

views of life, forgetfulness of death, contempt of whatever is

serious, and neglect of whatever is sober, whether they be,

love-songs, or drinking-songs, will not, can not be sung by any man

or any woman who makes a serious profession of Christianity.[4]

[4] It is with regret I have lately observed that the fashionable

author and singer of songs more loose, profane, and corrupt, than

any of those here noticed, not only received a prize as the reward

of his important services, but also received the public

acknowledgments of an illustrious society for having contributed

to the happiness of their country.

THE HISTORY OF TOM WHITE,

THE POST BOY.

PART I.

Tom White was one of the best drivers of a post-chaise on the Bath

road. Tom was the son of an honest laborer at a little village in

Wiltshire; he was an active, industrious boy, and as soon as he was

old enough he left his father, who was burdened with a numerous

family, and went to live with Farmer Hodges, a sober, worthy man in

the same village. He drove the wagon all the week; and on Sundays,

though he was now grown up, the farmer required him to attend the

Sunday School, carried on under the inspection of Dr. Shepherd, the

worthy vicar, and always made him read his Bible in the evening

after he had served his cattle; and would have turned him out of his

service if he had ever gone to the ale-house for his own pleasure.

Tom, by carrying some wagon loads of faggots to the Bear inn, at

Devizes, made many acquaintances in the stable-yard. He soon learned

to compare his own carter's frock, and shoes thick set with nails,

with the smart red jackets, and tight boots of the post-boys, and

grew ashamed of his own homely dress; he was resolved to drive a

chaise, to get money, and to see the world. Foolish fellow! he never

considered that, though it is true, a wagoner works hard all day,

yet he gets a quiet evening at home, and undisturbed rest at night.

However, as there must be chaise-boys as well as plow-boys, there

was no great harm in the change. The evil company to which it

exposed him was the chief mischief. He left Farmer Hodges, though

not without sorrow, at quitting so kind a master, and got himself

hired at the Black Bear.

Notwithstanding the temptations to which he was now exposed, Tom's

good education stood by him for some time. At first he was

frightened to hear the oaths and wicked words which are too often

uttered in a stable-yard. However, though he thought it very wrong,

he had not the courage to reprove it, and the next step to being

easy at seeing others sin is to sin ourselves. By degrees he began

to think it manly, and a mark of spirit in others to swear; though

the force of good habits was so strong that at first, when he

ventured to swear himself, it was with fear, and in a low voice. But

he was soon laughed out of his sheepishness, as they called it; and

though he never became so profane and blasphemous as some of his

companions (for he never swore in cool blood, or in mirth, as so

many do), yet he would too often use a dreadful bad word when he was

in a passion with his horses. And here I can not but drop a hint on

the deep folly as well as wickedness, of being in a great rage with

poor beasts, who, not having the gift of reason, can not be moved

like human creatures, with all the wicked words that are said to

them; though these dumb creatures, unhappily, having the gift of

feeling, suffer as much as human creatures can do, at the cruel and

unnecessary beatings given them. Tom had been bred up to think that

drunkenness was a great sin, for he never saw Farmer Hodges drunk in

his life, and where a farmer is sober himself, his men are less

likely to drink, or if they do the master can reprove them with the

better grace.

Tom was not naturally fond of drink, yet for the sake of being

thought merry company, and a hearty fellow, he often drank more than

he ought. As he had been used to go to church twice on Sunday, while

he lived with the farmer (who seldom used his horses on that day,

except to carry his wife to church behind him), Tom felt a little

uneasy when he was sent the very first Sunday a long journey with a

great family; for I can not conceal the truth, that too many

gentlefolks will travel, when there is no necessity for it, on a

Sunday, and when Monday would answer the end just as well. This is a

great grief to all good and sober people, both rich and poor; and it

is still more inexcusable in the great, who have every day at their

command. However, he kept his thoughts to himself, though he could

not now and then help thinking how quietly things were going on at

the farmer's, whose wagoner on a Sunday led as easy a life as if he

had been a gentleman. But he soon lost all thoughts of this kind,

and in time did not know a Sunday from a Monday. Tom went on

prosperously, as it is called, for three or four years, got plenty

of money, but saved not a shilling. As soon as his horses were once

in the stable, whoever would might see them fed for Tom. He had

other fish to fry. Fives, cards, cudgel-playing, laying wagers, and

keeping loose company, each of which he at first disliked, and each

of which he soon learned to practice, ran away with all his money,

and all his spare time; and though he was generally in the way as

soon as the horses were ready (because if there was no driving there

was no pay), yet he did not care whether the carriage was clean or

dirty, if the horses looked well or ill, if the harness was whole,

or the horses were shod. The certainty that the gains of to-morrow

would make up for the extravagance of to-day, made him quite

thoughtless and happy; for he was young, active, and healthy, and

never foresaw that a rainy day might come, when he would want what

he now squandered.

One day, being a little flustered with liquor as he was driving his

return chaise through Brentford, he saw just before him another

empty carriage, driven by one of his acquaintance; he whipped up his

horses, resolving to outstrip the other, and swearing dreadfully

that he would be at the Red Lion first--for a pint--"Done!" cried

the other, "a wager." Both cut and spurred the poor beasts with the

usual fury, as if their credit had been really at stake, or their

lives had depended on that foolish contest. Tom's chaise had now got

up to that of his rival, and they drove along side of each other

with great fury and many imprecations. But in a narrow part Tom's

chaise being in the middle, with his antagonist on one side, and a

cart driving against him on the other, the horses reared, the

carriages got entangled; Tom roared out a great oath to the other to

stop, which he either could not, or would not do, but returned an

horrid imprecation that he would win the wager if he was alive.

Tom's horses took fright, and he himself was thrown to the ground

with great violence. As soon as he could be got from under the

wheels, he was taken up senseless, his leg was broken in two places,

and his body was much bruised. Some people whom the noise had

brought together, put him in the post-chaise in which the wagoner

kindly assisted, but the other driver seemed careless and

indifferent, and drove off, observing with a brutal coolness, "I am

sorry I have lost my pint; I should have beat him hollow, had it not

been for this _little accident_." Some gentlemen who came out of the

inn, after reprimanding this savage, inquired who he was, wrote to

inform his master, and got him discharged: resolving that neither

they nor any of their friends would ever employ him, and he was

long out of place, and nobody ever cared to be driven by him.

Tom was taken to one of those excellent hospitals with which London

abounds. His agonies were dreadful, his leg was set, and a high

fever came on. As soon as he was left alone to reflect on his

condition; his first thought was that he should die, and his horror

was inconceivable. Alas! said he, what will become of my poor soul?

I am cut off in the very commission of three great sins: I was

drunk, I was in a horrible passion, and I had oaths and blasphemies

in my mouth. He tried to pray, but he could not; his mind was all

distraction, and he thought he was so very wicked that God would not

forgive him; because, said he, I have sinned against light and

knowledge; I have had a sober education, and good examples; I was

bred in the fear of God, and the knowledge of Christ, and I deserve

nothing but punishment. At length he grew light-headed, and there

was little hope of his life. Whenever he came to his senses for a

few minutes, he cried out, O! that my old companions could now see

me, surely they would take warning by my sad fate, and repent before

it is too late.

By the blessing of God on the skill of the surgeon, and the care of

the nurses, he however grew better in a few days. And here let me

stop to remark, what a mercy it is that we live in a Christian

country, where the poor, when sick, or lame, or wounded, are taken

as much care of as any gentry: nay, in some respects more, because

in hospitals and infirmaries there are more doctors and surgeons to

attend, than most private gentlefolks can afford to have at their

own houses, whereas _there never was a hospital in the whole heathen

world_. Blessed be God for this, among the thousand other excellent

fruits of the Christian religion! A religion which, like its Divine

founder, while its grand object is the salvation of men's souls,

teaches us also to relieve their bodily wants. It directs us never

to forget that He who forgave sins, healed diseases, and while He

preached the Gospel, fed the multitude.

It was eight weeks before Tom could be taken out of bed. This was a

happy affliction; for by the grace of God, this long sickness and

solitude gave him time to reflect on his past life. He began

seriously to hate those darling sins which had brought him to the

brink of ruin. He could now pray heartily; he confessed and lamented

his iniquities, with many tears, and began to hope that the mercies

of God, through the merits of a Redeemer, might yet be extended to

him on his sincere repentance. He resolved never more to return to

the same evil courses, but he did not trust in his own strength, but

prayed that God would give him grace for the future, as well as

pardon for the past. He remembered, and he was humbled at the

thought, that he used to have short fits of repentance, and to form

resolutions of amendment, in his wild and thoughtless days; and

often when he had a bad head-ache after a drinking bout, or had lost

his money at all-fours, he vowed never to drink or play again. But

as soon as his head was well and his pockets recruited, he forgot

all his resolutions. And how should it be otherwise? for he trusted

in his own strength, he never prayed to God to strengthen him, nor

ever avoided the next temptation. He thought that amendment was a

thing to be set about at any time; he did not know that _it is the

grace of God which bringeth us to repentance_.

The case was now different. Tom began to find that _his strength was

perfect weakness_, and that he could do nothing without the Divine

assistance, for which he prayed heartily and constantly. He sent

home for his Bible and Prayer-book, which he had not opened for two

years, and which had been given him when he left the Sunday School.

He spent the chief part of his time in reading them, and derived

great comfort, as well as great knowledge, from this employment of

his time. The study of the Bible filled his heart with gratitude to

God, who had not cut him off in the midst of his sins; but had given

him space for repentance; and the agonies he had lately suffered

with his broken leg increased the thankfulness that he had escaped

the more dreadful pain of eternal misery. And here let me remark

what encouragement this is for rich people to give away Bibles and

good books, and not to lose all hope, though, for a time, they see

little or no good effect from it. According to all appearance, Tom's

books were never likely to do him any good, and yet his generous

benefactor, who had cast his bread upon the waters, found it after

many days; for this Bible, which had lain untouched for years, was

at last made the instrument of his reformation. God will work in his

own good time, and in his own way, but _our_ zeal and _our_

exertions are the means by which he commonly chooses to work.

As soon as he got well, and was discharged from the hospital, Tom

began to think he must return to get his bread. At first he had some

scruples about going back to his old employ: but, says he, sensibly

enough, gentlefolks must travel, travelers must have chaises, and

chaises must have drivers; 'tis a very honest calling, and I don't

know that goodness belongs to one sort of business more than to

another; and he who can be good in a state of great temptation,

provided the calling be lawful, and the temptations are not of his

own seeking, and he be diligent in prayer, maybe better than another

man for aught I know: and _all that belongs to us is, to do our duty

in that state of life in which it shall please God to call us_; and

to leave events in God's hand. Tom had rubbed up his catechism at

the hospital, and 'tis a pity that people don't look at their

catechism sometimes when they are grown up; for it is full as good

for men and women as it is for children; nay, better; for though the

answers contained in it are intended for children to _repeat_, yet

the duties enjoined in it are intended for men and woman to put in

_practice_. It is, if I may so speak, the very grammar of

Christianity and of our church, and they who understand every part

of their catechism thoroughly, will not be ignorant of any thing

which a plain Christian need know.

Tom now felt grieved that he was obliged to drive on Sundays. But

people who are in earnest and have their hearts in a thing, can find

helps in all cases. As soon as he had set down his company at their

stage, and had seen his horses fed, says Tom, a man who takes care

of his horses, will generally think it right to let them rest an

hour or two at least. In every town it is a chance but there may be

a church open during part of that time. If the prayers should be

over, I'll try hard for the sermon; and if I dare not stay to the

sermon it is a chance but I may catch the prayers; it is worth

trying for, however; and as I used to think nothing of making a

push, for the sake of getting an hour to gamble, I need not grudge

to take a little pains extraordinary to serve God. By this

watchfulness he soon got to know the hours of service at all the

towns on the road he traveled; and while the horses fed, Tom went to

church; and it became a favorite proverb with him, that _prayers and

provender hinder no man's journey_; and I beg leave to recommend

Tom's maxim to all travelers; whether master or servant, carrier or

coachman.

At first his companions wanted to laugh and make sport of this--but

when they saw that no lad on the road was up so early or worked so

hard as Tom, when they saw no chaise so neat, no glasses so bright,

no harness so tight, no driver so diligent, so clean, or so civil,

they found he was no subject to make sport at. Tom indeed was very

careful in looking after the linch-pins; in never giving his horses

too much water when they were hot; nor, whatever was his haste,

would he ever gallop them up hill, strike them across the head, or

when tired, cut and slash them, or gallop them over the stones, as

soon as he got into town, as some foolish fellows do. What helped to

cure Tom of these bad practices, was the remark he met with in the

Bible, that _a good man is merciful to his beast_. He was much moved

one day on reading the Prophet Jonah, to observe what compassion the

great God of heaven and earth had for poor beasts; for one of the

reasons there given why the Almighty was unwilling to destroy the

great city of Nineveh was, _because there was much cattle in it_.

After this, Tom never could bear to see a wanton stroke inflicted.

Doth God care for horses, said he, and shall man be cruel to them?

Tom soon grew rich for one in his station; for every gentleman on

the road would be driven by no other lad if _careful Tom_ was to be

had. Being diligent, he _got_ a great deal of money; being frugal,

he _spent_ but little; and having no vices, he _wasted_ none, he

soon found out that there was some meaning in that text which says,

that _godliness hath the promise of the life that now is, as well as

that which is to come_: for the same principles which make a man

sober and honest, have also a natural tendency to make him healthy

and rich; while a drunkard and spendthrift can hardly escape being

sick and a beggar. Vice is the parent of misery in both worlds.

After a few years, Tom begged a holiday, and made a visit to his

native village; his good character had got thither before him. He

found his father was dead, but during his long illness Tom had

supplied him with money, and by allowing him a trifle every week,

had had the honest satisfaction of keeping him from the parish.

Farmer Hodges was still living, but being grown old and infirm, he

was desirous to retire from business. He retained a great regard for

his old servant, Tom; and finding he was worth money, and knowing he

knew something of country business, he offered to let him a small

farm at an easy rate, and promised his assistance in the management

for the first year, with the loan of a small sum of money, that he

might set out with a pretty stock. Tom thanked him with tears in his

eyes, went back and took a handsome leave of his master, who made

him a present of a horse and cart, in acknowledgment of his long and

faithful services; for, says he, I have saved many horses by Tom's

care and attention, and I could well afford to do the same by every

servant who did the same by me; and should be a richer man at the

end of every year by the same generosity, provided I could meet with

just and faithful servants who deserve the same rewards. Tom was

soon settled in his new farm, and in less than a year had got every

thing neat and decent about him. Farmer Hodges's long experience and

friendly advice, joined to his own industry and hard labor, soon

brought the farm to great perfection. The regularity, sobriety,

peaceableness, and piety of his daily life, his constant attendance

at church twice every Sunday, and his decent and devout behavior

when there, soon recommended him to the notice of Dr. Shepherd, who

was still living, a pattern of zeal, activity, and benevolence to

all parish priests. The Doctor soon began to hold up Tom, or, as we

must now more properly term him, Mr. Thomas White, to the imitation

of the whole parish, and the frequent and condescending conversation

of this worthy clergyman contributed no less than his preaching to

the improvement of his new parishioner in piety.

Farmer White soon found out that a dairy could not well be carried

on without a mistress, and began to think seriously of marrying; he

prayed to God to direct him in so important a business. He knew that

a tawdry, vain, dressy girl was not likely to make good cheese and

butter, and that a worldly, ungodly woman would make a sad wife and

mistress of a family. He soon heard of a young woman of excellent

character, who had been bred up by the vicar's lady, and still lived

in the family as upper maid. She was prudent, sober, industrious,

and religious. Her neat, modest, and plain appearance at church (for

she was seldom seen any where else out of her master's family), was

an example to all persons in her station, and never failed to

recommend her to strangers, even before they had an opportunity of

knowing the goodness of her character. It was her character,

however, which recommended her to Farmer White. He knew that _favor

is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman that feareth the Lord,

she shall be praised_: ay, and not only praised, but chosen too,

says Farmer White, as he took down his hat from the nail on which it

hung, in order to go and wait on Dr. Shepherd, to break his mind,

and ask his consent; for he thought it would be a very unhandsome

return for all the favors he was receiving from his minister, to

decoy away his faithful servant from her place, without his consent.

This worthy gentleman, though sorry to lose so valuable a member of

his little family, did not scruple a moment about parting with her,

when he found it would be so greatly to her advantage. Tom was

agreeably surprised to hear she had saved fifty pounds by her

frugality. The Doctor married them himself, farmer Hodges being

present.

In the afternoon of the wedding-day, Dr. Shepherd condescended to

call on Farmer and Mrs. White, to give a few words of advice on the

new duties they had entered into; a common custom with him on these

occasions. He often took an opportunity to drop, in the most kind

and tender way, a hint upon the great indecency of making marriages,

christenings, and above all, funerals, days of riot and excess, as

is too often the case in country villages. The expectation that the

vicar might possibly drop in, in his walks, on these festivals,

often restrained excessive drinking, and improper conversation, even

among those who were not restrained by higher motives, as Farmer and

Mrs. White were.

What the Pastor said was always in such a cheerful, good-humored way

that it was sure to increase the pleasure of the day, instead of

damping it. "Well, farmer," said he, "and you, my faithful Sarah,

any other friend might recommend peace and agreement to you on your

marriage; but I, on the contrary, recommend cares and strifes."[5]

The company stared--but Sarah, who knew that her old master was a

facetious gentleman, and always had some meaning behind, looked

serious. "Cares and strife, sir," said the farmer, "what do you

mean?" "I mean," said he, "for the first, that your cares shall be

who shall please God most, and your strifes, who shall serve him

best, and do your duty most faithfully. Thus, all your cares and

strifes being employed to the highest purposes, all petty cares and

worldly strifes shall be at an end.

[5] See Dodd's Sayings.

"Always remember that you have both of you a better friend than each

other." The company stared again, and thought no woman could have so

good a friend as her husband. "As you have chosen each other from

the best motives," continued the Doctor, "you have every reasonable

ground to hope for happiness; but as this world is a soil in which

troubles and misfortunes will spring up; troubles from which you

can not save one another; misfortunes which no human prudence can

avoid: then remember, 'tis the best wisdom to go to that friend who

is always near, always willing, and always able to help you: and

that friend is God."

"Sir," said Farmer White, "I humbly thank you for all your kind

instructions, of which I shall now stand more in need than ever, as

I shall have more duties to fulfill. I hope the remembrance of my

past offenses will keep me humble, and that a sense of my remaining

sin will keep me watchful. I set out in the world, sir, with what is

called a good-natured disposition, but I soon found, to my cost,

that without God's grace, that will carry a man but a little way. A

good temper is a good thing, but nothing but the fear of God can

enable one to bear up against temptation, evil company, and evil

passions. The misfortune of breaking my leg, as I then thought it,

has proved the greatest blessing of my life. It showed me my own

weakness, the value of the Bible, and the goodness of God. How many

of my brother drivers have I seen, since that time, cut off in the

prime of life by drinking, or sudden accident, while I have not only

been spared, but blessed and prospered. O, sir, it would be the joy

of my heart, if some of my old comrades, good-natured, civil fellows

(whom I can't help loving) could see as I have done, the danger of

evil courses before it is too late. Though they may not hearken to

you, sir, or any other minister, they may believe _me_ because I

have been one of them: and I can speak from experience, of the great

difference there is, even as to worldly comfort, between a life of

sobriety and a life of sin. I could tell them, sir, not as a thing I

have read in a book, but as a truth I feel in my own heart, that to

fear God and keep his commandments, will not only bring a man peace

at last, but will make him happy _now_. And I will venture to say,

sir, that all the stocks, pillories, prisons, and gibbets in the

land, though so very needful to keep bad men in order, yet will

never restrain a good man from committing evil half so much as that

single text, _How shall I do this great wickedness, and sin against

God?_" Dr. Shepherd condescended to approve of what the farmer had

said, kindly shook him by the hand, and took leave.

PART II.

THE WAY TO PLENTY; OR, THE SECOND PART OF TOM WHITE. WRITTEN IN

1795, THE YEAR OF SCARCITY.

Tom White, as we have shown in the first part of this history, from

an idle post boy was become a respectable farmer. God had blessed

his industry, and he had prospered in the world. He was sober and

temperate, and, as was the natural consequence, he was active and

healthy. He was industrious and frugal, and he became prosperous in

his circumstances. This is the ordinary course of Providence. But it

is not a certain and necessary rule. _God maketh his sun to shine on

the just and on the unjust._ A man who uses every honest means of

thrift and industry, will, in most cases, find success attend his

labors. But still, the _race is not always to the swift nor the

battle to the strong_. God is sometimes pleased, for wise ends, to

disappoint all the worldly hopes of the most upright man. His corn

may be smitten by a blight; his barns may be consumed by fire; his

cattle may be carried off by distemper. And to these, and other

misfortunes, the good man is as liable as the spendthrift or the

knave. Success is the _common_ reward of industry, but if it were

its _constant_ reward, the industrious would be tempted to look no

further than the present state. They would lose one strong ground of

their faith. It would set aside the Scripture scheme. This world

would then be looked on as a state of reward, instead of trial, and

we should forget to look to a day of final retribution.

Farmer White never took it into his head, that, because he paid his

debts, worked early and late, and ate the bread of carefulness, he

was therefore to come into no misfortune like other folk, but was to

be free from the common trials and troubles of life. He knew that

prosperity was far from being a sure mark of God's favor, and had

read in good books, and especially in the Bible, of the great

poverty and afflictions of the best of men. Though he was no great

scholar, he had sense enough to observe, that a time of public

prosperity was not always a time of public virtue; and he thought

that what was true of a whole nation might be true of one man. So

the more he prospered the more he prayed that prosperity might not

corrupt his heart. And when he saw lately signs of public distress

coming on, he was not half so much frightened as some others were,

because he thought it might do us good in the long run; and he was

in hope that a little poverty might bring on a little penitence. The

great grace he labored after was that of a cheerful submission. He

used to say, that if the Lord's prayer had only contained those four

little words. _Thy will be done_, it would be worth more than the

biggest book in the world without them.

Dr. Shepherd, the worthy vicar (with whom the farmer's wife had

formerly lived as housekeeper), was very fond of taking a walk with

him about his grounds, and he used to say that he learned as much

from the farmer as the farmer did from him. If the Doctor happened

to observe, "I am afraid these long rains will spoil this fine piece

of oats," the farmer would answer, "But then, sir, think how good

it is for the grass." If the Doctor feared the wheat would be but

indifferent, the farmer was sure the rye would turn out well. When

grass failed, he did not doubt but turnips would be plenty. Even for

floods and inundations he would find out some way to justify

Providence. "'Tis better," said he, "to have our lands a little

overflowed, than that the springs should be dried up, and our cattle

faint for lack of water." When the drought came, he thanked God that

the season would be healthy; and the high winds, which frightened

others, he said, served to clear the air. Whoever, or whatever was

wrong, he was always sure that Providence was in the right. And he

used to say, that a man with ever so small an income, if he had but

frugality and temperance, and would cut off all vain desires, and

cast his care upon God, was richer than a lord who was tormented by

vanity and covetousness. When he saw others in the wrong, he did

not, however, abuse them for it, but took care to avoid the same

fault. He had sense and spirit enough to break through many old, but

very bad customs of his neighbors. "If a thing is wrong in itself,"

said he one day to Farmer Hodges, "a whole parish doing it can't

make it right. And as to its being an old custom, why, if it be a

good one, I like it the better for being old, because it has had the

stamp of ages, and the sanction of experience on its worth. But if

it be old as well as bad, that is another reason for my trying to

put an end to it, that we may not mislead our children as our

fathers have misled us."

THE ROOF-RAISING.

Some years after he was settled, he built a large new barn. All the

workmen were looking forward to the usual holiday of roof-raising.

On this occasion it was a custom to give a dinner to the workmen,

with so much liquor after it, that they got so drunk that they not

only lost the remaining half-day's work, but they were not always

able to work the following day.

Mrs. White provided a plentiful dinner for roof-raising, and gave

each man his mug of beer. After a hearty meal they began to grow

clamorous for more drink. The farmer, said, "My lads, I don't grudge

you a few gallons of ale merely for the sake of saving my liquor,

though that is some consideration, especially in these dear times;

but I never will, knowingly, help any man to make a beast of

himself. I am resolved to break through a bad custom. You are now

well refreshed. If you will go cheerfully to your work, you will

have half a day's pay to take on Saturday night more than you would

have if this afternoon were wasted in drunkenness. For this your

families will be better; whereas, were I to give you more liquor,

when you have already had enough, I should help to rob them of their

bread. But I wish to show you, that I have your good at heart full

as much as your profit. If you will now go to work, I will give you

all another mug at night when you leave off. Thus your time will be

saved, your families helped, and my ale will not go to make

reasonable creatures worse than brute beasts."

Here he stopped. "You are in right on't, master," said Tom, the

thatcher; "you are a hearty man, farmer," said John Plane, the

carpenter. "Come along, boys," said Tim Brick, the mason: so they

all went merrily to work, fortified with a good dinner. There was

only one drunken surly fellow that refused; this was Dick Guzzle,

the smith. Dick never works above two or three days in the week, and

spends the others at the Red Lion. He swore, that if the farmer did

not give him as much liquor as he liked at roof-raising, he would

not strike another stroke, but would leave the job unfinished, and

he might get hands where he could. Farmer White took him at his

word, and paid him off directly; glad enough to get rid of such a

sot, whom he had only employed from pity to a large and almost

starving family. When the men came for their mug in the evening, the

farmer brought out the remains of the cold gammon; they made a

hearty supper, and thanked him for having broken through a foolish

custom, which was afterward much left off in that parish, though

Dick would not come into it, and lost most of his work in

consequence.

Farmer White's laborers were often complaining that things were so

dear that they could not buy a bit of meat. He knew it was partly

true, but not entirely; for it was before these very hard times that

their complaints began. One morning he stepped out to see how an

outhouse which he was thatching went on. He was surprised to find

the work at a stand. He walked over to the thatcher's house. "Tom,"

said he, "I desire that piece of work may be finished directly. If a

shower comes my grain will be spoiled." "Indeed, master, I sha'n't

work to-day, nor to-morrow neither," said Tom. "You forget that 'tis

Easter Monday, and to-morrow is Easter Tuesday. And so on Wednesday

I shall thatch away, master. But it is hard if a poor man, who works

all the seasons round, may not enjoy these few holidays, which come

but once a year."

"Tom," said the farmer, "when these days were first put into our

prayer-book, the good men who ordained them to be kept, little

thought that the time would come when _holiday_ should mean

_drunken-day_, and that the seasons which they meant to distinguish

by superior piety, should be converted into seasons of more than

ordinary excess. How much dost think now I shall pay thee for this

piece of thatch?" "Why, you know, master, you have let it to me by

the great. I think between this and to-morrow night, as the weather

is so fine, I could clear about four shillings, after I have paid

my boy; but thatching does not come often, and other work is not so

profitable." "Very well, Tom; and how much now do you think you may

spend in these two holidays?" "Why, master, if the ale is pleasant,

and the company merry, I do not expect to get off for less than

three shillings." "Tom, can you do pounds, shillings, and pence?" "I

can make a little score, master, behind the kitchen-door, with a bit

of chalk, which is as much as I want." "Well, Tom, add the four

shillings you would have earned to the three you intend to spend,

what does that make?" "Let me see! three and four make seven. Seven

shillings, master." "Tom, you often tell me the times are so bad

that you can never buy a bit of meat. Now here is the cost of two

joints at once: to say nothing of the sin of wasting time and

getting drunk." "I never once thought of that," said Tom. "Now,

Tom," said the farmer, "if I were you, I would step over to butcher

Jobbins's, buy a shoulder of mutton, which being left from

Saturday's market you will get a little cheaper. This I would make

my wife bake in a deep dishful of potatoes. I would then go to work,

and when the dinner was ready I would go and enjoy it with my wife

and children; you need not give the mutton to the brats, the

potatoes will have all the gravy, and be very savory for them." "Ay,

but I have got no beer, master, the times are so hard that a poor

man can't afford to brew a drop of drink now as we used to do."

"Times are bad, and malt is very dear, Tom, and yet both don't

prevent you from spending seven shillings in keeping holiday. Now

send for a quart of ale as it is to be a feast: and you will even

then be four shillings richer than if you had gone to the public

house. I would have you put by these four shillings, till you can

add a couple to them; with this I would get a bushel of malt, and my

wife should brew it, and you may take a pint of your own beer at

home of a night, which will do you more good than a gallon at the

Red Lion." "I have a great mind to take your advice, master, but I

shall be made such fun of at the Lion! they will so laugh at me if I

don't go!" "Let those laugh that win, Tom." "But master, I have got

a friend to meet me there." "Then ask your friend to come and eat a

bit of your cold mutton at night, and here is sixpence for another

pot, if you will promise to brew a small cask of your own." "Thank

you, master, and so I will; and I won't go to the Lion. Come boy,

bring the helm, and fetch the ladder." And so Tom was upon the roof

in a twinkling. The barn was thatched, the mutton bought, the beer

brewed, the friend invited, and the holiday enjoyed.

THE SHEEP-SHEARING.

Dr. Shepherd happened to say to Farmer White one day, that there

was nothing that he disliked more than the manner in which

sheep-shearing and harvest-home were kept by some in his parish.

"What," said the good Doctor, "just when we are blessed with a

prosperous gathering in of these natural riches of our land, the

fleece of our flocks; when our barns are crowned with plenty, and

we have, through the divine blessing on our honest labor, reaped

the fruits of the earth in due season; is that very time to be set

apart for ribaldry, and riot, and drunkenness? Do we thank God for

his mercies, by making ourselves unworthy and unfit to enjoy them?

When he crowns the year with his goodness, shall we affront him by

our impiety? It is more than a common insult to his providence; it

is a worse than brutal return to _Him_ who openeth his hand and

filleth all things living with plenteousness."

"I thank you for the hint, sir," said the farmer. "I am resolved to

rejoice though, and others shall rejoice with me: and we will have a

merry night on't."

So Mrs. White dressed a very plentiful supper of meat and pudding;

and spread out two tables. The farmer sat at the head of one,

consisting of some of his neighbors, and all his work-people. At the

other sat his wife, with two long-benches on each side of her. On

these benches sat all the old and infirm poor, especially those who

lived in the work-house, and had no day of festivity to look forward

to in the whole year but this. On the grass, in the little court,

sat the children of his laborers, and of the other poor, whose

employment it had been to gather flowers, and dress and adorn the

horns of the ram; for the farmer did not wish to put an end to an

old custom, if it was innocent. His own children stood by the table,

and he gave them plenty of pudding, which they carried to the

children of the poor, with a little draught of cider to every one.

The farmer, who never sat down without begging a blessing on his

meal, did it with suitable solemnity on the present joyful occasion.

Dr. Shepherd practiced one very useful method, which I dare say was

not peculiar to himself; a method of which I doubt not other country

clergymen have found the advantage. He was often on the watch to

observe those seasons when a number of his parishioners were

assembled together, not only at any season of festivity, but at

their work. He has been known to turn a walk through a hay-field to

good account; and has been found to do as much good by a few

minutes' discourse with a little knot of reapers, as by a Sunday's

sermon. He commonly introduced his religious observations by some

questions relating to their employment; he first gained their

affections by his kindness, and then converted his influence over

them to their soul's good. The interest he took in their worldly

affairs opened their hearts to the reception of those divine truths

which he was always earnest to impress upon them. By these methods

too he got acquainted with their several characters, their

spiritual wants, their individual sins, dangers, and temptations,

which enabled him to preach with more knowledge and successful

application, than those ministers can do who are unacquainted with

the state of their congregations. It was a remark of Dr. Shepherd,

that a thorough acquaintance with human nature was one of the most

important species of knowledge a clergyman could possess.

The sheep-shearing feast, though orderly and decent, was yet hearty

and cheerful. Dr. Shepherd dropped in, with a good deal of company

he had at his house, and they were much pleased. When the Doctor saw

how the aged and infirm poor were enjoying themselves, he was much

moved; he shook the farmer by the hand and said, "But thou, when

thou makest a feast, call the blind, and the lame, and the halt;

they can not recompense thee, but thou shalt be recompensed at the

resurrection of the just."

"Sir," said the farmer, "'tis no great matter of expense; I kill a

sheep of my own; potatoes are as plenty as blackberries, with people

who have a little forethought. I save much more cider in the course

of a year by never allowing any carousing in my kitchen, or

drunkenness in my fields, than would supply many such feasts as

these, so that I shall be never the poorer at Christmas. It is

cheaper to make people happy, sir, than to make them drunk." The

Doctor and the ladies condescended to walk from one table to the

other, and heard many merry stories, but not one profane word, or

one indecent song: so that he was not forced to the painful

necessity either of reproving them, or leaving them in anger. When

all was over, they sung the sixty-fifth Psalm, and the ladies all

joined in it; and when they got home to the vicarage to tea, they

declared they liked it better than any concert.

THE HARD WINTER.

In the famous cold winter of the year 1795, it was edifying to see

how patiently Farmer White bore that long and severe frost. Many of

his sheep were frozen to death, but he thanked God that he had still

many left. He continued to find in-door work that his men might not

be out of employ. The season being so bad, which some others pleaded

as an excuse for turning off their workmen, he thought a fresh

reason for keeping them. Mrs. White was so considerate, that just at

that time she lessened the number of her hogs, that she might have

more whey and skim-milk to assist poor families. Nay, I have known

her to live on boiled meat for a long while together, in a sickly

season, because the pot liquor made such a supply of broth for the

sick poor. As the spring came on, and things grew worse, she never

had a cake, a pie, or a pudding in her house; notwithstanding she

used to have plenty of these good things, and will again, I hope,

when the present scarcity is over; though she says she will never

use such white flour again, even if it should come down to five

shillings a bushel.

All the parish now began to murmur. Farmer Jones was sure the frost

had killed the wheat. Farmer Wilson said the rye would never come

up. Brown, the malster, insisted the barley was dead at the root.

Butcher Jobbins said beef would be a shilling a pound. All declared

there would not be a hop to brew with. The orchards were all

blighted; there would not be apples enough to make a pie; and as to

hay there would be none to be had for love or money. "I'll tell you

what," said Farmer White, "the season is dreadful; the crops

unpromising just now; but 'tis too early to judge. Don't let us make

things worse than they are. We ought to comfort the poor, and you

are driving them to despair. Don't you know how much God was

displeased with the murmurs of his chosen people? And yet, when they

were tired of manna he sent them quails; but all did not do. Nothing

satisfies grumblers. We have a promise on our side, that _there

shall be seed-time and harvest-time to the end_. Let us then hope

for a good day, but provide against an evil one. Let us rather

prevent the evil before it is come upon us, than sink under it when

it comes. Grumbling can not help us; activity can. Let us set about

planting potatoes in every nook and corner, in case the corn

_should_ fail, which, however, I don't believe will be the case. Let

us mend our management before we are driven to it by actual want.

And if we allow our honest laborers to plant a few potatoes for

their families in the headlands of our plowed fields, or other waste

bits of ground, it will do us no harm, and be a great help to them.

The way to lighten the load of any public calamity is not to murmur

at it but put a hand to lessen it."

The farmer had many temptations to send his corn at an extravagant

price to _a certain seaport town_, but as he knew that it was

intended to export it against law, he would not be tempted to

encourage unlawful gain; so he thrashed out a small mow at a time,

and sold it to the neighboring poor far below the market-price. He

served his own workmen first. This was the same to them as if he had

raised their wages, and even better, as it was a benefit of which

their families were sure to partake. If the poor in the next parish

were more distressed than his own, he sold them at the same rate.

For, said he, there is no distinction of parishes in heaven; and

though charity begins at home, yet it ought not to end there.

He had been used in good times now and then to catch a hare or a

partridge, as he was qualified; but he now resolved to give up that

pleasure. So he parted from a couple of spaniels he had: for he

said he could not bear that his dogs should be eating the meat, or

the milk, which so many men, women, and children wanted.

THE WHITE LOAF.

One day, it was about the middle of last July, when things seemed to

be at the dearest, and the rulers of the land had agreed to set the

example of eating nothing but coarse bread, Dr. Shepherd read,

before sermon in the church, their public declaration, which, the

magistrates of the county sent him, and which they had also signed

themselves. Mrs. White, of course, was at church, and commended it

mightily. Next morning the Doctor took a walk over to the farmer's,

in order to settle further plans for the relief of the parish. He

was much surprised to meet Mrs. White's little maid, Sally, with a

very small white loaf, which she had been buying at a shop. He said

nothing to the girl, as he never thought it right to expose the

faults of a mistress to her servants; but walked on, resolving to

give Mrs. White a severe lecture for the first time in his life. He

soon changed his mind, for on going into the kitchen, the first

person he saw was Tom the thatcher, who had had a sad fall from a

ladder; his arm, which was slipped out of his sleeve, was swelled in

a frightful manner. Mrs. White was standing at the dresser making

the little white loaf into a poultice, which she laid upon the

swelling in a large clean old linen cloth.

"I ask your pardon, my good Sarah," said the Doctor; "I ought not,

however appearances were against you, to have suspected that so

humble and prudent a woman as you are, would be led either to

indulge any daintiness of your own, or to fly in the face of your

betters, by eating white bread while they are eating brown. Whenever

I come here, I see it is not needful to be rich in order to be

charitable. A bountiful rich man would have sent Tom to a surgeon,

who would have done no more for him than you have done; for in those

inflammations the most skillful surgeon could only apply a poultice.

Your kindness in dressing the wound yourself, will, I doubt not,

perform the cure at the expense of that threepenny loaf and a little

hog's lard. And I will take care that Tom shall have a good supply

of rice from the subscription." "And he sha'n't want for skim-milk,"

said Mrs. White; "and was he the best lord in the land, in the state

he is in, a dish of good rice milk would be better for him than the

richest meat."

THE PARISH MEETING.

On the tenth of August, the vestry held another meeting, to consult

on the best method of further assisting the poor. The prospect of

abundant crops now cheered every heart. Farmer White, who had a mind

to be a little jocular with his desponding neighbors, said, "Well,

neighbor Jones, all the wheat was killed, I suppose! the barley is

all dead at the root!" Farmer Jones looked sheepish, and said, "To

be sure the crops had turned out better than he thought." "Then,"

said Dr. Shepherd, "let us learn to trust Providence another time;

let our experience of his past goodness strengthen our faith."

Among other things, they agreed to subscribe for a large quantity of

rice, which was to be sold out to the poor at a very low price, and

Mrs. White was so kind as to undertake the trouble of selling it.

After their day's work was over, all who wished to buy at these

reduced rates, were ordered to come to the farm on the Tuesday

evening: Dr. Shepherd dropped in at the same time, and when Mrs.

White had done weighing her rice, the Doctor spoke as follows:

"My honest friends, it has pleased God, for some wise end, to visit

this land with a scarcity, to which we have been but little

accustomed. There are some idle, evil-minded people, who are on the

watch for the public distresses; not that they may humble themselves

under the mighty hand of God (which is the true use to be made of

all troubles) but that they may benefit themselves by disturbing the

public peace. These people, by riot and drunkenness, double the evil

which they pretend to cure. Riot will complete our misfortunes;

while peace, industry, and good management, will go near to cure

them. Bread, to be sure, is uncommonly dear. Among the various ways

of making it cheaper, one is to reduce the quality of it, another to

lessen the quantity we consume. If we can not get enough of coarse

wheaten bread, let us make it of other grain. Or let us mix one half

of potatoes, and one half of wheat. This last is what I eat in my

own family; it is pleasant and wholesome. Our blessed Saviour ate

barley-bread, you know, as we are told in the last month's Sunday

reading of the Cheap Repository,[6] which I hope you have all heard,

as I desired the master of the Sunday School to read it just after

evening service, when I know many of the parents are apt to call in

at the school. This is a good custom, and one of those little books

shall be often read at that time.

[6] See Cheap Repository, Tract on the Scarcity, printed for T.

Evans, Long-lane, West Smithfield, London.

"My good women, I truly feel for you at this time of scarcity; and I

am going to show my good will, as much by my advice as my

subscription. It is my duty, as your friend and minister, to tell

you that one half of your present hardships is owing to _bad

management_. I often meet your children without shoes and stockings,

with great luncheons of the very whitest bread, and that three times

a day. Half that quantity, and still less if it were coarse, put

into a dish of good onion or leek porridge, would make them an

excellent breakfast. Many too, of the very poorest of you, eat your

bread hot from the oven; this makes the difference of one loaf in

five; I assure you 'tis what I can not afford to do. Come, Mrs.

White, you must assist me a little. I am not very knowing in these

matters myself; but I know that the rich would be twice as

charitable as they are, if the poor made a better use of their

bounty. Mrs. White, do give these poor women a little advice how to

make their pittance go further than it now does. When you lived with

me you were famous for making us nice cheap dishes, and I dare say

you are not less notable, now you manage for yourself."

"Indeed, neighbors," said Mrs. White, "what the good Doctor says is

very true. A halfpenny worth of oatmeal, or groats, with a leek or

onion, out of your own garden, which costs nothing, a bit of salt,

and a little coarse bread, will breakfast your whole family. It is a

great mistake at any time to think a bit of meat is so ruinous, and

a great load of bread so cheap. A poor man gets seven or eight

shillings a week; if he is careful he brings it home. I dare not say

how much of this goes for tea in the afternoon, now sugar and butter

are so dear, because I should have you all upon me; but I will say,

that too much of this little goes even for bread, from a mistaken

notion that it is the hardest fare. This, at all times, but

particularly just now, is bad management. Dry peas, to be sure, have

been very dear lately, but now they are plenty enough. I am certain

then, that if a shilling or two of the seven or eight was laid out

for a bit of coarse beef, a sheep's head, or any such thing, it

would be well bestowed. I would throw a couple of pounds of this

into the pot, with two or three handsful of gray peas, an onion, and

a little pepper. Then I would throw in cabbage, or turnip, and

carrot; or any garden stuff that was most plenty; let it stew two or

three hours, and it will make a dish fit for his majesty. The

working men should have the meat; the children don't want it: the

soup will be thick and substantial, and requires no bread."

RICE MILK.

"You who can get skim-milk, as all our workmen can, have a great

advantage. A quart of this, and a quarter of a pound of rice you

have just bought, a little bit of alspice, and brown sugar, will

make a dainty and cheap dish."

"Bless your heart!" muttered Amy Grumble, who looked as dirty as a

cinder-wench, with her face and fingers all daubed with snuff: "rice

milk, indeed! it is very nice to be sure for those that can dress

it, but we have not a bit of coal; rice is no use to us without

firing;" "and yet," said the Doctor, "I see your tea-kettle boiling

twice every day, as I pass by the poor-house, and fresh butter at

thirteen-pence a pound on your shelf." "Oh, dear sir," cried Amy, "a

few sticks serve to boil the tea-kettle." "And a few more," said the

Doctor, "will boil the rice milk, and give twice the nourishment at

a quarter of the expense."

RICE PUDDING.

"Pray, Sarah," said the Doctor, "how did you use to make that

pudding my children were so fond of? And I remember, when it was

cold, we used to have it in the parlor for supper." "Nothing more

easy," said Mrs. White: "I put half a pound of rice, two quarts of

skim-milk, and two ounces of brown sugar." "Well," said the Doctor,

"and how many will this dine?" "Seven or eight, sir." "Very well,

and what will it cost?" "Why, sir, it did not cost you so much,

because we baked at home, and I used our own milk; but it will not

cost above seven-pence to those who pay for both. Here, too, bread

is saved."

"Pray, Sarah, let me put in a word," said Farmer White: "I advise my

men to raise each a large bed of parsnips. They are very nourishing,

and very profitable. Sixpenny worth of seed, well sowed and trod in,

will produce more meals than four sacks of potatoes; and, what is

material to you who have so little ground, it will not require more

than an eighth part of the ground which the four sacks will take.

Providence having contrived by the very formation of this root that

it shall occupy but a very small space. Parsnips are very good the

second day warmed in the frying pan, and a little rasher of pork, or

bacon, will give them a nice flavor."

Dr. Shepherd now said, "As a proof of the nourishing quality of

parsnips, I was reading in a history book this very day, that the

American Indians make a great part of their bread of parsnips,

though Indian corn is so famous; it will make a little variety too."

A CHEAP STEW.

"I remember," said Mrs. White, "a cheap dish, so nice that it makes

my mouth water. I peel some raw potatoes, slice them thin, put the

slices into a deep frying-pan, or pot with a little water, an onion,

and a bit of pepper. Then I get a bone or two of a breast of mutton,

or a little strip of salt pork and put into it. Cover it down close,

keep in the steam, and let it stew for an hour."

"You really give me an appetite, Mrs. White, by your dainty

receipts," said the Doctor. "I am resolved to have this dish at my

own table." "I could tell you another very good dish, and still

cheaper," answered she. "Come, let us have it," cried the Doctor. "I

shall write all down as soon as I get home, and I will favor any

body with a copy of these receipts who will call at my house." "And

I will do more, sir," said Mrs. White, "for I will put any of these

women in the way how to dress it the first time, if they are at a

loss. But this is my dish:

"Take two or three pickled herrings, put them into a stone jar, fill

it up with potatoes, and a little water, and let it bake in the oven

till it is done. I would give one hint more," added she; "I have

taken to use nothing but potatoe starch; and though I say it, that

should not say it, nobody's linen in a common way looks better than

ours."

The Doctor now said, "I am sorry for one hardship which many poor

people labor under: I mean the difficulty of getting a little milk.

I wish all the farmers' wives were as considerate as you are, Mrs.

White. A little milk is a great comfort to the poor, especially when

their children are sick; and I have known it answer to the seller as

well as to the buyer, to keep a cow or two on purpose to sell it by

the quart, instead of making butter and cheese."

"Sir," said Farmer White, "I beg leave to say a word to the men, if

you please, for all your advice goes to the women. If you will drink

less gin, you may get more meat. If you abstain from the ale-house,

you may, many of you, get a little one-way beer at home." "Ay, that

we can, farmer," said poor Tom, the thatcher, who was now got well.

"Easter Monday for that--I say no more. A word to the wise." The

farmer smiled and went on: "The number of public houses in many a

parish, brings on more hunger and rags than all the taxes in it,

heavy as they are. All the other evils put together hardly make up

the sum of that one. We are now making a fresh subscription for you.

This will be our rule of giving: We will not give to sots, gamblers,

and Sabbath-breakers. Those who do not set their young children to

work on week-days, and send them to school and church on Sundays,

deserve little favor. No man should keep a dog till he has more food

than his family wants. If he feeds them at home, they rob his

children; if he starves them, they rob his neighbors. We have heard

in a neighboring city, that some people carried back the

subscription loaves, because they were too coarse; but we hope

better things of you." Here Betty Plane begged, with all humility,

to put in a word. "Certainly," said the Doctor, "we will listen to

all modest complaints, and try to redress them." "You are pleased to

say, sir," said she, "that we might find much comfort from buying

coarse bits of beef. And so we might; but you do not know, sir, that

we could seldom get them, even when we had the money, and times were

so bad." "How so, Betty?" "Sir, when we go to Butcher Jobbins for a

bit of shin, or any other lean piece, his answer is, 'You can't have

it to-day. The cook at the great house has bespoke it for gravy, or

the Doctor's maid (begging your pardon, sir,) has just ordered it

for soup.' Now, if such kind gentlefolk were aware that this gravy

and soup not only consume a great deal of meat--which, to be sure,

those have a right to do who can pay for it--but that it takes away

those coarse pieces which the poor would buy, if they bought at all.

For, indeed, the rich have been very kind, and I don't know what we

should have done without them."

"I thank you for the hint, Betty," said the Doctor, "and I assure

you I will have no more gravy soup. My garden will supply me with

soups that are both wholesomer and better; and I will answer for my

lady at the great house, that she will do the same. I hope this will

become a general rule, and then we shall expect that butchers will

favor you in the prices of the coarse pieces, if _we_ who are rich,

buy nothing but the prime. In our gifts we shall prefer, as the

farmer has told you, those who keep steadily to their work. Such as

come to the vestry for a loaf, and do not come to church for the

sermon, we shall mark; and prefer those who come constantly,

whether there are any gifts or not. But there is one rule from which

we never will depart. Those who have been seen aiding or abetting

any riot, any attack on butchers, bakers, wheat-mows, mills, or

millers, we will not relieve; but with the quiet, contented,

hard-working man, I will share my last morsel of bread. I shall only

add, though it has pleased God to send us this visitation as a

punishment, yet we may convert this short trial into a lasting

blessing, if we all turn over a new leaf. Prosperity has made most

of us careless. The thoughtless profusion of some of the rich could

only be exceeded by the idleness and bad management of some of the

poor. Let us now at last adopt that good old maxim, _every one mend

one_. And may God add his blessing."

The people now cheerfully departed with their rice, resolving, as

many of them as could get milk, to put one of Mrs. White's receipts

in practice, and an excellent supper they had.

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.

I promised, in the _Cure for Melancholy_, to give some account of

the manner in which Mrs. Jones set up her school. She did not much

fear being able to raise the money; but money is of little use,

unless some persons of sense and piety can be found to direct these

institutions. Not that I would discourage those who set them up,

even in the most ordinary manner, and from mere views of worldly

policy. It is something gained to rescue children from idling away

their Sabbaths in the fields or the streets. It is no small thing to

keep them from those to which a day of leisure tempts the idle and

the ignorant. It is something for them to be taught to read; it is

much to be taught to read the Bible, and much, indeed, to be carried

regularly to church. But, all this is not enough. To bring these

institutions to answer their highest end, can only be effected by

God's blessing on the best directed means, the choice of able

teachers, and a diligent attention in some pious gentry to visit and

inspect the schools.

ON RECOMMENDATIONS.

Mrs. Jones had one talent that eminently qualified her to do good,

namely, judgment; this, even in the gay part of her life, had kept

her from many mistakes; but though she had sometimes been deceived

herself, she was very careful not to deceive others, by recommending

people to fill any office for which they were unfit, either through

selfishness or false kindness. She used to say, there is always

some one appropriate quality which every person must possess in

order to fit them for any particular employment. "Even in this

quality," said she to Mr. Simpson, the clergyman, "I do not expect

perfection; but if they are destitute of this, whatever good

qualities they may possess besides, though they may do for some

other employment, they will not do for this. If I want a pair of

shoes, I go to a shoemaker; I do not go to a man of another trade,

however ingenious he may be, to ask him if he can not _contrive_ to

make me a pair of shoes. When I lived in London, I learned to be

much on my guard as to recommendations. I found people often wanted

to impose on me some one who was a burden to themselves. Once, I

remember, when I undertook to get a matron for a hospital, half my

acquaintance had some one to offer me. Mrs. Gibson sent me an old

cook, whom she herself had discharged for wasting her own

provisions; yet she had the conscience to recommend this woman to

take care of the provisions of a large community. Mrs. Gray sent me

a discarded housekeeper, whose constitution had been ruined by

sitting up with Mrs. Gray's gouty husband, but who she yet thought

might do well enough to undergo the fatigue of taking care of a

hundred poor sick people. A third friend sent me a woman who had no

merit but that of being very poor, and it would be charity to

provide for her. The truth is, the lady was obliged to allow her a

small pension till she could get her off her own hands, by turning

her on those of others."

"It is very true, madam," said Mr. Simpson; "the right way is always

to prefer the good of the many to the good of one; if, indeed, it

can be called doing good to any one to place them in a station in

which they must feel unhappy, by not knowing how to discharge the

duties of it. I will tell you how I manage. If the persons

recommended are objects of charity, I privately subscribe to their

wants; I pity and help them, but, I never promote them to a station

for which they are unfit, as I should by so doing hurt a whole

community to help a distressed individual."

Thus Mrs. Jones resolved that the first step toward setting up her

school should be to provide a suitable mistress. The vestry were so

earnest in recommending one woman, that she thought it worth looking

into. On inquiry, she found it was a scheme to take a large family

off the parish; they never considered that a very ignorant woman,

with a family of young children, was, of all others, the most unfit

for a school, all they considered was, that the profits of the

school might enable her to live without parish pay. Mrs. Jones

refused another, though she could read well, and was decent in her

conduct, because she used to send her children to the shop on

Sundays. And she objected to a third, a very sensible woman, because

she was suspected of making an outward profession of religion a

cloak for immoral conduct. Mrs. Jones knew she must not be too nice,

neither; she knew she must put up with many faults at last. "I

know," said she to Mr. Simpson, "the imperfection of every thing

that is human. As the mistress will have much to bear with from the

children, so I expect to have something to bear with in the

mistress; and she and I must submit to our respective trials, by

thinking how much God has to bear with in us all. But there are

certain qualities which are indispensable in certain situations.

There are, in particular, three things which a good school-mistress

must not be without: _good sense_, _activity_, and _piety_. Without

the first, she will mislead others; without the second, she will

neglect them; and without the third, though she may civilize, yet

she will never christianize them."

Mr. Simpson said, "He really knew but of one person in the parish

who was fully likely to answer her purpose: this," continued he,

"is no other than my housekeeper, Mrs. Betty Crew. It will indeed be

a great loss to me to part from her; and to her it will be a far

more fatiguing life than that which she at present leads. But ought

I to put my own personal comfort, or ought Betty to put her own ease

and quiet, in competition with the good of above a hundred children?

This will appear still more important, if we consider the good done

by these institutions, not as _fruit_, but _seed_; if we take into

the account how many yet unborn may become Christians, in

consequence of our making these children Christians; for, how can we

calculate the number which may be hereafter trained for heaven by

those very children we are going to teach, when they themselves

shall become parents, and you and I are dead and forgotten? To be

sure, by parting from Betty, my peas-soup will not be quite so

well-flavored, nor my linen so neatly got up; but the day is fast

approaching, when all this will signify but little; but it will not

signify little whether one hundred immortal souls were the better

for my making this petty sacrifice. Mrs. Crew is a real Christian,

has excellent sense, and had a good education from my mother. She

has also had a little sort of preparatory training for the business;

for, when the poor children come to the parsonage for broth on a

Saturday evening, she is used to appoint them all to come at the

same time; and, after she has filled their pitchers, she ranges them

round her in the garden, and examines them in their catechism. She

is just and fair in dealing out the broth and beef, not making my

favor to the parents depend on the skill of their children; but her

own old caps and ribands, and cast-off clothes, are bestowed as

little rewards on the best scholars. So that, taking the time she

spends in working for them, and the things she gives them, there is

many a lady who does not exceed Mrs. Crew in acts of charity. This

I mention to confirm your notion, that it is not necessary to be

rich in order to do good; a religious upper servant has great

opportunities of this sort, if the master is disposed to encourage

her."

My readers, I trust, need not be informed, that this is that very

Mrs. Betty Crew who assisted Mrs. Jones in teaching poor women to

cut out linen and dress cheap dishes, as related in the _Cure for

Melancholy_. Mrs. Jones, in the following week, got together as many

of the mothers as she could, and spoke to them as follows:

MRS. JONES'S EXHORTATION.

"My good women, on Sunday next I propose to open a school for the

instruction of your children. Those among you who know what it is to

be able to read your Bible, will, I doubt not, rejoice that the same

blessing is held out to your children. You who are _not_ able

yourselves to read what your Saviour has done and suffered for you,

ought to be doubly anxious that your children should reap a blessing

which you have lost. Would not that mother be thought an unnatural

monster who would stand by and snatch out of her child's mouth the

bread which a kind friend had just put into it? But such a mother

would be merciful, compared with her who should rob her children of

the opportunity of learning to read the word of God when it is held

out to them. Remember, that if you slight the present offer, or if,

after having sent your children a few times you should afterward

keep them at home under vain pretenses, you will have to answer for

it at the day of judgment. Let not your poor children, _then_, have

cause to say, 'My fond mother was my worst enemy. I might have been

bred up in the fear of the Lord, and she opposed it for the sake of

giving me a little paltry pleasure. For an idle holiday, I am now

brought to the gates of hell!' My dear women, which of you could

bear to see your darling child condemned to everlasting destruction?

Which of you could bear to hear him accuse you as the cause of it?

Is there any mother here present, who will venture to say, 'I will

doom the children I bore to sin and hell, rather than put them or

myself to a little present pain, by curtailing their evil

inclinations! I will let them spend the Sabbath in ignorance and

idleness, instead of rescuing them from vanity and sin, by sending

them to school?' If there are any such here present, let that mother

who values her child's pleasure more than his soul, now walk away,

while I set down in my list the names of all those who wish to bring

their young ones up in the way that leads to eternal life, instead

of indulging them in the pleasures of sin, which are but for a

moment."

When Mrs. Jones had done speaking, most of the women thanked her for

her good advice, and hoped that God would give them grace to follow

it; promising to send their children constantly. Others, who were

not so well-disposed, were yet afraid to refuse, after the sin of so

doing had been so plainly set before them. The worst of the women

had kept away from this meeting, resolving to set their faces

against the school. Most of those also who were present, as soon as

they got home, set about providing their children with what little

decent apparel they could raise. Many a willing mother lent her tall

daughter her hat, best cap, and white handkerchief; and many a

grateful father spared his linen waistcoat and bettermost hat, to

induce his grown up son to attend; for it is a rule with which Mrs.

Jones began, that she would not receive the younger children out of

any family who did not send their elder ones. Too many made excuses

that their shoes were old, or their hat worn out. But Mrs. Jones

told them not to bring any excuse to her which they could not bring

to the day of judgment; and among those excuses she would hardly

admit any except accidents, sickness or attendance on sick parents

or young children.

SUBSCRIPTIONS.

Mrs. Jones, who had secured large subscriptions from the gentry, was

desirous of getting the help and countenance of the farmers and

trades-people, whose duty and interest she thought it was to support

a plan calculated to improve the virtue and happiness of the parish.

Most of them subscribed, and promised to see that their workmen sent

their children. She met with little opposition till she called on

farmer Hoskins. She told him, as he was the richest farmer in the

parish, she came to him for a handsome subscription. "Subscription!"

said he, "it is nothing but subscriptions, I think; a man, had need

be made of money." "Farmer," said Mrs. Jones, "God has blessed you

with abundant prosperity, and he expects you should be liberal in

proportion to your great ability." "I do not know what you mean by

blessing," said he: "I have been up early and late, lived hard while

I had little, and now when I thought I had got forward in the world,

what with tithes taxes, and subscriptions, it all goes, I think."

"Mr. Hoskins," said Mrs. Jones, "as to tithes and taxes, you well

know that the richer you are the more you pay; so that your murmurs

are a proof of your wealth. This is but an ungrateful return for all

your blessings." "You are again at your blessings," said the farmer;

"but let every one work as hard as I have done, and I dare say he

will do as well. It is to my own industry I owe what I have. My

crops have been good, because I minded my plowing and sowing." "O

farmer!" cried Mrs. Jones, "you forget whose suns and showers make

your crops to grow, and who it is that giveth strength to get

riches. But I do not come to preach, but to beg."

"Well, madam, what is the subscription now? Flannel or French? or

weavers, or Swiss, or a new church, or large bread, or cheap rice?

or what other new whim-wham for getting the money out of one's

pocket?" "I am going to establish a Sunday School, farmer; and I

come to you as one of the principal inhabitants of the parish,

hoping your example will spur on the rest to give." "Why, then,"

said the farmer, "as one of the principal inhabitants of the parish,

I will give nothing; hoping it will spur on the rest to refuse. Of

all the foolish inventions, and new fangled devices to ruin the

country, that of teaching the poor to read is the very worst." "And

I, farmer, think that to teach good principles to the lower classes,

is the most likely way to save the country. Now, in order to this,

we must teach them to read." "Not with my consent, nor my money,"

said the farmer; "for I know it always does more harm than good."

"So it may," said Mrs. Jones, "if you only teach them to read, and

then turn them adrift to find out books for themselves.[7] There is

a proneness in the heart to evil, which it is our duty to oppose,

and which I see you are promoting. Only look round your own kitchen;

I am ashamed to see it hung round with loose songs and ballads. I

grant, indeed, it would be better for young men and maids, and even

your daughters, not to be able to read at all, than to read such

stuff as this. But if, when they ask for bread, you will give them a

stone, nay worse, a serpent, yours is the blame." Then taking up a

penny-book which had a very loose title, she went on: "I do not

wonder, if you, who read such books as these, think it safer that

people should not read at all." The farmer grinned, and said, "It is

hard if a man of my substance may not divert himself; when a bit of

fun costs only a penny, and a man can spare that penny, there is no

harm done. When it is very hot, or very wet, and I come in to rest,

and have drunk my mug of cider, I like to take up a bit of a

jest-book, or a comical story, to make me laugh."

[7] It was this consideration chiefly, which stimulated the

conductors of the Cheap Repository to send forth that variety of

little books so peculiarly suited to the young. They considered

that by means of Sunday Schools, multitudes were now taught to

read, who would be exposed to be corrupted by all the ribaldry and

profaneness of loose songs, vicious stories, and especially by the

new influx of corruption arising from jacobinial and atheistical

pamphlets, and that it was a bounden duty to counteract such

temptations.

"O, Mr. Hoskins!" replied Mrs. Jones, "when you come in to rest from

a burning sun or shower, do you never think of Him whose sun it is

that is ripening your corn? or whose shower is filling the ear, or

causing the grass to grow? I could tell you of some books which

would strengthen such thoughts, whereas such as you read only serve

to put them out of your head."

Mrs. Jones having taken pains to let Mr. Hoskins know that all the

genteel and wealthy people had subscribed, he at last said, "Why, as

to the matter of that, I do not value a crown; only I think it may

be better bestowed; and I am afraid my own workmen will fly in my

face if once they are made scholars; and that they will think

themselves too good to work." "Now you talk soberly, and give your

reasons," said Mrs. Jones; "weak as they are, they deserve an

answer. Do you think that either man, woman, or child, ever did his

duty the worse, only because he knew it the better?" "No, perhaps

not." "Now, the whole extent of learning which we intend to give the

poor, is only to enable them to read the Bible; a book which brings

to us the glad tidings of salvation, in which every duty is

explained, every doctrine brought into practice, and the highest

truths made level to the meanest understanding. The knowledge of

that book, and its practical influence on the heart, is the best

security you can have, both for the industry and obedience of your

servants. Now, can you think any man will be the worse servant for

being a good Christian?" "Perhaps not." "Are not the duties of

children, of servants, and the poor, individually and expressly set

forth in the Bible?" "Yes." "Do you think any duties are likely to

be as well performed from any human motives, such as fear or

prudence, as from those religious motives which are backed with the

sanction of rewards and punishments, of heaven or hell? Even upon

your own principles of worldly policy, do you think a poor man is

not less likely to steal a sheep or a horse, who was taught when a

boy that it was a sin, that it was breaking a commandment, to rob a

hen-roost, or an orchard, than one who has been bred in ignorance of

God's law? Will your property be secured so effectually by the

stocks on the green, as by teaching the boys in the school, that

_for all these things God will bring them in to judgment_? Is a poor

fellow who can read his Bible, so likely to sleep or to drink away

his few hours of leisure, as one who _can not_ read? He may, and he

often does, make a bad use of his reading; but I doubt he would have

been as bad without it; and the hours spent in learning to read will

always have been among the most harmless ones of his life."

"Well, madam," said the farmer, "if you do not think that religion

will spoil my young servants, I do not care if you do put me down

for half a guinea. What has farmer Dobson given?" "Half a guinea,"

said Mrs. Jones. "Well," cried the farmer, "it shall never be said I

do not give more than he, who is only a renter. Dobson half a

guinea! Why, he wears his coat as threadbare as a laborer."

"Perhaps," replied Mrs. Jones, "that is one reason why he gives so

much." "Well, put me down a guinea," cried the farmer; "as scarce as

guineas are just now, I'll never be put upon the same footing with

Dobson, neither." "Yes, and you must exert yourself beside, in

insisting that your workmen send their children, and often look into

the school yourself, to see if they are there, and reward or

discourage them accordingly," added Mrs. Jones. "The most zealous

teachers will flag in their exertions, if they are not animated and

supported by the wealthy; and your poor youth will soon despise

religious instruction as a thing forced upon them, as a hardship

added to their other hardships, if it be not made pleasant by the

encouraging presence, kind words, and little gratuities, from their

betters."

Here Mrs. Jones took her leave; the farmer insisted on waiting on

her to the door. When they got into the yard, they spied Mr.

Simpson, who was standing near a group of females, consisting of the

farmer's two young daughters, and a couple of rosy dairy-maids, an

old blind fiddler, and a woman who led him. The woman had laid a

basket on the ground, out of which she was dealing some songs to the

girls, who were kneeling round it, and eagerly picking out such

whose title suited their tastes. On seeing the clergyman come up,

the fiddler's companion (for I am sorry to say she was not his wife)

pushed some of the songs to the bottom of the basket, turned round

to the company, and, in a whining tone, asked if they would please

to buy a godly book. Mr. Simpson saw through the hypocrisy at once,

and instead of making any answer, took out of one of the girls'

hands a song which the woman had not been able to snatch away. He

was shocked and grieved to see that these young girls were about to

read, to sing, and to learn by heart such ribaldry as he was ashamed

even to cast his eyes on. He turned about to the girl, and gravely,

but mildly said, "Young woman, what do you think should be done to a

person who should be found carrying a box of poison round the

country, and leaving a little at every house?" The girls agreed that

such a person ought to be hanged. "That he should," said the

farmer, "if I was upon the jury, and quartered too." The fiddler and

his woman were of the same opinion, declaring, _they_ would do no

such a wicked thing for the world, for if they were poor they were

honest. Mr. Simpson, turning to the other girl, said, "Which is of

most value, the soul or the body?" "The soul, sir," said the girl.

"Why so?" said he. "Because, sir, I have heard you say in the

pulpit, the soul is to last forever." "Then," cried Mr. Simpson, in

a stern voice, turning to the fiddler's woman, "are you not ashamed

to sell poison for that part which is to last forever? poison for

the soul?" "Poison?" said the terrified girl, throwing down the

book, and shuddering as people do who are afraid they have touched

something infectious. "Poison!" echoed the farmer's daughters,

recollecting with horror the ratsbane which Lion, the old house-dog,

had got at the day before, and after eating which she had seen him

drop down dead in convulsions. "Yes," said Mr. Simpson to the woman,

"I do again repeat, the souls of these innocent girls will be

poisoned, and may be eternally ruined by this vile trash which you

carry about."

"I now see," said Mrs. Jones to the farmer, "the reason why you

think learning to read does more harm than good. It is indeed far

better that they should never know how to tell a letter, unless you

keep such trash as this out of their way, and provide them with what

is good, or at least what is harmless. Still, this is not the fault

of reading, but the abuse of it. Wine is still a good cordial,

though it is too often abused to the purpose of drunkenness."

The farmer said that neither of his maids could read their

horn-book, though he owned he often heard them singing that song

which the parson thought so bad, but for his part it made them as

merry as a nightingale.

"Yes," said Mrs. Jones, "as a proof that it is not merely being

able to read which does the mischief, I have often heard, as I have

been crossing a hay-field, young girls singing such indecent

ribaldry as has driven me out of the field, though I well knew they

could not read a line of what they were singing, but had caught it

from others. So you see you may as well say the memory is a wicked

talent because some people misapply it, as to say that reading is

dangerous because some folks abuse it."

While they were talking, the fiddler and his woman were trying to

steal away unobserved, but Mr. Simpson stopped them, and sternly

said, "Woman, I shall have some further talk with you. I am a

magistrate as well as a minister, and if I know it, I will no more

allow a wicked book to be sold in my parish than a dose of poison."

The girls threw away all their songs, thanked Mr. Simpson, begged

Mrs. Jones would take them into her school after they had done

milking in the evenings, that they might learn to read only what was

proper. They promised they would never more deal with any but sober,

honest hawkers, such as sell good little books, Christmas carols,

and harmless songs, and desired the fiddler's woman never to call

there again.

This little incident afterward confirmed Mrs. Jones in a plan she

had before some thoughts of putting in practice. This was, after her

school had been established a few months, to invite all the

well-disposed grown-up youth of the parish to meet her at the school

an hour or two on a Sunday evening, after the necessary business of

the dairy, and of serving the cattle was over. Both Mrs. Jones and

her agent had the talent of making this time pass so agreeably, by

their manner of explaining Scripture, and of impressing the heart by

serious and affectionate discourse, that in a short time the

evening-school was nearly filled with a second company, after the

younger ones were dismissed. In time, not only the servants, but the

sons and daughters of the most substantial people in the parish

attended. At length many of the parents, pleased with the

improvement so visible in the young people, got a habit of dropping

in, that they might learn how to instruct their own families; and it

was observed that as the school filled, not only the fives-court and

public houses were thinned, but even Sunday gossipping and

tea-visiting declined. Even farmer Hoskins, who was at first very

angry with his maids for leaving off those _merry_ songs (as he

called them) was so pleased by the manner in which the psalms were

sung at the school, that he promised Mrs. Jones to make her a

present of half a sheep toward her first May-day feast. Of this

feast some account shall be given hereafter; and the reader may

expect some further account of the Sunday School in the history of

Hester Wilmot.

THE HISTORY OF HESTER WILMOT.

BEING THE SECOND PART OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL

Hester Wilmot was born in the parish of Weston, of parents who

maintained themselves by their labor; they were both of them

ungodly: it is no wonder therefore they were unhappy. They lived

badly together, and how could they do otherwise? for their tempers

were very different, and they had no religion to smooth down this

difference, or to teach them that they ought to bear with each

other's faults. Rebecca Wilmot was a proof that people may have some

right qualities, and yet be but bad characters, and utterly

destitute of religion. She was clean, notable, and industrious. Now

I know some folks fancy that the poor who have these qualities need

have no other, but this is a sad mistake, as I am sure every page in

the Bible would show; and it is a pity people do not consult it

oftener. They direct their plowing and sowing by the information of

the Almanac: why will they not consult the Bible for the direction

of their hearts and lives? Rebecca was of a violent, ungovernable

temper; and that very neatness which is in itself so pleasing, in

her became a sin, for her affection to her husband and children was

quite lost in an over anxious desire to have her house reckoned the

nicest in the parish. Rebecca was also a proof that a poor woman may

be as vain as a rich one, for it was not so much the comfort of

neatness, as the praise of neatness, which she coveted. A spot on

her hearth, or a bit of rust on a brass candlestick, would throw her

into a violent passion. Now it is very right to keep the hearth

clean and the candlestick bright, but it is very wrong so to set

one's affections on a hearth or a candlestick, as to make one's self

unhappy if any trifling accident happens to them; and if Rebecca had

been as careful to keep her heart without spot, or her life without

blemish, as she was to keep her fire-irons free from either, she

would have been held up in this history, not as a warning, but as a

pattern, and in that case her nicety would have come in for a part

of the praise. It was no fault in Rebecca, but a merit, that her oak

table was so bright you could almost see to put your cap on in it;

but it was no merit but a fault, that when John, her husband, laid

down his cup of beer upon it so as to leave a mark, she would fly

out into so terrible a passion that all the children were forced to

run to corners; now poor John having no corner to run to, ran to the

ale-house, till that which was at first a refuge too soon became a

pleasure.

Rebecca never wished her children to learn to read, because she said

it would make them lazy, and she herself had done very well without

it. She would keep poor Hester from church to stone the space under

the stairs in fine patterns and flowers. I don't pretend to say

there was any harm in this little decoration, it looks pretty

enough, and it is better to let the children do that than nothing.

But still these are not things to set one's heart upon; and besides

Rebecca only did it as a trap for praise; for she was sulky and

disappointed if any ladies happened to call in and did not seem

delighted with the flowers which she used to draw with a burnt stick

on the whitewash of the chimney corners. Besides, all this finery

was often done on a Sunday, and there is a great deal of harm in

doing right things at a wrong time, or in wasting much time on

things which are of no real use, or in doing any thing at all out

of vanity. Now I beg that no lazy slattern of a wife will go and

take any comfort in her dirt from what is here said against

Rebecca's nicety; for I believe, that for one who makes her husband

unhappy through neatness, twenty do so by dirt and laziness. All

excuses are wrong, but the excess of a good quality is not so

uncommon as the excess of a bad one; and not being so obvious,

perhaps, for that very reason requires more animadversion.

John Wilmot was not an ill-natured man, but he had no fixed

principle. Instead of setting himself to cure his wife's faults by

mild reproof and good example, he was driven by them into still

greater faults himself. It is a common case with people who have no

religion, when any cross accident befalls them, instead of trying to

make the best of a bad matter, instead of considering their trouble

as a trial sent from God to purify them, or instead of considering

the faults of others as a punishment for their own sins, instead of

this I say, what do they do, but either sink down at once into

despair, or else run for comfort into evil courses. Drinking is the

common remedy for sorrow, if that can be called a remedy, the end of

which is to destroy soul and body. John now began to spend all his

leisure hours at the Bell. He used to be fond of his children: but

when he could not come home in quiet, and play with the little ones,

while his wife dressed him a bit of hot supper, he grew in time not

to come home at all. He who has once taken to drink can seldom be

said to be guilty of one sin only; John's heart became hardened. His

affection for his family was lost in self-indulgence. Patience and

submission on the part of the wife, might have won much upon a man

of John's temper; but instead of trying to reclaim him, his wife

seemed rather to delight in putting him as much in the wrong as she

could, that she might be justified in her constant abuse of him. I

doubt whether she would have been as much pleased with his

reformation as she was with always talking of his faults, though I

know it was the opinion of the neighbors, that if she had taken as

much pains to reform her husband by reforming her own temper, as she

did to abuse him and expose him, her endeavors might have been

blessed with success. Good Christians, who are trying to subdue

their own faults, can hardly believe that the ungodly have a sort of

savage satisfaction in trying, by indulgence of their own evil

tempers, to lessen the happiness of those with whom they have to do.

Need we look any further for a proof of our own corrupt nature, when

we see mankind delight in sins which have neither the temptations of

profit or the allurement of pleasure, such as plaguing, vexing, or

abusing each other.

Hester was the eldest of their five children; she was a sharp

sensible girl, but at fourteen years old she could not tell a

letter, nor had she ever been taught to bow her knee to Him who made

her, for John's or rather Rebecca's house, had seldom the name of

God pronounced in it, except to be blasphemed.

It was just about this time, if I mistake not, that Mrs. Jones set

up her Sunday School, of which Mrs. Betty Crew was appointed

mistress, as has been before related. Mrs. Jones finding that none

of the Wilmots were sent to school, took a walk to Rebecca's house,

and civilly told her, she called to let her know that a school was

opened to which she desired her to send her children on Sunday

following, especially her oldest daughter Hester. "Well," said

Rebecca, "and what will you give her if I do?" "Give her!" replied

Mrs. Jones, "that is rather a rude question, and asked in a rude

manner: however, as a soft answer turneth away wrath, I assure you

that I will give her the best of learning; I will teach her to _fear

God and keep his commandments_." "I would rather you would teach

her to fear me, and keep my house clean," said this wicked woman.

"She sha'n't come, however, unless you will pay her for it." "Pay

her for it!" said the lady; "will it not be reward enough that she

will be taught to read the word of God without any expense to you?

For though many gifts both of books and clothing will be given the

children, yet you are not to consider these gifts so much in the

light of payment as an expression of good will in your benefactors."

"I say," interrupted Rebecca, "that Hester sha'n't go to school.

Religion is of no use that I know of, but to make people hate their

own flesh and blood; and I see no good in learning but to make folks

proud, and lazy, and dirty. I can not tell a letter myself, and,

though I say it, that should not say it, there is not a notabler

woman in the parish." "Pray," said Mrs. Jones mildly, "do you think

that young people will disobey their parents the more for being

taught to fear God?" "I don't think any thing about it," said

Rebecca; "I sha'n't let her come, and there's the long and short of

the matter. Hester has other fish to fry; but you may have some of

these little ones if you will." "No," said Mrs. Jones, "I will not;

I have not set up a nursery, but a school. I am not at all this

expense to take crying babes out of the mother's way, but to

instruct reasonable beings in the road to eternal life: and it ought

to be a rule in all schools not to take the troublesome _young_

children unless the mother will try to spare the _elder_ ones, who

are capable of learning." "But," said Rebecca, "I have a young child

which Hester must nurse while I dress dinner. And she must iron the

rags, and scour the irons, and dig the potatoes, and fetch the water

to boil them." "As to nursing the child, that is indeed a necessary

duty, and Hester ought to stay at home part of the day to enable you

to go to church; and families should relieve each other in this way,

but as to all the rest, they are no reasons at all, for the irons

need not be scoured so often, and the rags should be ironed, and the

potatoes dug, and the water fetched on the Saturday; and I can tell

you that neither your minister here, nor your Judge hereafter, will

accept of any such excuse."

All this while Hester staid behind pale and trembling lest her

unkind mother should carry her point. She looked up at Mrs. Jones

with so much love and gratitude as to win her affection, and this

good lady went on trying to soften this harsh mother. At last

Rebecca condescended to say, "Well I don't know but I may let her

come now and then when I can spare her, provided I find you make it

worth her while." All this time she had never asked Mrs. Jones to

sit down, nor had once bid her young children be quiet, though they

were crying and squalling the whole time. Rebecca fancied this

rudeness was the only way she had of showing she thought herself to

be as good as her guest, but Mrs. Jones never lost her temper. The

moment she went out of the house, Rebecca called out loud enough for

her to hear, and ordered Hester to get the stone and a bit of sand

to scrub out the prints of that dirty woman's shoes. Hester in high

spirits cheerfully obeyed, and rubbed out the stains so neatly, that

her mother could not help lamenting that so handy a girl was going

to be spoiled, by being taught godliness, and learning any such

nonsense.

Mrs. Jones, who knew the world, told her agent, Mrs. Crew, that her

grand difficulty would arise not so much from the children as the

parents. These, said she, are apt to fall into that sad mistake,

that because their children are poor, and have little of this

world's goods, the mothers must make it up to them in false

indulgence. The children of the gentry are much more reproved and

corrected for their faults, and bred up in far stricter discipline.

He was a king who said, _Chasten thy son, and let not thy rod spare

for his crying_. But do not lose your patience; the more vicious the

children are, you must remember the more they stand in need of your

instruction. When they are bad, comfort yourself with thinking how

much worse they would have been but for you; and what a burden they

would become to society if these evil tempers were to receive no

check. The great thing which enabled Mrs. Crew to teach well, was

the deep insight she had got into the corruption of human nature.

And I doubt if any one can make a thoroughly good teacher of

religion and morals, who wants the master-key to the heart. Others,

indeed, may teach knowledge, decency, and good manners; but those,

however valuable, are not Christianity. Mrs. Crew, who knew that out

of the heart proceed lying, theft, and all that train of evils which

begin to break out even in young children, applied her labors to

correct this root of evil. But though a diligent, she was a humble

teacher, well knowing that unless the grace of God blessed her

labors, she should but labor in vain.

Hester Wilmot never failed to attend the school, whenever her

perverse mother would give her leave, and her delight in learning

was so great, that she would work early and late to gain a little

time for her book. As she had a quick capacity, she learned soon to

spell and read, and Mrs. Crew observing her diligence, used to lend

her a book to carry home, that she might pick up a little at odd

times. It would be well if teachers would make this distinction. To

give, or lend books to those who take no delight in them is a

useless expense; while it is kind and right to assist well-disposed

young people with every help of this sort. Those who love books

seldom hurt them, while the slothful who hate learning, will wear

out a book more in a week, than the diligent will do in a year.

Hester's way was to read over a question in her catechism, or one

verse in her hymn book, by fire-light before she went to bed; this

she thought over in the night: and when she was dressing herself in

the morning, she was glad to find she always knew a little more than

she had done the morning before. It is not to be believed how much

those people will be found to have gained at the end of the year,

who are accustomed to work up all the little odd ends and remnants

of leisure; who value time even more than money; and who are

convinced that minutes are no more to be wasted than pence. Nay, he

who finds he has wasted a shilling may by diligence hope to fetch it

up again: but no repentance or industry can ever bring back one

wasted hour. My good young reader, if ever _you_ are tempted to

waste an hour, go and ask a dying man what he would give for that

hour which you are throwing away, and according as he answers so do

you act.

As her mother hated the sight of a book, Hester was forced to learn

out of sight: it was no disobedience to do this, as long as she

wasted no part of that time which it was her duty to spend in useful

labor. She would have thought it a sin to have left her work for her

book; but she did not think it wrong to steal time from her sleep,

and to be learning an hour before the rest of the family were awake.

Hester would not neglect the washing-tub, or the spinning-wheel,

even to get on with her catechism; but she thought it fair to think

over her questions while she was washing and spinning. In a few

months she was able to read fluently in St. John's Gospel, which is

the easiest. But Mrs. Crew did not think it enough that her children

could read a chapter, she would make them understand it also. It is

in a good degree owing to the want of religious knowledge in

teachers, that there is so little religion in the world. Unless the

Bible is laid open to the understanding, children may read from

Genesis to the Revelation, without any other improvement than

barely learning how to pronounce the words. Mrs. Crew found there

was but one way to compel their attention; this was by obliging them

to return back again to her the sense of what she had read to them,

and this they might do in their own words, if they could not

remember the words of Scripture. Those who had weak capacities,

would, to be sure, do this but very imperfectly; but even the

weakest, if they were willing would retain something. She so

managed, that _saying the catechism_ was not merely an act of the

memory, but of the understanding; for she had observed formerly that

those who had learned the catechism in the common formal way, when

they were children, had never understood it when they became men and

women, and it remained in the memory without having made any

impression on the mind. Thus this fine summary of the Christian

religion is considered as little more than a form of words, the

being able to repeat which, is a qualification for being confirmed

by the bishop, instead of being considered as really containing

those grounds of Christian faith and practice, by which they are to

be confirmed Christians.

Mrs. Crew used to say to Mrs. Jones, those who teach the poor must

indeed give line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and

there a little, as they can receive it. So that teaching must be a

great grievance to those who do not really make it a _labor of

love_. I see so much levity, obstinacy, and ignorance, that it keeps

my own forbearance in continual exercise, insomuch that I trust I am

getting good myself, while I am doing good to others. No one, madam,

can know till they try, that after they have asked a poor untaught

child the same question nineteen times, they must not lose their

temper, but go on and ask it the twentieth. Now and then, when I am

tempted to be impatient, I correct myself by thinking over that

active proof which our blessed Saviour requires of our love to him

when he says, _Feed my lambs_.

Hester Wilmot had never been bred to go to church, for her father

and mother had never thought of going themselves, unless at a

christening in their own family, or at a funeral of their neighbors,

both of which they considered merely as opportunities for good

eating and drinking, and not as offices of religion.

As poor Hester had no comfort at home, it was the less wonder she

delighted in her school, her Bible, and her church; for so great is

God's goodness, that he is pleased to make religion a peculiar

comfort to those who have no other comfort. The God whose name she

had seldom heard but when it was _taken in vain_, was now revealed

to her as a God of infinite power, justice, and holiness. What she

read in her Bible, and what she felt in her own heart, convinced her

she was a sinner, and her catechism said the same. She was much

distressed one day on thinking over this promise which she had just

made (in answer to the question which fell to her lot), _To renounce

the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanities of this wicked

world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh_. I say she was

distressed on finding that these were not merely certain words which

she was bound to repeat, but certain conditions which she was bound

to perform. She was sadly puzzled to know how this was to be done,

till she met with these words in her Bible: _My grace is sufficient

for thee_. But still she was at a loss to know how this grace was to

be obtained. Happily Mr. Simpson preached on the next Sunday from

this text, _Ask and ye shall receive_, etc. In this sermon was

explained to her the nature, the duty, and the efficacy of prayer.

After this she opened her heart to Mrs. Crew, who taught her the

great doctrines of Scripture, in a serious but plain way. Hester's

own heart led her to assent to that humbling doctrine of the

catechism, that _We are by nature born in sin_; and truly glad was

she to be relieved by hearing of _That spiritual grace by which we

have a new birth unto righteousness_. Thus her mind was no sooner

humbled by one part than it gained comfort from another. On the

other hand, while she was rejoicing in _a lively hope in God's mercy

through Christ_, her mistress put her in mind that that was only the

_true_ repentance _by which we forsake sin_. Thus the catechism,

explained by a pious teacher, was found to contain _all the articles

of the Christian faith_.

Mrs. Jones greatly disapproved the practice of turning away the

scholars, because they were grown up. Young people, said she, want

to be warned at sixteen more than they did at six, and they are

commonly turned adrift at the very age when they want most

instruction; when dangers and temptations most beset them. They are

exposed to more evil by the leisure of a Sunday evening, than by the

business of a whole week; but then religion must be made pleasant,

and instruction must be carried on in a kind, and agreeable, and

familiar way. If they once dislike the teacher, they will soon get

to dislike what is taught, so that a master or mistress is in some

measure answerable for the future piety of young persons, inasmuch

as that piety depends on their manner of making religion pleasant as

well as profitable.

To attend Mrs. Jones's evening instructions was soon thought not a

task but a holiday. In a few months it was reckoned a disadvantage

to the character of any young person in the parish to know that they

did not attend the evening school. At first, indeed, many of them

came only with a view to learn amusement; but, by the blessing of

God, they grew fond of instruction, and some of them became truly

pious. Mrs. Jones spoke to them on Sunday evening as follows: "My

dear young women, I rejoice at your improvement; but I rejoice with

trembling. I have known young people set out well, who afterward

fell off. The heart is deceitful. Many like religious knowledge, who

do not like the strictness of a religious life. I must therefore

watch whether those who are diligent at church and school, are

diligent in their daily walk. Whether those who say they _believe_

in God, really _obey_ him. Whether they who profess to _love_ Christ

keep His _commandments_. Those who hear themselves commended for

early piety, may learn to rest satisfied with the praise of man.

People may get a knack at religious phrases without being religious;

they may even get to frequent places of worship as an amusement, in

order to meet their friends, and may learn to delight in a sort of

_spiritual gossip_, while religion has no power in their hearts. But

I hope better things of you, and things that accompany salvation,

though I thus speak."

What became of Hester Wilmot, with some account of Mrs. Jones's

May-day feast for her school, my readers shall be told next month.

PART II.

THE NEW GOWN.

Hester Wilmot, I am sorry to observe, had been by nature peevish and

lazy; she would, when a child, now and then slight her work, and

when her mother was unreasonable she was too apt to return a saucy

answer; but when she became acquainted with her own heart, and with

the Scriptures, these evil tempers were, in a good measure,

subdued, for she now learned to imitate, not her violent mother,

but _Him who was meek and lowly_. When she was scolded for doing

ill, she prayed for grace to do better; and the only answer she made

to her mother's charge, "that religion only served to make people

lazy," was to strive to do twice as much work, in order to prove

that it really made them diligent. The only thing in which she

ventured to disobey her mother was, that when she ordered her to do

week-day's work on a Sunday, Hester cried, and said, she did not

dare to disobey God; but to show that she did not wish to save her

own labor, she would do a double portion of work on the Saturday

night, and rise two hours earlier on Monday morning.

Once, when she had worked very hard, her mother told her that she

would treat her with a holiday the following Sabbath, and take her a

fine walk to eat cakes and drink ale at Weston fair, which, though

it was professed to be kept on the Monday, yet, to the disgrace of

the village, always began on the Sunday evening.[8] Rebecca, who

would on no account have wasted the Monday, which was a working day,

in idleness and pleasure, thought she had a very good right to enjoy

herself at the fair on the Sunday evening, as well as to take her

children. Hester earnestly begged to be left at home, and her

mother, in a rage, went without her. A wet walk, and more ale than

she was used to drink, gave Rebecca a dangerous fever. During this

illness Hester, who would not follow her to a scene of dissolute

mirth, attended her night and day, and denied herself necessaries

that her sick mother might have comforts; and though she secretly

prayed to God that this sickness might change her mother's heart,

yet she never once reproached her, or put her in mind that it was

caught by indulging in a sinful pleasure.

[8] This practice is too common. Those fairs which profess to be

kept on Monday, commonly begin on the Sunday. It is much to be

wished that magistrates would put a stop to it, as Mr. Simpson did

at Weston, at the request of Mrs. Jones. There is another great

evil worth the notice of justices. In many villages, during the

fair, ale is sold at private houses, which have no license, to the

great injury of sobriety and good morals.

Another Sunday night her father told Hester he thought she had now

been at school long enough for him to have a little good of her

learning, so he desired she would stay at home and read to him.

Hester cheerfully ran and fetched her Testament. But John fell a

laughing, calling her a fool, and said, it would be time enough to

read the Testament to him when he was going to die, but at present

he must have something merry. So saying, he gave her a songbook

which he had picked up at the Bell. Hester, having cast her eyes

over it, refused to read it, saying, she did not dare offend God by

reading what would hurt her own soul. John called her a canting

hypocrite, and said he would put the Testament into the fire, for

that there was not a more merry girl than she was before she became

religious. Her mother, for once, took her part; not because she

thought her daughter in the right, but because she was glad of any

pretense to show her husband was in the wrong; though she herself

would have abused Hester for the same thing if John had taken her

part. John, with a shocking oath, abused them both, and went off in

a violent passion. Hester, instead of saying one undutiful word

against her father, took up a Psalter in order to teach her little

sisters; but Rebecca was so provoked at her for not joining her in

her abuse of her husband, that she changed her humor, said John was

in the right, and Hester a perverse hypocrite, who only made

religion a pretense for being undutiful to her parents. Hester bore

all in silence, and committed her cause to Him _who judgeth

righteously_. It would have been a great comfort to her if she had

dared to go to Mrs. Crew, and to have joined in the religious

exercises of the evening at school. But her mother refused to let

her, saying it would only harden her heart in mischief. Hester said

not a word, but after having put the little ones to bed, and heard

them say their prayers out of sight, she went and sat down in her

own little loft, and said to herself, "It would be pleasant to me to

have taught my little sisters to read; I thought it was my duty, for

David has said, _Come ye children, hearken unto me, and I will teach

you the fear of the Lord_. It would have been still more pleasant to

have passed the evening at school, because I am still ignorant, and

fitter to learn than to teach; but I can not do either without

flying in the face of my mother; God sees fit to-night to change my

pleasant duties into a painful trial. I give up my will, and I

submit to the will of my father; but when he orders me to commit a

known sin, then I dare not do it, because, in so doing, I must

disobey my Father which is in heaven."

Now, it so fell out, that this dispute happened on the very Sunday

next before Mrs. Jones's yearly feast. On May-day all the school

attended her to church, each in a stuff gown of their own earning,

and a cap and white apron of her giving. After church there was an

examination made into the learning and behavior of the scholars;

those who were most perfect in their chapters, and who brought the

best character for industry, humility, and sobriety, received a

Bible or some other good book.

Now Hester had been a whole year hoarding up her little savings, in

order to be ready with a new gown on the May-day feast. She had

never got less than two shillings a week by her spinning, beside

working for the family, and earning a trifle by odd jobs. This money

she faithfully carried to her mother every Saturday night, keeping

back by consent only twopence a week toward the gown. The sum was

complete, the pattern had long been settled, and Hester had only on

the Monday morning to go to the shop, pay her money, and bring home

her gown to be made. Her mother happened to go out early that

morning to iron in a gentleman's family, where she usually staid a

day or two, and Hester was busy putting the house in order before

she went to the shop.

On that very Monday there was to be a meeting at the Bell of all the

idle fellows in the parish. John Wilmot, of course, was to be there.

Indeed he had accepted a challenge of the blacksmith to match at

all-fours. The blacksmith was flush of money, John thought himself

the best player; and, that he might make sure of winning, he

resolved to keep himself sober, which he knew was more than the

other would do. John was so used to go upon tick for ale, that he

got to the door of the Bell before he recollected that he could not

keep his word with the gambler without money, and he had not a penny

in his pocket, so he sullenly turned homeward. He dared not apply to

his wife, as he knew he should be more likely to get a scratched

face than a sixpence from her; but he knew that Hester had received

two shillings for her last week's spinning on Saturday, and,

perhaps, she might not yet have given it to her mother. Of the

hoarded sum he knew nothing. He asked her if she could lend him half

a crown, and he would pay her next day. Hester, pleased to see him

in a good humor after what had passed the night before, ran up and

fetched down her little box, and, in the joy of her heart that he

now desired something she _could_ comply with without wounding her

conscience, cheerfully poured out her whole little stock on the

table. John was in raptures at the sight of three half crowns and a

sixpence, and eagerly seized it, box and all, together with a few

hoarded halfpence at the bottom, though he had only asked to borrow

half a crown. None but one whose heart was hardened by a long course

of drunkenness could have taken away the whole, and for such a

purpose. He told her she should certainly have it again next

morning, and, indeed, intended to pay it, not doubting but he should

double the sum. But John overrated his own skill, or luck, for he

lost every farthing to the blacksmith, and sneaked home before

midnight, and quietly walked up to bed. He was quite sober, which

Hester thought a good sign. Next morning she asked him, in a very

humble way, for the money, which she said she would not have done,

but that if the gown was not bought directly it would not be ready

in time for the feast. John's conscience had troubled him a little

for what he had done--for when he was not drunk he was not

ill-natured--and he stammered out a broken excuse, but owned he had

lost the money, and had not a farthing left. The moment Hester saw

him mild and kind her heart was softened, and she begged him not to

vex, adding, that she would be contented never to have a new gown as

long as she lived, if she could have the comfort of always seeing

him come home sober as he was last night. For Hester did not know

that he had refrained from getting drunk, only that he might gamble

with a better chance of success, and that when a gamester keeps

himself sober, it is not that he may practice a virtue, but that he

may commit a worse crime.

"I am indeed sorry for what I have done," said he; "you can not go

to the feast, and what will Madam Jones say?" "Yes, but I can," said

Hester; "for God looks not at the gown, but at the heart, and I am

sure he sees mine full of gratitude at hearing you talk so kindly;

and if I thought my dear father would change his present evil

courses, I should be the happiest girl at the feast to-morrow." John

walked away mournfully, and said to himself, "Surely there must be

something in religion, since it can thus change the heart. Hester

was once a pert girl, and now she is as mild as a lamb. She was once

an indolent girl, and now she is up with the lark. She was a vain

girl, and would do any thing for a new ribbon; and now she is

contented to go in rags to a feast at which every one else is to

have a new gown. She deprived herself of the gown to give me the

money; and yet this very girl, so dutiful in some respects, would

submit to be turned out of doors rather than read a loose book at my

command, or break the Sabbath. I do not understand this; there must

be some mystery in it." All this he said as he was going to work. In

the evening he did not go to the Bell; whether it was owing to his

new thoughts, or to his not having a penny in his pocket, I will not

take upon me positively to say; but I believe it was a little of one

and a little of the other.

As the pattern of the intended gown had long been settled in the

family, and as Hester had the money by her, it was looked on as good

as bought, so that she was trusted to get it brought home and made

in her mother's absence. Indeed, so little did Rebecca care about

the school, that she would not have cared any thing about the gown,

if her vanity had not made her wish that her daughter should be the

best dressed of any girl at the feast. Being from home, as was said

before, she knew nothing of the disappointment. On May-day morning,

Hester, instead of keeping from the feast because she had not a new

gown, or meanly inventing any excuse for wearing an old one, dressed

herself out as neatly as she could in her poor old things, and went

to join the school in order to go to church. Whether Hester had

formerly indulged a little pride of heart, and talked of this gown

rather too much, I am not quite sure; certain it is, there was a

great hue and cry made at seeing Hester Wilmot, the neatest girl,

the most industrious girl in the school, come to the May-day feast

in an old stuff gown, when every other girl was so creditably

dressed. Indeed, I am sorry to say, there were two or three much too

smart for their station, and who had dizened themselves out in very

improper finery, which Mrs. Jones made them take off before her. "I

mean this feast," said she, "as a reward of industry and piety, and

not as a trial of skill who can be finest and outvie the rest in

show. If I do not take care, my feast will become an encouragement,

not to virtue, but to vanity. I am so great a friend to decency of

apparel, that I even like to see you deny your appetites that you

may be able to come decently dressed to the house of God. To

encourage you to do this, I like to set apart this one day of

innocent pleasure, against which you may be preparing all the year,

by laying aside something every week toward buying a gown out of all

your savings. But, let me tell you, that meekness and an humble

spirit is of more value in the sight of God and good men, than the

gayest cotton gown, or the brightest pink ribbon in the parish."

Mrs. Jones for all this, was as much surprised as the rest at

Hester's mean garb; but such is the power of a good character, that

she gave her credit for a right intention, especially as she knew

the unhappy state of her family. For it was Mrs. Jones's way, (and

it is not a bad way,) always to wait, and inquire into the truth

before she condemned any person of good character, though

appearances were against them. As we can not judge of people's

motives, said she, we may, from ignorance, often condemn their best

actions, and approve of their worst. It will be always time enough

to judge unfavorably, and let us give others credit as long as we

can, and then we in our turn, may expect a favorable judgment from

others, and remember who has said, _Judge not, that ye be not

judged_.

Hester was no more proud of what she had done for her father, than

she was humbled by the meanness of her garb: and notwithstanding

Betty Stiles, one of the girls whose finery had been taken away,

sneered at her, Hester never offered to clear herself, by exposing

her father, though she thought it right, secretly to inform Mrs.

Jones of what had passed. When the examination of the girls began,

Betty Stiles was asked some questions on the fourth and fifth

commandments, which she answered very well. Hester was asked nearly

the same questions, and though she answered them no better than

Betty had done, they were all surprised to see Mrs. Jones rise up,

and give a handsome Bible to Hester, while she gave nothing to

Betty. This girl cried out rather pertly, "Madam, it is very hard

that I have no book: I was as perfect as Hester." "I have often told

you," said Mrs. Jones, "that religion is not a thing of the tongue

but of the heart. That girl gives me the best proof that she has

learned the fourth commandment to good purpose, who persists in

keeping holy the Sabbath day, though commanded to break it, by a

parent whom she loves. And that girl best proves that she keeps the

fifth, who gives up her own comfort, and clothing, and credit, to

_honor and obey her father and mother_, even though they are not

such as she could wish. Betty Stiles, though she could answer the

questions so readily, went abroad last Sunday when she should have

been at school, and refused to nurse her sick mother, when she could

not help herself. Is this having learned those two commandments to

any good purpose?"

Farmer Hoskins, who stood by, whispered Mrs. Jones, "Well, madam,

now you have convinced even me of the benefit of a religious

instruction; now I see there is a meaning to it. I thought it was in

at one ear and out at the other, and that a song was as well as a

psalm, but now I have found the proof of the pudding is in the

eating. I see your scholars must _do_ what they _hear_, and _obey_

what they _learn_. Why at this rate, they will all be better

servants for being really godly, and so I will add a pudding to next

year's feast."

The pleasure Hester felt in receiving a new Bible, made her forget

that she had on an old gown. She walked to church in a thankful

frame: but how great was her joy, when she saw, among a number of

working men, her own father going into church. As she passed by him

she cast on him a look of so much joy and affection that it brought

tears into his eyes, especially when he compared her mean dress with

that of the other girls, and thought who had been the cause of it.

John, who had not been at church for some years, was deeply struck

with the service. The confession with which it opens went to his

heart. He felt, for the first time, that he was a _miserable sinner,

and that there was no health in him_. He now felt compunction for

sin in general, though it was only his ill-behavior to his daughter

which had brought him to church. The sermon was such as to

strengthen the impression which the prayers had made; and when it

was over, instead of joining the ringers (for the belfry was the

only part of the church John liked, because it usually led to the

ale-house), he quietly walked back to his work. It was, indeed, the

best day's work he ever made. He could not get out of his head the

whole day, the first words he heard at church: _When the wicked man

turneth away from his wickedness, and doeth that which is lawful and

right, he shall save his soul alive._ At night, instead of going to

the Bell, he went home, intending to ask Hester to forgive him; but

as soon as he got to the door, he heard Rebecca scolding his

daughter for having brought such a disgrace on the family as to be

seen in that old rag of a gown, and insisted on knowing what she had

done with her money. Hester tried to keep the secret, but her

mother declared she would turn her out of doors if she did not tell

the truth. Hester was at last forced to confess she had given it to

her father. Unfortunately for poor John, it was at this very moment

that he opened the door. The mother now divided her fury between her

guilty husband and her innocent child, till from words she fell to

blows. John defended his daughter and received some of the strokes

intended for the poor girl. This turbulent scene partly put John's

good resolution to flight, though the patience of Hester did him

almost as much good as the sermon he had heard. At length the poor

girl escaped up stairs, not a little bruised, and a scene of much

violence passed between John and Rebecca. She declared she would not

sit down to supper with such a brute, and set off to a neighbor's

house, that she might have the pleasure of abusing him the longer.

John, whose mind was much disturbed, went up stairs without his

supper. As he was passing by Hester's little room he heard her

voice, and as he concluded she was venting bitter complaints against

her unnatural parents, he stopped to listen, resolved to go in and

comfort her. He stopped at the door, for, by the light of the moon,

he saw her kneeling by her bedside, and praying so earnestly that

she did not hear him. As he made sure she could be praying for

nothing but his death, what was his surprise to hear these words: "O

Lord have mercy upon my dear father and mother, teach me to love

them, to pray for them, and do them good; make me more dutiful and

more patient, that, adorning the doctrine of God, my Saviour, I may

recommend his holy religion, and my dear parents may be brought to

love and fear thee, through Jesus Christ."

Poor John, who would never have been hard-hearted if he had not been

a drunkard, could not stand this; he fell down on his knees,

embraced his child, and begged her to teach him how to pray. He

prayed himself as well as he could, and though he did not know what

words to use, yet his heart was melted; he owned he was a sinner,

and begged Hester to fetch the prayer-book, and read over the

confession with which he had been so struck at church. This was the

pleasantest order she had ever obeyed. Seeing him deeply affected

with a sense of sin, she pointed out to him the Saviour of sinners;

and in this manner she passed some hours with her father, which were

the happiest of her life; such a night was worth a hundred cotton or

even silk gowns. In the course of the week Hester read over the

confession, and some other prayers to her father so often that he

got them by heart, and repeated them while he was at work. She next

taught him the fifty-first psalm. At length he took courage to kneel

down and pray before he went to bed. From that time he bore his

wife's ill-humor much better than he had ever done, and, as he knew

her to be neat, and notable, and saving, he began to think, that if

her temper was not quite so bad, his home might still become as

pleasant a place to him as ever the Bell had been; but unless she

became more tractable he did not know what to do with his long

evenings after the little ones were in bed, for he began, once more,

to delight in playing with them. Hester proposed that she herself

should teach him to read an hour every night, and he consented.

Rebecca began to storm, from the mere trick she had got of storming;

but finding that he now brought home all his earnings, and that she

got both his money and his company (for she had once loved him), she

began to reconcile herself to this new way of life. In a few months

John could read a psalm. In learning to read it he also got it by

heart, and this proved a little store for private devotion, and

while he was mowing or reaping, he could call to mind a text to

cheer his labor. He now went constantly to church, and often dropped

in at the school on a Sunday evening to hear their prayers. He

expressed so much pleasure at this, that one day Hester ventured to

ask him if they should set up family prayer at home? John said he

should like it mightily, but as he could not yet read quite well

enough, he desired Hester to try to get a proper book and begin next

Sunday night. Hester had bought of a pious hawker, for three half

pence,[9] the Book of Prayers, printed for the Cheap Repository, and

knew she should there find something suitable.

[9] These prayers may be had also divided into two parts, one fit

for private persons, the other for families, price one half-penny.

When Hester read the exhortation at the beginning of this little

book, her mother who sat in the corner, and pretended to be asleep,

was so much struck that she could not find a word to say against it.

For a few nights, indeed, she continued to sit still, or pretended

to rock the young child while her husband and daughter were kneeling

at their prayers. She expected John would have scolded her for this,

and so perverse was her temper, that she was disappointed at his

finding no fault with her. Seeing at last that he was very patient,

and that though he prayed fervently himself he suffered her to do as

she liked, she lost the spirit of opposition for want of something

to provoke it. As her pride began to be subdued, some little

disposition to piety was awakened in her heart. By degrees she slid

down on her knees, though at first it was behind the cradle, or the

clock, or in some corner where she thought they would not see her.

Hester rejoiced even in this outward change in her mother, and

prayed that God would at last be pleased to touch her heart as he

had done that of her father.

As John now spent no idle money, he had saved up a trifle by working

over-hours; this he kindly offered to Hester to make up for the loss

of her gown. Instead of accepting it, Hester told him, that as she

herself was young and healthy, she could soon be able to clothe

herself out of her own savings, and begged him to make her mother a

present of this gown, which he did. It had been a maxim of Rebecca,

that it was better not to go to church at all, than go in an old

gown. She had, however, so far conquered this evil notion, that she

had lately gone pretty often. This kindness of the gown touched her

not a little, and the first Sunday she put it on, Mr. Simpson

happened to preach from this text, _God resisteth the proud but

giveth grace to the humble_. This sermon so affected Rebecca that

she never once thought she had her new gown on, till she came to

take it off when she went to bed, and that very night instead of

skulking behind, she knelt down by her husband, and joined in prayer

with much fervor.

There, was one thing sunk deep in Rebecca's mind; she had observed

that since her husband had grown religious he had been so careful

not to give her any offense, that he was become scrupulously clean;

took off his dirty shoes before he sat down, and was very cautious

not to spill a drop of beer on her shining table. Now it was rather

remarkable, that as John grew more neat, Rebecca grew more

indifferent to neatness. But both these changes arose from the same

cause, the growth of religion in their hearts. John grew cleanly

from the fear of giving pain to his wife, while Rebecca grew

indifferent from having discovered the sin and folly of an

over-anxious care about trifles. When the heart is once given up to

God, such vanities in a good degree die of themselves.

Hester continues to grow in grace, and in knowledge. Last

Christmas-day she was appointed under teacher in the school, and

many people think that some years hence, if any thing should happen

to Mrs. Crew, Hester may be promoted to be head mistress.

BETTY BROWN,

THE ST. GILES'S ORANGE GIRL;

WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF MRS. SPONGE, THE MONEY-LENDER.

Betty Brown, the orange girl, was born nobody knows where, and bred

nobody knows how. No girl in all the streets of London could drive a

barrow more nimbly, avoid pushing against passengers more

dexterously, or cry her "fine China oranges" in a shriller voice.

But then she could neither sew, nor spin, nor knit, nor wash, nor

iron, nor read, nor spell. Betty had not been always in so good a

situation as that in which we now describe her. She came into the

world before so many good gentlemen and ladies began to concern

themselves so kindly, that the poor girl might have a little

learning. There was no charitable society then as there is now, to

pick up poor friendless children in the streets,[10] and put them

into a good house, and give them meat, and drink, and lodging, and

learning, and teach them to get their bread in an honest way, into

the bargain. Whereas, this now is often the case in London; blessed

be God, _who has ordered the bounds of our habitation_, and cast our

lot in such a country!

[10] The Philanthropic.

The longest thing that Betty can remember is, that she used to crawl

up out of a night cellar, stroll about the streets, and pick cinders

from the scavengers' carts. Among the ashes she sometimes found

some ragged gauze and dirty ribands; with these she used to dizen

herself out, and join the merry bands on the first of May. This was

not, however, quite fair, as she did not lawfully belong either to

the female dancers, who foot it gayly round the garland, or to the

sooty tribe, who, on this happy holiday, forget their year's toil in

Portman square, cheered by the tender bounty of her whose wit has

long enlivened the most learned, and whose tastes and talents long

adorned the most polished societies. Betty, however, often got a few

scraps, by appearing to belong to both parties. But as she grew

bigger and was not an idle girl, she always put herself in the way

of doing something. She would run of errands for the footmen, or

sweep the door for the maid of any house where she was known; she

would run and fetch some porter, and never was once known either to

sip a drop by the way, or steal the pot. Her quickness and fidelity

in doing little jobs, got her into favor with a lazy cook-maid, who

was too apt to give away her master's cold meat and beer, not to

those who were most in want, but to those who waited upon her, and

did the little things for her which she ought to have done herself.

The cook, who found Betty a dexterous girl, soon employed her to

sell ends of candles, pieces of meat and cheese, the lumps of

butter, or any thing else she could crib from the house. These were

all carried to her friend, Mrs. Sponge, who kept a little shop, and

a kind of eating-house for poor working people, not far from the

Seven Dials. She also bought as well as sold, many kinds of

second-hand things, and was not scrupulous to know whether what she

bought was honestly come by, provided she could get it for a sixth

part of what it was worth. But if the owner presumed to ask for its

real value, then she had sudden qualms of conscience, instantly

suspected the things were stolen, and gave herself airs of honesty,

which often took in poor silly people, and gave her a sort of half

reputation among the needy and ignorant, whose friend she

hypocritically pretended to be.

To this artful woman Betty carried the cook's pilferings; and as

Mrs. Sponge would give no great price for these in money, the cook

was willing to receive payment for her eatables in Mrs. Sponge's

drinkables; for she dealt in all kinds of spirits. I shall only just

remark here, that one receiver, like Mrs. Sponge, makes many

pilferers, who are tempted to commit these petty thieveries, by

knowing how easy it is to dispose of them at such iniquitous houses.

Betty was faithful to both her employers, which is extraordinary,

considering the greatness of the temptation and her utter ignorance

of good and evil. One day she ventured to ask Mrs. Sponge, if she

could not assist her to get into a more settled way of life. She

told her that when she rose in the morning she never knew where she

should lie at night, nor was she ever sure of a meal beforehand.

Mrs. Sponge asked her what she thought herself fit for. Betty, with

fear and trembling, said there was one trade for which she thought

herself qualified, but she had not the ambition to look so high--it

was far above her humble views--that was, to have a barrow, and sell

fruit, as several other of Mrs. Sponge's customers did, whom she had

often looked up to with envy, little expecting herself ever to

attain so independent a station.

Mrs. Sponge was an artful woman. Bad as she was, she was always

aiming at something of a character; this was a great help to her

trade. While she watched keenly to make every thing turn to her own

profit, she had a false fawning way of seeming to do all she did out

of pity and kindness to the distressed; and she seldom committed an

extortion, but she tried to make the persons she cheated believe

themselves highly obliged to her kindness. By thus pretending to be

their friend, she gained their confidence; and she grew rich

herself, while they thought she was only showing favor to them.

Various were the arts she had of getting rich; and the money she got

by grinding the poor, she spent in the most luxurious living; while

she would haggle with her hungry customers for a farthing, she would

spend pounds on the most costly delicacies for herself.

Mrs. Sponge, laying aside that haughty look and voice, well known to

such as had the misfortune to be in her debt, put on the

hypocritical smile and soft canting tone, which she always assumed,

when she meant to flatter her superiors, or take in her dependents.

"Betty," said she, "I am resolved to stand your friend. These are

sad times to be sure. Money is money now. Yet I am resolved to put

you in a handsome way of living. You shall have a barrow, and well

furnished too." Betty could not have felt more joy or gratitude, if

she had been told that she should have a coach. "O, madam," said

Betty, "it is impossible. I have not a penny in the world toward

helping me to set up." "I will take care of that," said Mrs. Sponge;

"only you must do as I bid you. You must pay me interest for my

money; and you will, of course, be glad also to pay so much every

night for a nice hot supper which I get ready _quite out of

kindness_, for a number of poor working people. This will be a great

comfort for such a friendless girl as you, for my victuals and drink

are the best, and my company the merriest of any in all St.

Giles's." Betty thought all this only so many more favors, and

curtseying to the ground, said, "To be sure, ma'am, and thank you a

thousand times into the bargain. I never could hope for such a rise

in life."

Mrs. Sponge knew what she was about. Betty was a lively girl, who

had a knack at learning any thing; and so well looking through all

her dirt and rags, that there was little doubt she would get

custom. A barrow was soon provided, and five shillings put into

Betty's hands. Mrs. Sponge kindly condescended to go to show her how

to buy the fruit; for it was a rule with this prudent gentlewoman,

and one from which she never departed, that no one should cheat but

herself; and suspecting from her own heart the fraud of all other

dealers, she was seldom guilty of the weakness of being imposed

upon.

Betty had never possessed such a sum before. She grudged to lay it

out all at once, and was ready to fancy she could live upon the

capital. The crown, however, was laid out to the best advantage.

Betty was carefully taught in what manner to cry her oranges; and

received many useful lessons how to get off the bad with the good,

and the stale with the fresh. Mrs. Sponge also lent her a few bad

sixpences, for which she ordered her to bring home good ones at

night. Betty stared. Mrs. Sponge said, "Betty, those who would get

money, must not be too nice about trifles. Keep one of these

sixpences in your hand, and if an ignorant young customer gives you

a good sixpence, do you immediately slip it into your other hand,

and give him the bad one, declaring that it is the very one you have

just received, and be ready to swear that you have not another

sixpence in the world. You must also learn how to treat different

sorts of customers. To some you may put off, with safety, goods

which would be quite unsaleable to others. Never offer bad fruit,

Betty, to those who know better; never waste the good on those who

may be put off with worse; put good oranges at top to attract the

eye, and the mouldy ones under for sale."

Poor Betty had not a nice conscience, for she had never learned that

grand, but simple rule of all moral obligation, _Never do that to

another which you would not have another do to you._ She set off

with her barrow, as proud and as happy as if she had been set up in

the first shop in Covent Garden. Betty had a sort of natural good

temper, which made her unwilling to impose, but she had no principle

which told her it was sin to do so. She had such good success, that

when night came, she had not an orange left. With a light heart she

drove her empty barrow to Mrs. Sponge's door. She went in with a

merry face, and threw down on the counter every farthing she had

taken. "Betty," said Mrs. Sponge, "I have a right to it all, as it

was got by my money. But I am too generous to take it. I will

therefore only take a sixpence for this day's use of my five

shillings. This is a most reasonable interest, and I will lend you

the same sum to trade with to-morrow, and so on; you only paying me

sixpence for the use of it every night, which will be a great

bargain to you. You must also pay me my price every night for your

supper, and you shall have an excellent lodging above stairs; so you

see every thing will now be provided for you in a genteel manner,

through my generosity."[11]

[11] For an authentic account of numberless frauds of this kind,

see that very useful work of Mr. Colquhoun on the "Police of the

Metropolis of London."

Poor Betty's gratitude blinded her so completely, that she had

forgot to calculate the vast proportion which this generous

benefactress was to receive out of her little gains. She thought

herself a happy creature, and went in to supper with a number of

others of her own class. For this supper, and for more porter and

gin than she ought to have drunk, Betty was forced to pay so high

that it ate up all the profits of the day, which, added to the daily

interest, made Mrs. Sponge a rich return for her five shillings.

Betty was reminded again of the gentility of her new situation, as

she crept up to bed in one of Mrs. Sponge's garrets, five stories

high. This loft, to be sure, was small and had no window, but what

it wanted in light was made up in company, as it had three beds and

thrice as many lodgers. Those gentry had one night, in a drunken

frolic, broken down the door, which happily had never been replaced;

for since that time, the lodgers had died much seldomer of

infectious distempers, than when they were close shut in. For this

lodging Betty paid twice as much to her _good friend_ as she would

have done to a stranger. Thus she continued with great industry and

a thriving trade, as poor as on the first day, and not a bit nearer

to saving money enough to buy her even a pair of shoes, though her

feet were nearly on the ground.

One day, as Betty was driving her barrow through a street near

Holborn, a lady from a window called out to her that she wanted

some oranges. While the servant went to fetch a plate, the lady

entered into some talk with Betty, having been struck with her

honest countenance and civil manner. She questioned her as to her

way of life, and the profits of her trade; and Betty, who had never

been so kindly treated before by so genteel a person, was very

communicative. She told her little history as far as she knew it,

and dwelt much on the generosity of Mrs. Sponge, in keeping her in

her house, and trusting her with so large a capital as five

shillings. At first it sounded like a very good-natured thing; but

the lady, whose husband was one of the justices of the new police,

happened to know more of Mrs. Sponge than was good, which led her

to inquire still further. Betty owned, that to be sure it was not

all clear profit, for that besides that the high price of the

supper and bed ran away with all she got, she paid sixpence a-day

for the use of the five shillings. "And how long have you done

this?" said the lady. "About a year, madam."

The lady's eyes were at once opened. "My poor girl," said she, "do

you know that you have already paid for that single five shillings

the enormous sum of L7 10s.? I believe it is the most profitable

five shillings Mrs. Sponge ever laid out." "O no, madam," said the

girl, "that good gentlewoman does the same kindness to ten or twelve

other poor friendless creatures like me." "Does she so?" said the

lady; "then I never heard of a more lucrative trade than this woman

carries on, under the mask of charity, at the expense of her poor

deluded fellow-creatures."

"But, madam," said Betty, who did not comprehend this lady's

arithmetic, "what can I do? I now contrive to pick up a morsel of

bread without begging or stealing. Mrs. Sponge has been very good to

me; and I don't see how I can help myself."

"I will tell you," said the lady; "if you will follow my advice, you

may not only maintain yourself honestly but independently. Only

oblige yourself to live hard for a little time, till you have saved

five shillings out of your own earnings. Give up that expensive

supper at night, drink only one pint of porter, and no gin at all.

As soon as you have scraped together the five shillings, carry it

back to your false friend; and if you are industrious, you will, at

the end of the year, have saved L7 10s. If you can make a shift to

live now, when you have this heavy interest to pay, judge how things

will mend when your capital becomes your own. You will put some

clothes on your back; and, by leaving the use of spirits, and the

company in which you drink them, your health, your morals, and your

condition will mend."

The lady did not talk thus to save her money. She would willingly

have given the girl the five shillings; but she thought it was

beginning at the wrong end. She wanted to try her. Beside, she knew

there was more pleasure, as well as honor, in possessing five

shillings of one's own saving, than of another's giving. Betty

promised to obey. She owned she had got no good by the company or

the liquor at Mrs. Sponge's. She promised that very night to begin

saving the expense of the supper; and that she would not taste a

drop of gin till she had the five shillings beforehand. The lady,

who knew the power of good habits, was contented with this,

thinking, that if the girl could abstain for a certain time, it

would become easy to her. She therefore, at present, said little

about the _sin_ of drinking, and only insisted on the _expense_ of

it.

In a very few weeks Betty had saved up the five shillings. She went

to carry back this money with great gratitude to Mrs. Sponge. This

kind friend began to abuse her most unmercifully. She called her

many hard names, not fit to repeat, for having forsaken the supper,

by which she swore she herself got nothing at all; but as she had

the charity to dress it for such beggarly wretches, she insisted

they should pay for it, whether they eat it or not. She also brought

in a heavy score for lodging, though Betty had paid for it every

night, and had given notice of her intending to quit her. By all

these false pretenses, she got from her, not only her own five

shillings, but all the little capital with which Betty was going to

set up for herself. All was not sufficient to answer her

demands--she declared she would send her to prison; but while she

went to call a constable, Betty contrived to make off.

With a light pocket and a heavy heart she went back to the lady; and

with many tears told her sad story. The lady's husband, the justice,

condescended to listen to Betty's tale. He said Mrs. Sponge had long

been upon his books as a receiver of stolen goods. Betty's evidence

strengthened his bad opinion of her. "This petty system of usury,"

said the magistrate, "may be thought trifling; but it will no longer

appear so, when you reflect that if one of these female sharpers

possesses a capital of seventy shillings, or L3 10s., with fourteen

steady regular customers, she can realize a fixed income of one

hundred guineas a year. Add to this the influence such a loan gives

her over these friendless creatures, by compelling them to eat at

her house, or lodge, or buy liquors, or by taking their pawns, and

you will see the extent of the evil. I pity these poor victims: you,

Betty, shall point out some of them to me. I will endeavor to open

their eyes on their own bad management. It is not by giving to the

importunate shillings and half-crowns, and turning them adrift to

wait for the next accidental relief, that much good is done. It

saves trouble, indeed, but that trouble being the most valuable part

of charity, ought not to be spared; at least by those who have

leisure as well as affluence. It is one of the greatest acts of

kindness to the poor to mend their economy, and to give them right

views of laying out their little money to advantage. These poor

blinded creatures look no further than to be able to pay this heavy

interest every night, and to obtain the same loan on the same hard

terms the next day. Thus they are kept in poverty and bondage all

their lives; but I hope as many as hear of this will go on a better

plan, and I shall be ready to help any who are willing to help

themselves." This worthy magistrate went directly to Mrs. Sponge's

with proper officers; and he soon got to the bottom of many

iniquities. He not only made her refund poor Betty's money, but

committed her to prison for receiving stolen goods, and various

other offenses, which may, perhaps, make the subject of another

history.

Betty was now set up in trade to her heart's content. She had found

the benefit of leaving off spirits, and she resolved to drink them

no more. The first fruits of this resolution was, that in a

fortnight she bought her a pair of new shoes; and as there was now

no deduction for interest, or for gin, her earnings became

considerable. The lady made her a present of a gown and a hat, on

the easy condition that she should go to church. She accepted the

terms, at first rather as an act of obedience to the lady than from

a sense of higher duty. But she soon began to go from a better

motive. This constant attendance at church, joined to the

instructions of the lady, opened a new world to Betty. She now

heard, for the first time, that she was a sinner; that God had given

a law which was holy, just, and good; that she had broken this law,

had been a swearer, a Sabbath-breaker, and had lived _without God in

the world_. All this was sad news to Betty; she knew, indeed,

before, that there were sinners, but she thought they were only to

be found in the prisons, or at Botany Bay, or in those mournful

carts which she had sometimes followed with her barrow, with the

unthinking crowd, to Tyburn. She was deeply struck with the great

truths revealed in the Scripture, which were quite new to her; her

heart smote her, and she became anxious to _flee from the wrath to

come_. She was desirous of improvement, and said, "she would give up

all the profits of her barrow, and go into the hardest service,

rather than live in sin and ignorance."

"Betty," said the lady, "I am glad to see you so well disposed, and

will do what I can for you. Your present way of life, to be sure,

exposes you to much danger; but the trade is not unlawful in itself,

and we may please God in any calling, provided it be not a dishonest

one. In this great town there must be barrow-women to sell fruit. Do

you, then, instead of forsaking your business, set a good example to

those in it, and show them, that though a dangerous trade, it need

not be a wicked one. Till Providence points out some safer way of

getting your bread, let your companions see that it is possible to

be good even in this. Your trade being carried on in the open

street, and your fruit bought in an open shop, you are not so much

obliged to keep sinful company as may be thought. Take a garret in

an honest house, to which you may go home in safety at night. I will

give you a bed, and a few necessaries to furnish your room; and I

will also give you a constant Sunday's dinner. A barrow-woman,

blessed be God and our good laws, is as much her own mistress on

Sundays as a duchess; and the church and the Bible are as much open

to her. You may soon learn as much of religion as you are expected

to know. A barrow-woman may pray as heartily morning and night, and

serve God as acceptably all day, while she is carrying on her little

trade, as if she had her whole time to spare.

"To do this well, you must mind the following

RULES FOR RETAIL DEALERS.

"Resist every temptation to cheat.

"Never impose bad goods on false pretenses.

"Never put off bad money for good.

"Never use profane or uncivil language.

"Never swear your goods cost so much, when you know it is false. By

so doing you are guilty of two sins in one breath, a lie and an

oath.

"To break these rules will be your chief temptation. God will mark

how you behave under them, and will reward or punish you

accordingly. These temptations will be as great to you, as higher

trials are to higher people; but you have the same God to look to

for strength to resist them as they have. You must pray to him to

give you this strength. You shall attend a Sunday School, where you

will be taught these good things; and I will promote you as you

shall be found to deserve."

Poor Betty here burst into tears of joy and gratitude, crying out,

"What! shall such a poor friendless creature as I be treated so

kindly, and learn to read the word of God too? Oh, madam, what a

lucky chance brought me to your door." "Betty," said the lady, "what

you have just said shows the need you have of being better taught;

there is no such thing as chance; and we offend God when we call

that luck or chance which is brought about by his will or pleasure.

None of the events of your life have happened by chance; but all

have been under the direction of a good and kind Providence. He has

permitted you to experience want and distress, that you might

acknowledge his hand in your present comfort and prosperity. Above

all, you must bless his goodness in sending you to me, not only

because I have been of use to you in your worldly affairs, but

because he has enabled me to show you the danger of your state from

sin and ignorance, and to put you in a way to know his will and to

keep his commandments, which is eternal life."

How Betty, by industry and piety, rose in the world, till at length

she came to keep that handsome sausage shop near the Seven Dials,

and was married to that very hackney-coachman, whose history and

honest character may be learned from that ballad of the Cheap

Repository which bears his name, may be shown hereafter.

BLACK GILES THE POACHER.

CONTAINING SOME ACCOUNT OF A FAMILY WHO HAD RATHER LIVE BY THEIR

WITS THAN THEIR WORK.

PART I.

Poaching Giles lives on the borders of those great moors in

Somersetshire. Giles, to be sure, has been a sad fellow in his time;

and it is none of his fault if his whole family do not end their

career, either at the gallows or Botany Bay. He lives at that mud

cottage with the broken windows, stuffed with dirty rags, just

beyond the gate which divides the upper from the lower moor. You may

know the house at a good distance by the ragged tiles on the roof,

and the loose stones which are ready to drop out from the chimney;

though a short ladder, a hod of mortar, and half an hour's leisure

time, would have prevented all this, and made the little dwelling

tight enough. But as Giles had never learned any thing that was

good, so he did not know the value of such useful sayings, as, that

"a tile in time saves nine."

Besides this, Giles fell into that common mistake, that a beggarly

looking cottage, and filthy ragged children, raised most compassion,

and of course drew most charity. But as cunning as he was in other

things, he was out in his reckoning here; for it is neatness,

housewifery, and a decent appearance, which draw the kindness of the

rich and charitable while they turn away disgusted from filth and

laziness; not out of pride, but because they see that it is next to

impossible to mend the condition of those who degrade themselves by

dirt and sloth; and few people care to help those who will not help

themselves.

The common on which Giles's hovel stands, is quite a deep marsh in a

wet winter: but in summer it looks green and pretty enough. To be

sure it would be rather convenient when one passes that way in a

carriage, if one of the children would run out and open the gate;

but instead of any one of them running out as soon as they heard the

wheels, which would be quite time enough, what does Giles do, but

set all his ragged brats, with dirty faces, matted locks, and naked

feet and legs, to lie all day upon a sand bank hard by the gate,

waiting for the slender chance of what may be picked up from

travelers. At the sound of a carriage, a whole covey of these little

scare-crows start up, rush to the gate, and all at once thrust out

their hats and aprons; and for fear this, together with the noise of

their clamorous begging, should not sufficiently frighten the

horses, they are very apt to let the gate slap full against you,

before you are half way through, in their eager scuffle to snatch

from each other the halfpence which you have thrown out to them. I

know two ladies who were one day very near being killed by these

abominable tricks.

Thus five or six little idle creatures, who might be earning a

trifle by knitting at home, who might be useful to the public by

working in the field, and who might assist their families by

learning to get their bread twenty honest ways, are suffered to lie

about all day, in the hope of a few chance halfpence, which, after

all, they are by no means sure of getting. Indeed, when the

neighboring gentlemen found out that opening the gate was a family

trade, they soon left off giving any thing. And I myself, though I

used to take out a penny ready to give, had there been only one to

receive it, when I see a whole family established in so beggarly a

trade, quietly put it back again in my pocket, and give nothing at

all. And so few travelers pass that way, that sometimes after the

whole family have lost a day, their gains do not amount to

two-pence.

As Giles had a far greater taste for living by his wits than his

work, he was at one time in hopes that his children might have got a

pretty penny by _tumbling_ for the diversion of travelers, and he

set about training them in that indecent practice; but unluckily the

moors being level, the carriage traveled faster than the children

tumbled. He envied those parents who lived on the London road, over

the Wiltshire downs, which downs being very hilly, it enables the

tumbler to keep pace with the traveler, till he sometimes extorts

from the light and unthinking, a reward instead of a reproof. I beg

leave, however, to put all gentlemen and ladies in mind, that such

tricks are a kind of apprenticeship to the trades of begging and

thieving; and that nothing is more injurious to good morals than to

encourage the poor in any habits which may lead them to live upon

chance.

Giles, to be sure, as his children grew older, began to train them

to such other employments as the idle habits they had learned at the

gate very properly qualified them for. The right of common, which

some of the poor cottagers have in that part of the country, and

which is doubtless a considerable advantage to many, was converted

by Giles into the means of corrupting his whole family; for his

children, as soon as they grew too big for the trade of begging at

the gate, were promoted to the dignity of thieves on the moor. Here

he kept two or three asses, miserable beings, which if they had the

good fortune to escape an untimely death by starving, did not fail

to meet with it by beating. Some of the biggest boys were sent out

with these lean and galled animals to carry sand or coals about the

neighboring towns. Both sand and coals were often stolen before they

got them to sell; or if not, they always took care to cheat in

selling them. By long practice in this art, they grew so dexterous,

that they could give a pretty good guess how large a coal they could

crib out of every bag before the buyer would be likely to miss it.

All their odd time was taken up under the pretense of watching their

asses on the moor, or running after five or six half-starved geese:

but the truth is these boys were only watching for an opportunity to

steal an old goose of their neighbor's, while they pretended to look

after their own. They used also to pluck the quills or the down from

these live creatures, or half milk a cow before the farmer's maid

came with her pail. They all knew how to calculate to a minute what

time to be down in a morning to let out their lank hungry beasts,

which they had turned over night into the farmer's field to steal a

little good pasture. They contrived to get there just time enough to

escape being caught replacing the stakes they had pulled out for the

cattle to get over. For Giles was a prudent long-headed fellow; and

whenever he stole food for his colts, took care never to steal

stakes from the hedges at the same place. He had sense enough to

know that the gain did not make up for the danger; he knew that a

loose fagot, pulled from a neighbor's pile of wood after the family

were gone to bed, answered the end better, and was not half the

trouble.

Among the many trades which Giles professed, he sometimes practiced

that of a rat-catcher; but he was addicted to so many tricks, that

he never followed the same trade long; for detection will, sooner or

later, follow the best concerted villany. Whenever he was sent for

to a farm house, his custom was to kill a few of the old rats,

always taking care to leave a little stock of young ones alive,

sufficient to keep up the breed; "for," said he, "if I were to be

such a fool as to clear a house or a barn at once, how would my

trade be carried on?" And where any barn was overstocked, he used to

borrow a few rats from thence, just to people a neighboring granary

which had none; and he might have gone on till now, had he not

unluckily been caught one evening emptying his cage of rats under

parson Wilson's barn door.

This worthy minister, Mr. Wilson, used to pity the neglected

children of Giles, as much as he blamed the wicked parents. He one

day picked up Dick, who was far the best of Giles's bad boys. Dick

was loitering about in a field behind the parson's garden in search

of a hen's nest, his mother having ordered him to bring home a few

eggs that night, by hook or by crook, as Giles was resolved to have

some pan-cakes for supper, though he knew that eggs were a penny

a-piece. Mr. Wilson had long been desirous of snatching some of this

vagrant family from ruin; and his chief hopes were bent on Dick, as

the least hackneyed in knavery. He had once given him a new pair of

shoes, on his promising to go to school next Sunday; but no sooner

had Rachel, the boy's mother, got the shoes into her clutches, than

she pawned them for a bottle of gin; and ordered the boy to keep out

of the parson's sight, and to be sure to play his marbles on Sunday

for the future, at the other end of the parish, and not near the

churchyard. Mr. Wilson, however, picked up the boy once more, for it

was not his way to despair of any body. Dick was just going to take

to his heels, as usual, for fear the old story of the shoes should

be brought forward; but finding he could not get off, what does he

do but run into a little puddle of muddy water which lay between him

and the parson, that the sight of his naked feet might not bring on

the dreaded subject. Now it happened that Mr. Wilson was planting a

little field of beans, so he thought this a good opportunity to

employ Dick, and he told him he had got some pretty easy work for

him. Dick did as he was bid; he willingly went to work, and readily

began to plant his beans with dispatch and regularity according to

the directions given him.

While the boy was busily at work by himself, Giles happened to come

by, having been skulking round the back way to look over the

parson's garden wall, to see if there was any thing worth climbing

over for on the ensuing night. He spied Dick, and began to scold him

for working for the stingy old parson, for Giles had a natural

antipathy to whatever belonged to the church. "What has he promised

thee a day?" said he; "little enough, I dare say." "He is not to pay

me by the day," said Dick, "but says he will give me so much when I

have planted this peck, and so much for the next." "Oh, oh! that

alters the case," said Giles. "One may, indeed, get a trifle by this

sort of work. I hate your regular day-jobs, where one can't well

avoid doing one's work for one's money. Come, give me a handful of

beans, I will teach thee how to plant when thou art paid for

planting by the peck. All we have to do in that case is to dispatch

the work as fast as we can, and get rid of the beans with all speed;

and as to the seed coming up or not, that is no business of ours; we

are paid for planting, not for growing. At the rate thou goest on

thou wouldst not get six-pence to night. Come along, bury away." So

saying he took his hatful of the seed, and where Dick had been

ordered to set one bean, Giles buried a dozen; of course the beans

were soon out. But though the peck was emptied, the ground was

unplanted. But cunning Giles knew this could not be found out till

the time when the beans might be expected to come up, "and then,

Dick," says he "the snails and the mice may go shares in the blame,

or we can lay the fault on the rooks or the black-birds." So saying,

he sent the boy into the parsonage to receive his pay, taking care

to secure about a quarter of the peck of beans for his own colt. He

put both bag and beans into his own pocket to carry home, bidding

Dick tell Mr. Wilson that he had planted the beans and lost the bag.

In the meantime Giles's other boys were busy in emptying the ponds

and trout-streams in the neighboring manor. They would steal away

the carp and tench when they were no bigger than gudgeons. By this

untimely depredation they plundered the owner of his property,

without enriching themselves. But the pleasure of mischief was

reward enough. These, and a hundred other little thieveries, they

committed with such dexterity, that old Tim Crib, whose son was

transported last assizes for sheep stealing, used to be often

reproaching his boys that Giles's sons were worth a hundred of such

blockheads as he had; for scarce a night passed but Giles had some

little comfortable thing for supper which his boys had pilfered in

the day, while his undutiful dogs never stole any thing worth

having. Giles, in the meantime, was busy in his way, but as busy as

he was in laying his nets, starting coveys, and training dogs, he

always took care that his depredations should not be confined merely

to game.

Giles's boys had never seen the inside of a church since they were

christened, and the father thought he knew his own interest better

than to force them to it; for church-time was the season of their

harvest. Then the hen's nests were searched, a stray duck was

clapped under the smock-frock, the tools which might have been left

by chance in a farm-yard were picked up, and all the neighboring

pigeon-houses were thinned, so that Giles used to boast to tawny

Rachel, his wife, that Sunday was to them the most profitable day

in the week. With her it was certainly the most laborious day, as

she always did her washing and ironing on the Sunday morning, it

being, as she said, the only leisure day she had, for on the other

days she went about the country telling fortunes, and selling

dream-books and wicked songs. Neither her husband's nor her

children's clothes were ever mended, and if Sunday, her idle day,

had not come about once in every week, it is likely they would never

have been washed neither. You might however see her as you were

going to church smoothing her own rags on her best red cloak, which

she always used for her ironing-cloth on Sundays, for her cloak when

she traveled, and for her blanket at night; such a wretched manager

was Rachel! Among her other articles of trade, one was to make and

sell peppermint, and other distilled waters. These she had the cheap

art of making without trouble and without expense, for she made them

without herbs and without a still. Her way was, to fill so many

quart bottles with plain water, putting a spoonful of mint water in

the mouth of each; these she corked down with rosin, carrying to

each customer a phial of real distilled water to taste by way of

sample. This was so good that her bottles were commonly bought up

without being opened; but if any suspicion arose, and she was forced

to uncork a bottle, by the few drops of distilled water lying at top

she even then escaped detection, and took care to get out of reach

before the bottle was opened a second time. She was too prudent ever

to go twice to the same house.

THE UPRIGHT MAGISTRATE.

There is hardly any petty mischief that is not connected with the

life of a poacher. Mr. Wilson was aware of this; he was not only a

pious clergyman, but an upright justice. He used to say, that people

who were really conscientious, must be so in small things as well

as in great ones, or they would destroy the effect of their own

precept, and their example would not be of general use. For this

reason he never would accept of a hare or a partridge from any

unqualified person in the parish: he did not content himself with

shuffling the thing off by asking questions, and pretending to take

it for granted in a general way that the game was fairly come at;

but he used to say, that by receiving the booty he connived at a

crime, made himself a sharer in it; and if he gave a present to the

man who brought it, he even tempted him to repeat the fault.

One day poor Jack Weston, an honest fellow in the neighborhood, whom

Mr. Wilson had kindly visited and relieved in a long sickness, from

which he was but just recovered, was brought before him as he was

sitting on the justice's bench; Jack was accused of having knocked

down a hare; and of all the birds in the air, who should the

informer be but black Giles the poacher? Mr. Wilson was grieved at

the charge; he had a great regard for Jack, but he had still a

greater regard for the law. The poor fellow pleaded guilty. He did

not deny the fact, but said he did not consider it as a crime, for

he did not think game was private property, and he owned he had a

strong temptation for doing what he had done, which he hoped would

plead his excuse. The justice desired to know what this temptation

was. "Sir," said the poor fellow, "you know I was given over this

spring in a bad fever. I had no friend in the world but you, sir.

Under God you saved my life by your charitable relief; and I trust

also you may have helped to save my soul by your prayers and your

good advice; for, by the grace of God, I have turned over a new leaf

since that sickness.

"I know I can never make you amends for all your goodness, but I

thought it would be some comfort to my full heart if I could but

once give you some little token of my gratitude. So I had trained a

pair of nice turtle doves for Madam Wilson, but they were stolen

from me, sir, and I do suspect black Giles stole them. Yesterday

morning, sir, as I was crawling out to my work, for I am still but

very weak, a fine hare ran across my path. I did not stay to

consider whether it was wrong to kill a hare, but I felt it was

right to show my gratitude; so, sir, without a moment's thought I

did knock down the hare, which I was going to carry to your worship,

because I knew madam was fond of hare. I am truly sorry for my

fault, and will submit to whatever punishment your worship may

please to inflict."

Mr. Wilson was much moved with this honest confession, and touched

with the poor fellow's gratitude. What added to the effect of the

story, was the weak condition, and pale sickly looks of the

offender. But this worthy magistrate never suffered his feelings to

bias his integrity; he knew that he did not sit on that bench to

indulge pity, but to administer justice; and while he was sorry for

the offender, he would never justify the offense. "John," said he,

"I am surprised that you could for a moment forget that I never

accept any gift which causes the giver to break a law. On Sunday I

teach you from the pulpit the laws of God, whose minister I am. At

present I fill the chair of a magistrate, to enforce and execute the

laws of the land. Between those and the other there is more

connection than you are aware. I thank you, John, for your affection

to me, and I admire your gratitude; but I must not allow either

affection or gratitude to be brought as a plea for a wrong action.

It is not your business nor mine, John, to settle whether the game

laws are good or bad. Till they are repealed we must obey them.

Many, I doubt not, break these laws through ignorance, and many, I

am certain, who would not dare to steal a goose or a turkey, make

no scruple of knocking down a hare or a partridge. You will

hereafter think yourself happy that this your first attempt has

proved unsuccessful, as I trust you are too honest a fellow ever to

intend to turn poacher. With poaching much moral evil is connected;

a habit of nightly depredation; a custom of prowling in the dark for

prey produces in time a disrelish for honest labor. He whose first

offense was committed without much thought or evil intention, if he

happens to succeed a few times in carrying off his booty

undiscovered, grows bolder and bolder: and when he fancies there is

no shame attending it, he very soon gets to persuade himself that

there is also no sin. While some people pretend a scruple about

stealing a sheep, they partly live by plundering of warrens. But

remember that the warrener pays a high rent, and that therefore his

rabbits are as much his property as his sheep. Do not then deceive

yourselves with these false distinctions. All property is sacred,

and as the laws of the land are intended to fence in that property,

he who brings up his children to break down any of these fences,

brings them up to certain sin and ruin. He who begins with robbing

orchards, rabbit-warrens, and fish-ponds, will probably end with

horse-stealing or highway robbery. Poaching is a regular

apprenticeship to bolder crimes. He whom I may commit as a boy to

sit in the stocks for killing a partridge, may be likely to end at

the galleys for killing a man.

"Observe, you who now hear me, the strictness and impartiality of

justice. I know Giles to be a worthless fellow, yet it is my duty to

take his information; I know Jack Weston to be an honest youth, yet

I must be obliged to make him pay the penalty. Giles is a bad man,

but he can prove this fact; Jack is a worthy lad, but he has

committed this fault. I am sorry for you, Jack; but do not let it

grieve you that Giles has played worse tricks a hundred times, and

yet got off, while you were detected in the very first offense, for

that would be grieving because you are not as great a rogue as

Giles. At this moment you think your good luck is very unequal; but

all this will one day turn out in your favor. Giles it not the more

a favorite of heaven because he has hitherto escaped Botany Bay, or

the hulks; nor is it any mark of God's displeasure against you,

John, that you were found out in your very first attempt."

Here the good justice left off speaking, and no one could contradict

the truth of what he had said. Weston humbly submitted to his

sentence, but he was very poor, and knew not where to raise the

money to pay his fine. His character had always been so fair, that

several farmers present kindly agreed to advance a trifle each to

prevent his being sent to prison, and he thankfully promised to work

out the debt. The justice himself, though he could not soften the

law, yet showed Weston so much kindness that he was enabled before

the year was out, to get out of this difficulty. He began to think

more seriously than he had ever yet done, and grew to abhor

poaching, not merely from fear, but from principle.

We shall soon see whether poaching Giles always got off so

successfully. Here we have seen that worldly prosperity is no sure

sign of goodness. Next month we may, perhaps, see that the "triumph

of the wicked is short;" for I then promise to give the second part

of the Poacher, together with the entertaining story of the Widow

Brown's Apple-tree.

PART II.

HISTORY OF WIDOW BROWN'S APPLE-TREE.

I think my readers got so well acquainted last month with black

Giles the poacher, that they will not expect this month to hear any

great good, either of Giles himself, his wife Rachel, or any of

their family. I am sorry to expose their tricks, but it is their

fault, not mine. If I pretend to speak about people at all, I must

tell the truth. I am sure, if folks would but turn about and mend,

it would be a thousand times pleasanter to me to write their

histories; for it is no comfort to tell of any body's faults. If the

world would but grow good, I should be glad enough to publish it:

but till it really becomes so, I must go on describing it as it is;

otherwise, I should only mislead my readers, instead of instructing

them. It is the duty of a faithful historian to relate the evil with

the good.

As to Giles and his boys, I am sure old Widow Brown has good reason

to remember their dexterity. Poor woman! she had a fine little bed

of onions in her neat and well-kept garden; she was very fond of her

onions, and many a rheumatism has she caught by kneeling down to

weed them in a damp day, notwithstanding the little flannel cloak

and the bit of an old mat which Madam Wilson gave her, because the

old woman would needs weed in wet weather. Her onions she always

carefully treasured up for her winter's store; for an onion makes a

little broth very relishing, and is indeed the only savory thing

poor people are used to get. She had also a small orchard,

containing about a dozen apple-trees, with which in a good year she

had been known to make a couple of barrels of cider, which she sold

to her landlord toward paying her rent, besides having a little keg

which she was able to keep back for her own drinking. Well! would

you believe it, Giles and his boys marked both onions and apples for

their own; indeed, a man who stole so many rabbits from the

warrener, was likely enough to steal onions for sauce. One day, when

the widow was abroad on a little business, Giles and his boys made a

clear riddance of the onion bed; and when they had pulled up every

single onion, they then turned a couple of pigs into the garden,

who, allured by the smell, tore up the bed in such a manner, that

the widow, when she came home, had not the least doubt but the pigs

had been the thieves. To confirm this opinion, they took care to

leave the latch half open at one end of the garden, and to break

down a slight fence at the other end.

I wonder how any body can find in his heart not to pity and respect

poor old widows. There is something so forlorn and helpless in their

condition, that methinks it is a call on every body, men, women, and

children, to do them all the kind services that fall in their way.

Surely their having no one to take their part, is an additional

reason for kind-hearted people not to hurt and oppress them. But it

was this very reason which led Giles to do this woman an injury.

With what a touching simplicity is it recorded in Scripture, of the

youth whom our blessed Saviour raised from the dead, that he was the

only son of his mother, _and she was a widow_!

It happened unluckily for poor Widow Brown that her cottage stood

quite alone. On several mornings together (for roguery gets up much

earlier than industry) Giles and his boys stole regularly into her

orchard, followed by their jack-asses. She was so deaf that she

could not hear the asses if they had brayed ever so loud, and to

this Giles trusted; for he was very cautious in his rogueries,

since he could not otherwise have contrived so long to keep out of

prison; for, though he was almost always suspected, he had seldom

been taken up, and never convicted. The boys used to fill their

bags, load their asses, and then march off; and if, in their way to

the town where the apples were to be sold, they chanced to pass by

one of their neighbors who might be likely to suspect them, they

then all at once began to scream out, "Buy my coal! Buy my sand!"

Besides the trees in her orchard, poor Widow Brown had in her small

garden one apple-tree particularly fine; it was a red streak, so

tempting and so lovely, that Giles's family had watched it with

longing eyes, till at last they resolved on a plan for carrying off

all this fine fruit in their bags. But it was a nice point to

manage. The tree stood directly under her chamber window, so that

there was some danger that she might spy them at the work. They,

therefore, determined to wait till the next Sunday morning when they

knew she would not fail to be at church. Sunday came, and during

service Giles attended. It was a lone house, as I said before, and

the rest of the parish were safe at church. In a trice the tree was

cleared, the bags were filled, the asses were whipped, the thieves

were off, the coast was clear, and all was safe and quiet by the

time the sermon was over.

Unluckily, however, it happened that this tree was so beautiful, and

the fruit so fine, that the people, as they used to pass to and from

the church, were very apt to stop and admire Widow Brown's

red-streaks; and some of the farmers rather envied her that in that

scarce season, when they hardly expected to make a pie out of a

large orchard, she was likely to make a cask of cider from a single

tree. I am afraid, indeed, if I must speak out, she herself rather

set her heart too much upon this fruit, and had felt as much pride

in her tree as gratitude to a good Providence for it; but this

failing of hers was no excuse for Giles. The covetousness of this

thief had for once got the better of his caution; the tree was too

completely stripped, though the youngest boy, Dick, did beg hard

that his father would leave the poor old woman enough for a few

dumplings; and when Giles ordered Dick, in his turn, to shake the

tree, the boy did it so gently that hardly any apples fell, for

which he got a good stroke of the stick with which the old man was

beating down the apples.

The neighbors, on their return from church, stopped as usual, but it

was not, alas! to admire the apples, for apples there were none

left, but to lament the robbery, and console the widow. Mean time

the red-streaks were safely lodged in Giles's hovel under a few

bundles of new hay which he had contrived to pull from a farmer's

mow the night before for the use of his jack-asses. Such a stir,

however, began to be made about the widow's apple-tree, that Giles,

who knew how much his character had laid him open to suspicion, as

soon as he saw the people safe in church again in the afternoon,

ordered his boys to carry each a hatful of the apples and thrust

them in a little casement window which happened to be open in the

house of Samuel Price, a very honest carpenter in that parish, who

was at church with his whole family. Giles's plan, by this

contrivance, was to lay the theft on Price's sons in case the thing

should come to be further inquired into. Here Dick put in a word,

and begged and prayed his father not to force them to carry the

apples to Price's. But all he got by his begging was such a knock as

had nearly laid him on the earth. "What, you cowardly rascal," said

Giles, "you will go and _'peach_, I suppose, and get your father

sent to jail."

Poor Widow Brown, though her trouble had made her still weaker than

she was, went to church again in the afternoon; indeed she rightly

thought that her being in trouble was a new reason why she ought to

go. During the service she tried with all her might not to think of

her red-streaks, and whenever they would come into her head, she

took up her prayer-book directly, and so she forgot them a little;

and, indeed, she found herself much easier when she came out of the

church than when she went in; an effect so commonly produced by

prayer, that methinks it is a pity people do not try it oftener. Now

it happened, oddly enough, that on that Sunday, of all the Sundays

in the year, the widow should call in to rest a little at Samuel

Price's, to tell over again the lamentable story of the apples, and

to consult with him how the thief might be brought to justice. But

oh, reader! guess, if you can, for I am sure I can not tell you,

what was her surprise, when, on going into Samuel Price's kitchen,

she saw her own red-streaks lying on the window! The apples were of

a sort too remarkable, for color, shape, and size, to be mistaken.

There was not such another tree in the parish. Widow Brown

immediately screamed out, "Alas-a-day! as sure as can be, here are

my red-streaks; I could swear to them in any court." Samuel Price,

who believed his sons to be as honest as himself, was shocked and

troubled at the sight. He knew he had no red-streaks of his own, he

knew there were no apples in the window when he went to church; he

did verily believe these apples to be the widow's. But how came they

there he could not possibly guess. He called for Tom, the only one

of his sons who now lived at home. Tom was at the Sunday School,

which he had never once missed since Mr. Wilson, the minister, had

set up one in the parish. Was such a boy likely to do such a deed?

A crowd was by this time got about Price's door, among which were

Giles and his boys, who had already taken care to spread the news

that Tom Price was the thief. Most people were unwilling to believe

it. His character was very good, but appearances were strongly

against him. Mr. Wilson, who had staid to christen a child, now came

in. He was much concerned that Tom Price, the best boy in his

school, should stand accused of such a crime. He sent for the boy,

examined, and cross-examined him. No marks of guilt appeared. But

still, though he pleaded _not guilty_, there lay the red-streaks in

his father's window. All the idle fellows in the place, who were

most likely to have committed such a theft themselves, were the very

people who fell with vengeance on poor Tom. The wicked seldom give

any quarter. "This is one of your sanctified ones!" cried they.

"This was all the good that Sunday School did!" For their parts they

never saw any good come by religion. Sunday was the only day for a

little pastime, and if poor boys must be shut up with their godly

books, when they ought to be out taking a little pleasure, it was no

wonder they made themselves amends by such tricks. Another said he

would like to see Parson Wilson's righteous one well whipped. A

third hoped he would be clapped in the stocks for a young hypocrite

as he was; while old Giles, who thought the only way to avoid

suspicion was by being more violent than the rest, declared, "that

he hoped the young dog would be transported for life."

Mr. Wilson was too wise and too just to proceed against Tom without

full proof. He declared the crime was a very heavy one, and he

feared that heavy must be the punishment. Tom, who knew his own

innocence, earnestly prayed to God that it might be made to appear

as clear as the noon-day; and very fervent were his secret devotions

on that night.

Black Giles passed his night in a very different manner. He set off,

as soon as it was dark, with his sons and their jack-asses, laden

with their stolen goods. As such a cry was raised about the apples,

he did not think it safe to keep them longer at home, but resolved

to go and sell them at the next town, borrowing, without leave, a

lame colt out of the moor to assist in carrying off his booty.

Giles and his eldest sons had rare sport all the way in, thinking

that, while they were enjoying the profit of their plunder, Tom

Price would be whipped round the marketplace at least, if not sent

beyond sea. But the younger boy, Dick, who had naturally a tender

heart, though hardened by his long familiarity with sin, could not

help crying when he thought that Tom Price might, perhaps, be

transported for a crime which he himself had helped to commit. He

had had no compunction about the robbery, for he had not been

instructed in the great principles of truth and justice; nor would

he therefore, perhaps, have had much remorse about accusing an

innocent boy. But though utterly devoid of principle, he had some

remains of natural feeling and of gratitude. Tom Price had often

given him a bit of his own bread and cheese; and once, when Dick was

like to be drowned, Tom had jumped into the pond with his clothes

on, and saved his life when he was just sinking; the remembrance of

all this made his heart heavy. He said nothing; but as he trotted

barefoot after the asses, he heard his father and brothers laugh at

having outwitted the godly ones; and he grieved to think how poor

Tom would suffer for his wickedness, yet fear kept him silent; they

called him a sulky dog, and lashed the asses till they bled.

In the mean time Tom Price kept up his spirits as well as he could.

He worked hard all day, and prayed heartily night and morning. "It

is true," said he to himself, "I am not guilty of this sin; but let

this accusation set me on examining myself, and truly repenting of

all my other sins; for I find enough to repent of, though, I thank

God, I did not steal the widow's apples."

At length Sunday came, and Tom went to school as usual. As soon as

he walked in there was a great deal of whispering and laughing among

the worst of the boys; and he overheard them say, "Who would have

thought it! This is master's favorite! This is Parson Wilson's sober

Tommy! We sha'n't have Tommy thrown in our teeth again if we go to

get a bird's nest, or gather a few nuts on a Sunday." "Your demure

ones are always hypocrites," says another. "The still sow sucks all

the milk," says a third.

Giles's family had always kept clear of the school. Dick, indeed,

had sometimes wished to go; not that he had much sense of sin, or

desire after goodness, but he thought if he could once read, he

might rise in the world, and not be forced to drive asses all his

life. Through this whole Saturday night he could not sleep. He

longed to know what would be done to Tom. He began to wish to go to

school, but he had not courage--sin is very cowardly. So on the

Sunday morning he went and sat himself down under the church wall.

Mr. Wilson passed by. It was not his way to reject the most wicked,

till he had tried every means to bring them over, and even then he

pitied and prayed for them. He had, indeed, long left off talking to

Giles's sons; but seeing Dick sitting by himself, he once more spoke

to him, desired him to leave off his vagabond life, and go with him

into the school. The boy hung down his head, but made no answer. He

did not, however, either rise up and run away, or look sulky, as he

used to do. The minister desired him once more to go. "Sir," said

the boy, "I can't go; I am so big I am ashamed." "The bigger you are

the less time you have to lose." "But, sir, I can't read." "Then it

is high time you should learn." "I should be ashamed to begin to

learn my letters." "The shame is not in beginning to learn them, but

in being content never to know them." "But, sir, I am so ragged!"

"God looks at the heart, and not at the coat." "But, sir, I have no

shoes and stockings." "So much the worse. I remember who gave you

both. (Here Dick colored.) It is bad to want shoes and stockings,

but still if you can drive your asses a dozen miles without them,

you may certainly walk a hundred yards to school without them."

"But, sir, the good boys will hate me, and won't speak to me." "Good

boys hate nobody, and as to not speaking to you, to be sure they

will not keep your company while you go on in your present evil

courses; but as soon as they see you wish to reform, they will help

you, and pity you, and teach you; and so come along." Here Mr.

Wilson took this dirty boy by the hand, and gently pulled him

forward, kindly talking to him all the way, in the most

condescending manner.

How the whole school stared to see Dick Giles come in! No one,

however, dared to say what he thought. The business went on, and

Dick slunk into a corner, partly to hide his rags, and partly to

hide his sin; for last Sunday's transaction sat heavy on his heart,

not because he had stolen the apples, but because Tom Price had been

accused. This, I say, made him slink behind. Poor boy! he little

thought there was One saw him who sees all things, and from whose

eye no hole nor corner can hide the sinner: "For he is about our

bed, and about our path, and spieth out all our ways."

It was the custom in that school, and an excellent custom it is, for

the master, who was a good and wise man, to mark down in his

pocket-book all the events of the week, that he might turn them to

some account in his Sunday evening instructions; such as any useful

story in the newspaper, any account of boys being drowned as they

were out in a pleasure boat on Sundays, any sudden death in the

parish, or any other remarkable visitation of Providence; insomuch,

that many young people in the place, who did not belong to the

school, and many parents also, used to drop in for an hour on a

Sunday evening, when they were sure to hear something profitable.

The minister greatly approved this practice, and often called in

himself, which was a great support to the master, and encouragement

to the people who attended.

The master had taken a deep concern in the story of Widow Brown's

apple-tree. He could not believe Tom Price was guilty, nor dared he

pronounce him innocent; but he resolved to turn the instructions of

the present evening to this subject. He began thus: "My dear boys,

however light some of you may make of robbing an orchard, yet I have

often told you there is no such thing as a _little_ sin, if it be

wilful or habitual. I wish now to explain to you, also, that there

is hardly such a thing as a _single_ solitary sin. You know I teach

you not merely to repeat the commandments as an exercise for your

memory, but as a rule for your conduct. If you were to come here

only to learn to read and spell on a Sunday, I should think that was

not employing God's day for God's work; but I teach you to read that

you may, by this means, come so to understand the Bible and the

Catechism, as to make every text in the one, and every question and

answer in the other, to be so fixed in your hearts, that they may

bring forth in you the fruits of good living."

_Master._ How many commandments are there?

_Boy._ Ten.

_Master._ How many commandments did that boy break who stole Widow

Brown's apples?

_Boy._ Only one, master; the eighth.

_Master._ What is the eighth?

_Boy. Thou shalt not steal._

_Master._ And you are very sure that this was the only one he broke?

Now suppose I could prove to you that he probably broke not less

than six out of those ten commandments, which the great Lord of

heaven himself stooped down from his eternal glory to deliver to

men, would you not, then, think it a terrible thing to steal,

whether apples or guineas?

_Boy._ Yes, master.

_Master._ I will put the case. Some wicked boy has robbed Widow

Brown's orchard. (Here the eyes of every one were turned on poor Tom

Price, except those of Dick Giles, who fixed his on the ground.) I

accuse no one, continued the master; Tom Price is a good boy, and

was not missing at the time of the robbery; these are two reasons

why I presume that he is innocent; but whoever it was, you allow

that by stealing these apples he broke the eighth commandment?

_Boy._ Yes, master.

_Master._ On what day were these apples stolen?

_Boy._ On Sunday.

_Master._ What is the fourth commandment?

_Boy._ Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath-day.

_Master._ Does that person keep holy the Sabbath-day who loiters in

an orchard on Sunday, when he should be at church, and steals apples

when he ought to be saying his prayers?

_Boy._ No, master.

_Master._ What command does he break?

_Boy._ The fourth.

_Master._ Suppose this boy had parents who had sent him to church,

and that he had disobeyed them by not going, would that be keeping

the fifth commandment?

_Boy._ No, master; for the fifth commandment says, _Thou shalt honor

thy father and thy mother._

This was the only part of the case in which poor Dick Giles's heart

did not smite him; he knew he had disobeyed no father; for his

father, alas! was still wickeder than himself, and had brought him

up to commit the sin. But what a wretched comfort was this! The

master went on.

_Master._ Suppose this boy earnestly coveted this fruit, though it

belonged to another person, would that be right?

_Boy._ No, master; for the tenth commandment says, _thou shalt not

covet_.

_Master._ Very well. Here are four of God's positive commands

already broken. Now do you think thieves ever scruple to use wicked

words?

_Boy._ I am afraid, not, master.

Here Dick Giles was not so hardened but that he remembered how many

curses had passed between him and his father while they were filling

the bags, and he was afraid to look up. The master went on.

I will now go one step further. If the thief, to all his other sins,

has added that of accusing the innocent to save himself, if he

should break the ninth commandment, by _bearing false witness

against a harmless neighbor_, then six commandments are broken for

an _apple_. But if it be otherwise, if Tom Price should be found

guilty, it is not his good character shall save him. I shall shed

tears over him, but punish him I must, and that severely. "No, that

you sha'n't," roared out Dick Giles, who sprung from his hiding

place, fell on his knees, and burst out a crying; "Tom Price is as

good a boy as ever lived; it was father and I who stole the apples!"

It would have done your heart good to have seen the joy of the

master, the modest blushes of Tom Price, and the satisfaction of

every honest boy in the school. All shook hands with Tom, and even

Dick got some portion of pity. I wish I had room to give my readers

the moving exhortation which the master gave. But while Mr. Wilson

left the guilty boy to the management of the master, he thought it

became him, as a minister and a magistrate, to go to the extent of

the law in punishing the father. Early on the Monday morning he sent

to apprehend Giles. In the meantime Mr. Wilson was sent for to a

gardener's house two miles distant, to attend a man who was dying.

This was a duty to which all others gave way in his mind. He set out

directly; but what was his surprise, on his arrival, to see, on a

little bed on the floor, poaching Giles lying in all the agonies of

death! Jack Weston, the same poor young man against whom Giles had

informed for killing a hare, was kneeling by him, offering him some

broth, and talking to him in the kindest manner. Mr. Wilson begged

to know the meaning of all this; and Jack Weston spoke as follows:

"At four in the morning, as I was going out to mow, passing under

the high wall of this garden, I heard a most dismal moaning. The

nearer I came, the more dismal it grew. At last, who should I see

but poor Giles groaning, and struggling under a quantity of bricks

and stones, but not able to stir. The day before he had marked a

fine large net on this old wall, and resolved to steal it, for he

thought it might do as well to catch partridges as to preserve

cherries; so, sir, standing on the very top of this wall, and

tugging with all his might to loosen the net from the hooks which

fastened it, down came Giles, net, wall, and all; for the wall was

gone to decay. It was very high, indeed, and poor Giles not only

broke his thigh, but has got a terrible blow on his head, and is

bruised all over like a mummy. On seeing me, sir, poor Giles cried

out, 'Oh, Jack! I did try to ruin thee by lodging that information,

and now thou wilt be revenged by letting me lie here and perish.'

'God forbid, Giles!' cried I; 'thou shalt see what sort of revenge a

Christian takes.' So, sir, I sent off the gardener's boy to fetch a

surgeon, while I scampered home and brought on my back this bit of a

hammock, which is, indeed, my own bed, and put Giles upon it: we

then lifted him up, bed and all, as tenderly as if he had been a

gentleman, and brought him in here. My wife has just brought him a

drop of nice broth; and now, sir, as I have done what I could for

this poor perishing body, it was I who took the liberty to send to

you to come to try to help his poor soul, for the doctor says he

can't live."

Mr. Wilson could not help saying to himself, "Such an action as this

is worth a whole volume of comments on that precept of our blessed

Master, _Love your enemies; do good to them that hate you._" Giles's

dying groans confirmed the sad account Weston had just given. The

poor wretch could neither pray himself nor attend to the minister.

He could only cry out, "Oh! sir, what will become of me? I don't

know how to repent. O, my poor wicked children! Sir, I have bred

them all up in sin and ignorance. Have mercy on them, sir; let me

not meet them in the place of torment to which I am going. Lord

grant them that time for repentance which I have thrown away!" He

languished a few days, and died in great misery:--a fresh and sad

instance that people who abuse the grace of God, and resist his

Spirit, find it difficult to repent when they will.

Except the minister and Jack Weston, no one came to see poor Giles,

besides Tommy Price, who had been so sadly wronged by him. Tom often

brought him his own rice-milk or apple-dumpling; and Giles, ignorant

and depraved as he was, often cried out, "That he thought now there

must be some truth in religion, since it taught even a boy to _deny

himself_, and to _forgive an injury_." Mr. Wilson, the next Sunday,

made a moving discourse on the danger of what are called _petty

offenses_. This, together with the awful death of Giles, produced

such an effect that no poacher has been able to show his head in

that parish ever since.

TAWNEY RACHEL;

OR, THE FORTUNE TELLER;

WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF DREAMS, OMENS, AND CONJURORS.

Tawney Rachel was the wife of poaching Giles. There seemed to be a

conspiracy in Giles's whole family to maintain themselves by tricks

and pilfering. Regular labor and honest industry did not suit their

idle habits. They had a sort of genius at finding out every unlawful

means to support a vagabond life. Rachel traveled the country with a

basket on her arm. She pretended to get her bread by selling laces,

cabbage-nets, ballads, and history books, and used to buy old rags

and rabbit-skins. Many honest people trade in these things, and I am

sure I do not mean to say a word against honest people, let them

trade in what they will. But Rachel only made this traffic a

pretense for getting admittance into farmers' kitchens in order to

tell fortunes.

She was continually practicing on the credulity of silly girls; and

took advantage of their ignorance to cheat and deceive them. Many an

innocent servant has she caused to be suspected of a robbery, while

she herself, perhaps, was in league with the thief. Many a harmless

maid has she brought to ruin by first contriving plots and events

herself, and then pretending to foretell them. She had not, to be

sure, the power of really foretelling things, because she had no

power of seeing into futurity; but she had the art sometimes to

bring them about according as she foretold them. So she got that

credit for her wisdom which really belonged to her wickedness.

Rachel was also a famous interpreter of dreams, and could

distinguish exactly between the fate of any two persons who happened

to have a mole on the right or the left cheek. She had a cunning way

of getting herself off when any of her prophecies failed. When she

explained a dream according to the natural appearance of things, and

it did not come to pass; then she would get out of the scrape by

saying, that this sort of dreams went by contraries. Now of two very

opposite things, the chance always is that one of them may turn out

to be true; so in either case she kept up the cheat.

Rachel, in one of her rambles, stopped at the house of Farmer

Jenkins. She contrived to call when she knew the master of the house

was from home, which indeed was her usual way. She knocked at the

door; the maids being in the field haymaking, Mrs. Jenkins went to

open it herself. Rachel asked her if she would please to let her

light her pipe? This was a common pretense, when she could find no

other way of getting into a house. While she was filling her pipe,

she looked at Mrs. Jenkins, and said, she could tell her some good

fortune. The farmer's wife, who was a very inoffensive, but a weak

and superstitious woman, was curious to know what she meant. Rachel

then looked about carefully, and shutting the door with a mysterious

air, asked her if she was sure nobody would hear them. This

appearance of mystery was at once delightful and terrifying to Mrs.

Jenkins, who, with trembling agitation, bid the cunning woman speak

out. "Then," said Rachel in a solemn whisper, "there is to my

certain knowledge a pot of money hid under one of the stones in your

cellar." "Indeed!" said Mrs. Jenkins, "it is impossible, for now I

think of it, I dreamed last night I was in prison for debt." "Did

you really?" said Rachel; "that is quite surprising. Did you dream

this before twelve o'clock or after?" "O it was this morning, just

before I awoke." "Then I am sure it is true, for morning dreams

always go by contraries," cried Rachel. "How lucky it was you

dreamed it so late." Mrs. Jenkins could hardly contain her joy, and

asked how the money was to be come at. "There is but one way," said

Rachel: "I must go into the cellar. I know by my art under which

stone it lies, but I must not tell." Then they both went down into

the cellar, but Rachel refused to point out the stone unless Mrs.

Jenkins would put five pieces of gold into a basin and do as she

directed. The simple woman, instead of turning her out of doors for

a cheat, did as she was bid. She put the guineas into a basin which

she gave into Rachel's hand. Rachel strewed some white powder over

the gold, muttered some barbarous words, and pretended to perform

the black art. She then told Mrs. Jenkins to put the basin quietly

down within the cellar; telling her that if she offered to look into

it, or even to speak a word, the charm would be broken. She also

directed her to lock the cellar door, and on no pretense to open it

in less than forty-eight hours. "If," added she, "you closely follow

these directions, then, by the power of my art, you will find the

basin conveyed to the very stone under which the money lies hid, and

a fine treasure it be!" Mrs. Jenkins, who firmly believed every word

the woman said, did exactly as she was told, and Rachel took her

leave with a handsome reward.

When Farmer Jenkins came home he desired his wife to draw him a cup

of cider; this she put off so long that he began to be displeased.

At last she begged he would be so good as to drink a little beer

instead. He insisted on knowing the reason, and when at last he

grew angry, she told him all that had passed; and owned that as the

pot of gold had happened to be in the cider cellar, she did not dare

open the door, as she was sure it would break the charm. "And it

would be a pity you know," said she, "to lose a good fortune for the

sake of a draught of cider." The farmer, who was not so easily

imposed upon, suspected a trick. He demanded the key, and went and

opened the cellar door; there he found the basin, and in it five

round pieces of tin covered with powder. Mrs. Jenkins burst out

a-crying; but the farmer thought of nothing but of getting a warrant

to apprehend the cunning woman. Indeed she well proved her claim to

that name, when she insisted that the cellar door might be kept

locked till she had time to get out of the reach of all pursuit.

Poor Sally Evans! I am sure she rued the day that ever she listened

to a fortune teller. Sally was as harmless a girl as ever churned a

pound of butter; but Sally was credulous, ignorant, and

superstitious. She delighted in dream books, and had consulted all

the cunning women in the country to tell her whether the two moles

on her cheek denoted that she was to have two husbands, or two

children. If she picked up an old horse-shoe going to church, she

was sure that would be a lucky week. She never made a black pudding

without borrowing one of the parson's old wigs to hang in the

chimney, firmly believing there was no other means to preserve them

from burning. She would never go to bed on Midsummer eve without

sticking up in her room the well-known plant called Midsummer-men,

as the bending of the leaves to the right or to the left would not

fail to tell her whether Jacob, of whom we shall speak presently,

was true or false. She would rather go five miles about than pass

near a church-yard at night. Every seventh year she would not eat

beans because they grew downward in the pod, instead of upward;

and, though a very neat girl, she would rather have gone with her

gown open than to have taken a pin from an old woman, for fear of

being bewitched. Poor Sally had so many unlucky days in her

calendar, that a large portion of her time became of little use,

because on these days she did not dare set about any new work. And

she would have refused the best offer in the country if made to her

on a Friday, which she thought so unlucky a day that she often said

what a pity it was that there were any Friday in the week. Sally had

twenty pounds left her by her grandmother. She had long been courted

by Jacob, a sober lad, with whom she lived fellow servant at a

creditable farmer's. Honest Jacob, like his namesake of old, thought

it little to wait seven years to get this damsel to wife, because of

the love he bore her, for Sally had promised to marry him when he

could match her twenty pounds with another of his own.

Now there was one Robert, a rambling idle young gardener, who

instead of sitting down steadily in one place, used to roam about

the country, and do odd jobs where he could get them. No one

understood any thing about him, except that he was a down-looking

fellow, who came nobody knew whence, and got his bread nobody knew

how, and never had a penny in his pocket. Robert, who was now in the

neighborhood, happened to hear of Sally Evans and her twenty pounds.

He immediately conceived a longing desire for the latter. So he went

to his old friend Rachel the fortune teller, told her all he had

heard of Sally, and promised if she could bring about a marriage

between them, she should go shares in the money.

Rachel undertook the business. She set off to the farmhouse, and

fell to singing one of her most enticing songs just under the dairy

window. Sally was so struck with the pretty tune, which was

unhappily used, as is too often the case, to set off some very

loose words, that she jumped up, dropped the skimming dish into the

cream and ran out to buy the song. While she stooped down to rummage

the basket for those songs which had the most tragical pictures (for

Sally had a tender heart, and delighted in whatever was mournful)

Rachel looked stedfastly in her face, and told her she knew by art

that she was born to good fortune, but advised her not to throw

herself away. "These two moles on your cheek," added she, "show you

are in some danger." "Do they denote husbands or children?" cried

Sally, starting up, and letting fall the song of the Children in the

Wood. "Husbands," muttered Rachel. "Alas! poor Jacob!" said Sally,

mournfully, "then he will die first, won't he?" "Mum for that,"

quoth the fortune teller, "I will say no more." Sally was impatient,

but the more curiosity she discovered, the more mystery Rachel

affected. At last, she said, "If you will cross my hand with a piece

of silver, I will tell your fortune. By the power of my art I can do

this three ways; first by cards, next by the lines on your hand, or

by turning a cup of tea grounds; which will you have?" "O, all!

all!" cried Sally, looking up with reverence to this sun-burnt

oracle of wisdom, who was possessed of no less than three different

ways of diving into the secrets of futurity. Alas! persons of better

sense than Sally have been so taken in; the more is the pity. The

poor girl said she would run up stairs to her little box where she

kept her money tied up in a bit of an old glove, and would bring

down a bright queen Anne's sixpence very crooked. "I am sure," added

she, "it is a lucky one, for it cured me of a very bad ague last

spring, by only laying it nine nights under my pillow without

speaking a word. But then you must know what gave the virtue to this

sixpence was, that it had belonged to three young men of the name of

John; I am sure I had work enough to get it. But true it is, it

certainly cured me. It must be the sixpence you know, for I am sure

I did nothing else for my ague, except by taking some bitter stuff

every three hours which the doctor called bark. To be sure I had no

ague soon after I took it, but I am certain it was owing to the

crooked sixpence, and not to the bark. And so, good woman, you may

come in if you will, for there is not a soul in the house but me."

This was the very thing Rachel wanted to know, and very glad she was

to learn it.

While Sally was above stairs untying her glove, Rachel slipped into

the parlor, took a small silver cup from the beaufet, and clapped it

into her pocket. Sally ran down lamenting that she had lost her

sixpence, which she verily believed was owing to her having put it

into a left glove, instead of a right one. Rachel comforted her by

saying, that if she gave her two plain ones instead, the charm would

work just as well. Simple Sally thought herself happy to be let off

so easily, never calculating that a smooth shilling was worth two

crooked sixpences. But this skill was a part of the black art in

which Rachel excelled. She took the money and began to examine the

lines of Sally's left hand. She bit her withered lip, shook her

head, and bade her poor dupe beware of a young man who had black

hair. "No, indeed," cried Sally, all in a fright, "you mean black

eyes, for our Jacob has got brown hair; 'tis his eyes that are

black." "That is the very thing I was going to say," muttered

Rachel; "I meant eyes, though I said hair, for I know his hair is as

brown as a chestnut, and his eyes as black as a sloe." "So they are,

sure enough," cried Sally; "how in the world could you have known

that?" forgetting that she herself had just told her so. And it is

thus that these hags pick out of the credulous all which they

afterwards pretend to reveal to them. "O, I know a pretty deal more

than that," said Rachel, "but you must beware of this man." "Why,

so," cried Sally, with great quickness. "Because," answered Rachel,

"you are fated to marry a man worth a hundred of him, who has blue

eyes, light hair, and a stoop in the shoulders." "No, indeed, but I

can't," said Sally; "I have promised Jacob, and Jacob I will marry."

"You can not, child," returned Rachel in a solemn tone; "it is out

of your power, you are _fated_ to marry the blue eyes and light

hair." "Nay, indeed," said Sally, sighing deeply, "if I am fated, I

must; I know there's no resisting one's fate." This is a common cant

with poor deluded girls, who are not aware that they themselves make

their fate by their folly, and then complain there is no resisting

it. "What can I do?" said Sally. "I will tell you that, too," said

Rachel. "You must take a walk next Sunday afternoon to the

church-yard, and the first man you meet in a blue coat, with a large

posey of pinks and southern-wood in his bosom, sitting on the

church-yard wall, about seven o'clock, he will be the man."

"Provided," said Sally, much disturbed, "that he has blue eyes and

stoops." "It to be sure," said Rachel, "otherwise it is not the

right man." "But if I should mistake," said Sally, "for two men may

happen to have a coat and eyes of the same color?" "To prevent

that," replied Rachel, "if it is the right man, the two first

letters of his name will be R. P. This man has got money beyond

sea." "O, I do not value money," said Sally, with tears in her eyes,

"for I love Jacob better than house or land; but if I am fated to

marry another, I can't help it; you know there is no struggling

against my fate."

Poor Sally thought of nothing, and dreamed of nothing, all the week

but the blue coat and the blue eyes. She made a hundred blunders at

her work. She put her rennet into the butterpan, and her

skimming-dish into the cheese-tub. She gave the curds to the hogs,

and put the whey into the vats. She put her little knife out of her

pocket for fear it should cut love, and would not stay in the

kitchen if there was not an even number of people, lest it should

break the charm. She grew cold and mysterious in her behavior to

faithful Jacob, whom she truly loved. But the more she thought of

the fortune teller, the more she was convinced that brown hair and

black eyes were not what she was fated to marry, and therefore

though she trembled to think it, Jacob could not be the man.

On Sunday she was too uneasy to go to church; for poor Sally had

never been taught that her being uneasy was only a fresh reason why

she ought to go thither. She spent the whole afternoon in her little

garret, dressing in all her best. First she put on her red riband,

which she had bought at last Lammas fair; then she recollected that

red was an unlucky color, and changed it for a blue riband, tied in

a true lover's knot; but suddenly calling to mind that poor Jacob

had bought this knot for her of a pedlar at the door, and that she

had promised to wear it for his sake, her heart smote her, and she

laid it by, sighing to think she was not fated to marry the man who

had given it to her. When she had looked at herself twenty times in

the glass (for one vain action always brings on another) she set off

trembling and shaking every step she went. She walked eagerly toward

the church-yard, not daring to look to the right or left, for fear

she would spy Jacob, who would have offered to walk with her, and so

have spoilt it all. As soon as she came within sight of the wall,

she spied a man sitting upon it: her heart beat violently. She

looked again; but alas! the stranger not only had on a black coat,

but neither hair nor eyes answered the description. She now happened

to cast her eyes on the church-clock, and found she was two hours

before her time. This was some comfort. She walked away and got rid

of the two hours as well as she could, paying great attention not

to walk over any straws which lay across, and carefully looking to

see if there were never an old horse-shoe in the way, that

infallible symptom of good-fortune. While the clock was striking

seven, she returned to the church-yard, and O! the wonderful power

of fortune tellers! there she saw him! there sat the very man! his

hair as light as flax, his eyes as blue as butter-milk, and his

shoulders as round as a tub. Every tittle agreed, to the very

nosegay in his waistcoat button-hole. At first, indeed, she thought

it had been sweet-briar, and glad to catch at a straw, whispered to

herself, It is not he, and I shall marry Jacob still; but on looking

again, she saw it was southern-wood plain enough, and that of course

all was over. The man accosted her with some very nonsensical, but

too acceptable, compliments. She was naturally a modest girl, and

but for Rachel's wicked arts, would not have had courage to talk

with a strange man; but how could she resist her fate you know?

After a little discourse, she asked him with a trembling heart, what

might be his name? Robert Price, at your service, was the answer.

"Robert Price, that is R. P. as sure as I am alive, and the fortune

teller was a witch! It is all out! O the wonderful art of fortune

tellers!"

The little sleep she had that night was disturbed with dreams of

graves, and ghosts, and funerals, but as they were morning dreams,

she knew those always went by contraries, and that a funeral denoted

a wedding. Still a sigh would now and then heave, to think that in

that wedding Jacob would have no part. Such of my readers as know

the power which superstition has over the weak and credulous mind,

scarcely need be told, that poor Sally's happiness was soon

completed. She forgot all her vows to Jacob; she at once forsook an

honest man whom she loved, and consented to marry a stranger, of

whom she knew nothing, from a ridiculous notion that she was

compelled to do so by a decree which she had it not in her power to

resist. She married this Robert Price, the strange gardener, whom

she soon found to be very worthless, and very much in debt. He had

no such thing as "money beyond sea," as the fortune teller had told

her; but alas! he had another wife there. He got immediate

possession of Sally's twenty pounds. Rachel put in for her share,

but he refused to give her a farthing and bid her get away or he

would have her taken up on the vagrant act. He soon ran away from

Sally, leaving her to bewail her own weakness; for it was that

indeed, and not any irresistible fate, which had been the cause of

her ruin. To complete her misery, she herself was suspected of

having stole the silver cup which Rachel had pocketed. Her master,

however, would not prosecute her, as she was falling into a deep

decline, and she died in a few months of a broken heart, a sad

warning to all credulous girls.

Rachel, whenever she got near home, used to drop her trade of

fortune telling, and only dealt in the wares of her basket. Mr.

Wilson, the clergyman, found her one day dealing out some very

wicked ballads to some children. He went up with a view to give her

a reprimand; but had no sooner begun his exhortation than up came a

constable, followed by several people. "There she is, that is the

old witch who tricked my wife out of the five guineas," said one of

them; "do your office, constable, seize that old hag. She may tell

fortunes and find pots of gold in Taunton jail, for there she will

have nothing else to do!" This was that very Farmer Jenkins, whose

wife had been cheated by Rachel of the five guineas. He had taken

pains to trace her to her own parish: he did not so much value the

loss of the money, as he thought it was a duty he owed the public to

clear the country of such vermin. Mr. Wilson immediately committed

her. She took her trial at the next assizes, when she was sentenced

to a year's imprisonment. In the mean time, the pawnbroker to whom

she had sold the silver cup, which she had stolen from poor Sally's

master, impeached her; and as the robbery was fully proved upon

Rachel, she was sentenced for this crime to Botany Bay; and a happy

day it was for the county of Somerset, when such a nuisance was sent

out of it. She was transported much about the same time that her

husband Giles lost his life in stealing the net from the garden

wall, as related in the second part of poaching Giles.

I have thought it my duty to print this little history, as a kind of

warning to all young men and maidens not to have any thing to say to

_cheats, impostors, cunning women, fortune tellers, conjurors_, and

_interpreters of dreams_. Listen to me, your true friend, when I

assure you that God never reveals to weak and wicked women those

secret designs of his providence, which no human wisdom is able to

foresee. To consult these false oracles is not only foolish, but

sinful. It is foolish, because they are themselves as ignorant as

those whom they pretend to teach; and is sinful, because it is

prying into that futurity which God, in mercy as well as wisdom,

hides from men. God indeed _orders_ all things; but when you have a

mind to do a foolish thing, do not fancy you are _fated_ to do it.

This is tempting Providence, and not trusting him. It is indeed

_charging God with folly_. Providence is his gift, and you obey him

better when you make use of prudence, under the direction of prayer,

than when you madly run into ruin, and think you are only submitting

to your fate. Never fancy that you are compelled to undo yourself,

or to rush upon your own destruction, in compliance with any

supposed fatality. Never believe that God conceals his will from a

sober Christian who obeys his laws, and reveals it to a vagabond

gypsy who runs up and down breaking the laws both of God and man.

King Saul never consulted the witch till he left off serving God.

The Bible will direct us what to do better than any conjuror, and

there are no days unlucky but those which we make so by our own

vanity, sin, and folly.

STORIES

FOR PERSONS OF THE MIDDLE RANKS.

THE HISTORY OF MR. FANTOM,

(THE NEW FASHIONED PHILOSOPHER,)

AND HIS MAN WILLIAM.

Mr. Fantom was a retail trader in the city of London. As he had no

turn to any expensive vices, he was reckoned a sober decent man, but

he was covetous and proud, selfish and conceited. As soon as he got

forward in the world, his vanity began to display itself, though not

in the ordinary method, that of making a figure and living away; but

still he was tormented with a longing desire to draw public notice,

and to distinguish himself. He felt a general discontent at what he

was with a general ambition to be something which he was not; but

this desire had not yet turned itself to any particular object. It

was not by his money he could hope to be distinguished, for half his

acquaintance had more, and a man must be rich indeed to be noted for

his riches in London. Mr. Fantom's mind was a prey to his vain

imaginations. He despised all those little acts of kindness and

charity which every man is called to perform every day; and while he

was contriving grand schemes, which lay quite out of his reach, he

neglected the ordinary duties of life, which lay directly before

him. Selfishness was his governing principle. He fancied he was lost

in the mass of general society; and the usual means of attaching

importance to insignificance occurred to him; that of getting into

clubs and societies. To be connected with a party would at least

make him known to that party, be it ever so low and contemptible;

and this local importance it is which draws off vain minds from

those scenes of general usefulness, in which, though they are of

more value, they are of less distinction.

About this time he got hold of a famous little book, written by the

NEW PHILOSOPHER, whose pestilent doctrines have gone about seeking

whom they may destroy; these doctrines found a ready entrance into

Mr. Fantom's mind; a mind at once shallow and inquisitive,

speculative and vain, ambitious and dissatisfied. As almost every

book was new to him, he fell into the common error of those who

begin to read late in life--that of thinking that what he did not

know himself, was equally new to others; and he was apt to fancy

that he and the author he was reading were the only two people in

the world who knew any thing. This book led to the grand discovery;

he had now found what his heart panted after--a way to _distinguish

himself_. To start out a full grown philosopher at once, to be wise

without education, to dispute without learning, and to make

proselytes without argument, was a short cut to fame, which well

suited his vanity and his ignorance. He rejoiced that he had been so

clever as to examine for himself, pitied his friends who took things

upon trust, and was resolved to assert the freedom of his own mind.

To a man fond of bold novelties and daring paradoxes, solid argument

would be flat, and truth would be dull, merely because it is not

new. Mr. Fantom believed, not in proportion to the strength of the

evidence, but to the impudence of the assertion. The trampling on

holy ground with dirty shoes, the smearing the sanctuary with filth

and mire, the calling prophets and apostles by the most scurrilous

names was new, and dashing, and dazzling. Mr. Fantom, now being set

free from the chains of slavery and superstition, was resolved to

show his zeal in the usual way, by trying to free others; but it

would have hurt his vanity had he known that he was the convert of a

man who had written only for the vulgar, who had _invented_ nothing,

no, not even one idea of original wickedness; but who had stooped to

rake up out of the kennel of infidelity, all the loathsome dregs and

offal dirt, which politer unbelievers had thrown away as too gross

and offensive for the better bred readers.

Mr. Fantom, who considered that a philosopher must set up with a

little sort of stock in trade, now picked up all the common-place

notions against Christianity, which have been answered a hundred

times over: these he kept by him ready cut and dried, and brought

out in all companies with a zeal which would have done honor to a

better cause, but which the friends to a better cause are not so apt

to discover. He soon got all the cant of the new school. He prated

about _narrowness_, and _ignorance_, and _bigotry_, and _prejudice_,

and _priestcraft_ on the one hand; and on the other, of _public

good_, the _love of mankind_, and _liberality_, and _candor_, and

_toleration_, and above all, _benevolence_. Benevolence, he said,

made up the whole of religion, and all the other parts of it were

nothing but cant, and jargon, and hypocrisy. By benevolence he

understood a gloomy and indefinite anxiety about the happiness of

people with whom he was utterly disconnected, and whom Providence

had put it out of his reach either to serve or injure. And by the

happiness this benevolence was so anxious to promote, he meant an

exemption from the power of the laws, and an emancipation from the

restraints of religion, conscience, and moral obligation.

Finding, however, that he made but little impression on his old club

at the Cat and Bagpipes, he grew tired of their company. This club

consisted of a few sober citizens, who met of an evening for a

little harmless recreation after business; their object was, not to

reform parliament, but their own shops; not to correct the abuses of

government, but of parish officers; not to cure the excesses of

administration, but of their own porters and apprentices; to talk

over the news of the day without aspiring to direct the events of

it. They read the papers with that anxiety which every honest man

feels in the daily history of his country. But as trade, which they

_did_ understand, flourished, they were careful not to reprobate

those public measures by which it was protected, and which they did

_not_ understand. In such turbulent times it was a comfort to each

to feel he was a tradesman, and not a statesman; that he was not

called to responsibility for a trust for which he found he had no

talents, while he was at full liberty to employ the talents he

really possessed, in fairly amassing a fortune, of which the laws

would be the best guardian, and government the best security. Thus a

legitimate self-love, regulated by prudence, and restrained by

principle, produced peaceable subjects and good citizens; while in

Fantom, a boundless selfishness and inordinate vanity converted a

discontented trader into a turbulent politician.

There was, however, one member of the Cat and Bagpipes whose

society he could not resolve to give up, though they seldom agreed,

as indeed no two men in the same class and habits of life could

less resemble each other. Mr. Trueman was an honest, plain,

simple-hearted tradesman of the good old cut, who feared God and

followed his business; he went to church twice on Sundays, and

minded his shop all the week, spent frugally, gave liberally, and

saved moderately. He lost, however, some ground in Mr. Fantom's

esteem, because he paid his taxes without disputing, and read his

Bible without doubting.

Mr. Fantom now began to be tired of every thing in trade except the

profits of it; for the more the word benevolence was in his mouth,

the more did selfishness gain dominion in his heart. He, however,

resolved to retire for a while into the country, and devote his time

to his new plans, schemes, theories, and projects for the public

good. A life of talking, and reading, and writing, and disputing,

and teaching, and proselyting, now struck him as the only life; so

he soon set out for the country with his family; for unhappily Mr.

Fantom had been the husband of a very worthy woman many years before

the new philosophy had discovered that marriage was a shameful

infringement on human liberty, and an abridgement of the rights of

man. To this family was now added his new footman, William Wilson,

whom he had taken with a good character out of a sober family. Mr.

Fantom was no sooner settled than he wrote to invite Mr. Trueman to

come and pay him a visit, for he would have burst if he could not

have got some one to whom he might display his new knowledge; he

knew that if on the one hand Trueman was no scholar, yet on the

other he was no fool; and though he despised his _prejudices_, yet

he thought he might be made a good decoy duck; for if he could once

bring Trueman over, the whole club at the Cat and Bagpipes might be

brought to follow his example; and thus he might see himself at the

head of a society of his own proselytes; the supreme object of a

philosopher's ambition. Trueman came accordingly. He soon found that

however he might be shocked at the impious doctrines his friend

maintained, yet that an important lesson might be learned even from

the worst enemies of truth; namely, an ever wakeful attention to

their grand object. If they set out with talking of trade or

politics, of private news or public affairs, still Mr. Fantom was

ever on the watch to hitch in his darling doctrines; whatever he

began with, he was sure to end with a pert squib at the Bible, a

vapid jest on the clergy, the miseries of superstition, and the

blessings of philosophy. "Oh!" said Trueman to himself, "when shall

I see Christians half so much in earnest? Why is it that almost all

zeal is on the wrong side?"

"Well, Mr. Fantom," said Trueman one day at breakfast, "I am afraid

you are leading but an idle sort of life here." "Idle, sir!" said

Fantom, "I now first begin to live to some purpose; I have indeed

lost too much time, and wasted my talents on a little retail trade,

in which one is of no note; one can't distinguish one's self." "So

much the better," said Trueman; "I had rather not distinguish

myself, unless it was by leading a better life than my neighbors.

There is nothing I should dread more than being talked about. I dare

say now heaven is in a good measure filled with people whose names

were never heard out of their own street and village. So I beg leave

not to distinguish myself!" "Yes, but one may, if it is only by

signing one's name to an essay or paragraph in a newspaper," said

Fantom. "Heaven keep John Trueman's name out of a newspaper,"

interrupted he in a fright, "for if it be there, it must either be

found in the Old Bailey or the bankrupt list, unless, indeed, I were

to remove shop, or sell off my old stock. Well, but Mr. Fantom, you,

I suppose, are now as happy as the day is long?" "Oh yes," replied

Fantom, with a gloomy sigh, which gave the lie to his words,

"perfectly happy! I wonder you do not give up all your sordid

employments, and turn philosopher!" "Sordid indeed!" said Trueman,

"do not call names, Mr. Fantom; I shall never be ashamed of my

trade. What is it has made this country so great? a country whose

merchants are princes? It is trade, Mr. Fantom, trade. I can not say

indeed, as well as I love business, but now and then, when I am

overworked, I wish I had a little more time to look after my soul;

but the fear that I should not devote the time, if I had it, to the

best purpose, makes me work on, though often, when I am balancing my

accounts, I tremble, lest I should neglect to balance the great

account. But still, since, like you, I am a man of no education, I

am more afraid of the temptations of leisure, than of those of

business; I never was bred to read more than a chapter in the Bible,

or some other good book, or the magazine and newspaper; and all that

I can do now, after shop is shut, is to take a walk with my children

in the field besides. But if I had nothing to do from morning to

night, I might be in danger of turning politician or philosopher.

No, neighbor Fantom, depend upon it, that where there is no

learning, next to God's grace, the best preservative of human virtue

is business. As to our political societies, like the armies in the

cave of Adullam, 'every man that is in distress, and every man that

is in debt, and every man that is discontented, will always join

themselves unto them.'"

_Fantom._ You have narrow views, Trueman. What _can_ be more

delightful than to see a paper of one's own in print against tyranny

and superstition, contrived with so much ingenuity, that, though the

law is on the look-out for treason and blasphemy, a little change of

name defeats its scrutiny. For instance; you may stigmatize

_England_ under the name of _Rome_, and _Christianity_ under the

name of _Popery_. The true way is to attack whatever you have a mind

to injure, under another name, and the best means to destroy the use

of a thing, is to produce a few incontrovertible facts against the

abuses it. Our late travelers have inconceivably helped on the cause

of the new philosophy, in their ludicrous narratives of credulity,

miracles, indulgences, and processions, in popish countries, all

which they ridicule under the broad and general name of Religion,

Christianity, and _the Church_. "And are not you ashamed to defend

such knavery?" said Mr. Trueman. "Those who have a great object to

accomplish," replied Mr. Fantom, "must not be nice about the means.

But to return to yourself, Trueman; in your little confined

situation you can be of no use." "That I deny," interrupted Trueman;

"I have filled all the parish offices with some credit. I never took

a bribe at an election, no not so much as a treat; I take care of my

apprentices, and do not set them a bad example by running to plays

and Saddler's Wells, in the week or jaunting about in a gig all day

on Sundays; for I look upon it that the country jaunt of the master

on Sundays exposes his servants to more danger than their whole

week's temptation in trade put together."

_Fantom._ I once had the same vulgar prejudices about the church and

the Sabbath, and all that antiquated stuff. But even on your own

narrow principles, how can a thinking being spend his Sunday better

(if he must lose one day in seven by having any Sunday at all) than

by going into the country to admire the works of nature.

_Trueman._ I suppose you mean the works of God: for I never read in

the Bible that Nature made any thing. I should rather think that she

herself was made by Him, who, when He said, "thou shalt not murder,"

said also, "thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath day." But now do you

really think that all the multitude of coaches, chariots, chaises,

vis-a-vis, booby-hutches, sulkies, sociables, phaetons, gigs,

curricles, cabrioles, chairs, stages, pleasure-carts, and horses,

which crowd our roads; all those country-houses within reach, to

which the London friends pour in to the gorgeous Sunday feast, which

the servants are kept from church to dress; all those public houses

under the signs of which you read these alluring words, _an ordinary

on Sundays_; I say, do you really believe that all those houses and

carriages are crammed with philosophers, who go on Sunday into the

country to admire the works of nature, as you call it! Indeed, from

the reeling gait of some of them, when they go back at night, one

might take them for a certain sect called the tippling philosophers.

Then in answer to your charge, that a little tradesman can do no

good, it is not true; I must tell you that I belong to the Sick

Man's Friend, and to the Society for relieving prisoners for small

debts.

_Fantom._ I have no attention to spare for that business, though I

would pledge myself to produce a plan by which the _national_ debt

might be paid off in six months; but all yours are petty

occupations.

_Trueman._ Then they are better suited to petty men of petty

fortune. I had rather have an ounce of real good done with my own

hands, and seen with my own eyes, than speculate about doing a ton

in a wild way, which I know can never be brought about.

_Fantom._ I despise a narrow field. Oh, for the reign of universal

benevolence! I want to make all mankind good and happy.

_Trueman._ Dear me! sure that must be a wholesale sort of a job; had

you not better try your hand at a town or a parish first!

_Fantom._ Sir, I have a plan in my head for relieving the miseries

of the whole world. Every thing is bad as it now stands. I would

alter all the laws; and do away all the religions, and put an end to

all the wars in the world. I would every where redress the injustice

of fortune, or what the vulgar call Providence. I would put an end

to all punishments; I would not leave a single prisoner on the face

of the globe. This is what I call doing things on a grand scale. "A

scale with a vengeance," said Trueman. "As to releasing the

prisoners, however, I do not so much like that, as it would be

liberating a few rogues at the expense of all honest men; but as to

the rest of your plans, if all Christian countries would be so good

as to turn Christians, it might be helped on a good deal. There

would be still misery enough left indeed; because God intended this

world should be earth and not heaven. But, sir, among all your

oblations, you must abolish human corruption before you can make the

world quite as perfect as you pretend. You philosophers seem to me

to be ignorant of the very first seed and principle of misery--sin,

sir, sin: your system of reform is radically defective; for it does

not comprehend that sinful nature from which all misery proceeds.

You accuse government of defects which belong to man, to individual

man, and of course to man collectively. Among all your reforms you

must reform the human heart; you are only hacking at the branches,

without striking at the root. Banishing impiety out of the world,

would be like striking off all the pounds from an overcharged bill;

and all the troubles which would be left, would be reduced to mere

shillings, pence, and farthings, as one may say."

_Fantom._ Your project would rivet the chains which mine is designed

to break.

_Trueman._ Sir, I have no projects. Projects are in general the

offspring of restlessness, vanity, and idleness. I am too busy for

projects, too contented for theories, and, I hope, have too much

honesty and humility for a philosopher. The utmost extent of my

ambition at present is, to redress the wrongs of a parish apprentice

who has been cruelly used by his master; indeed I have another

little scheme, which is to prosecute a fellow in our street who has

suffered a poor wretch in a workhouse, of which he had the care, to

perish through neglect, and you must assist me.

_Fantom._ The parish must do that. You must not apply to me for the

redress of such petty grievances. I own that the wrongs of the Poles

and South Americans so fill my mind as to leave me no time to attend

to the petty sorrows of workhouses and parish apprentices. It is

provinces, empires, continents, that the benevolence of the

philosopher embraces; every one can do a little paltry good to his

next neighbor.

_Trueman._ Every one can, but I do not see that every one does. If

they would, indeed, your business would be ready done at your hands,

and your grand ocean of benevolence would be filled with the drops

which private charity would throw into it. I am glad, however, you

are such a friend to the prisoners, because I am just now getting a

little subscription from our club, to set free our poor old friend,

Tom Saunders, a very honest brother tradesman, who got first into

debt, and then into jail, through no fault of his own, but merely

through the pressure of the times. We have each of us allowed a

trifle every week toward maintaining Tom's young family since he has

been in prison; but we think we shall do much more service to

Saunders, and, indeed, in the end, lighten our expense, by paying

down at once a little sum to restore him to the comforts of life,

and put him in the way of maintaining his family again. We have made

up the money all except five guineas; I am already promised four,

and you have nothing to do but give me the fifth. And so for a

single guinea, without any of the trouble, the meetings, and the

looking into his affairs, which we have had; which, let me tell you,

is the best, and to a man of business, the dearest part of charity,

you will at once have the pleasure (and it is no small one) of

helping to save a worthy family from starving, of redeeming an old

friend from jail, and of putting a little of your boasted

benevolence into action. Realize! Master Fantom--there is nothing

like realizing. "Why, hark ye, Mr. Trueman," said Fantom,

stammering, and looking very black; "do not think I value a guinea;

no, sir, I despise money; it is trash; it is dirt, and beneath the

regard of a wise man. It is one of the unfeeling inventions of

artificial society. Sir, I could talk to you for half a day on the

abuse of riches, and on my own contempt for money."

_Trueman._ O, pray do not give yourself the trouble; it will be an

easier way by half of vindicating yourself from one, and of proving

the other, just to put your hand in your pocket and give me a

guinea, without saying a word about it; and then to you, who value

time so much, and money so little, it will cut the matter short. But

come now (for I see you will give nothing), I should be mighty glad

to know what is the sort of good you do yourself, since you always

object to what is done by others? "Sir," said Mr. Fantom; "the

object of a true philosopher is to diffuse light and knowledge. I

wish to see the whole world enlightened."

_Trueman._ Amen! if you mean with the light of the gospel. But if

you mean that one religion is as good as another, and that no

religion is best of all; and that we shall become wiser and better

by setting aside the very means which Providence bestowed to make us

wise and good; in short, if you want to make the whole world

philosophers, why they had better stay as they are. But as to the

true light, I wish to reach the very lowest, and I therefore bless

God for charity-schools, as instruments of diffusing it among the

poor.

Fantom, who had no reason to suspect that his friend was going to

call upon him for a subscription on this account, ventured to praise

them, saying, "I am no enemy to these institutions. I would, indeed,

change the object of instruction, but I would have the whole world

instructed."

Here Mrs. Fantom, who, with her daughter, had quietly sat by at

their work, ventured to put in a word, a liberty she seldom took

with her husband, who, in his zeal to make the whole world free and

happy, was too prudent to include his wife among the objects on

whom he wished to confer freedom and happiness. "Then, my dear,"

said she, "I wonder you do not let your own servants be taught a

little. The maids can scarcely tell a letter, or say the Lord's

Prayer, and you know you will not allow them time to learn. William,

too, has never been at church since we came out of town. He was at

first very orderly and obedient, but now he is seldom sober of an

evening; and in the morning, when he should be rubbing the tables in

the parlor, he is generally lolling upon them, and reading your

little manual of the new philosophy." "Mrs. Fantom," said her

husband, angrily, "you know that my labors for the public good leave

me little time to think of my own family. I must have a great field;

I like to do good to hundreds at once."

"I am very glad of that, papa," said Miss Polly; "for then I hope

you will not refuse to subscribe to all those pretty children at the

Sunday School, as you did yesterday, when the gentlemen came a

begging, because that is the very thing you were wishing for; there

are two or three hundred to be done good at once."

_Trueman._ Well, Mr. Fantom, you are a wonderful man to keep up such

a stock of benevolence at so small an expense. To love mankind so

dearly, and yet avoid all opportunities of doing them good; to have

such a noble zeal for the millions, and to feel so little compassion

for the units; to long to free empires and enlighten kingdoms; and

yet deny instruction to your own village, and comfort to your own

family. Surely none but a philosopher could indulge so much

philanthropy and so much frugality at the same time. But come, do

assist me in a partition I am making in our poor-house; between the

old, whom I want to have better fed, and the young, whom I want to

have more worked.

_Fantom._ Sir, my mind is so engrossed with the partition of

Poland, that I can not bring it down to an object of such

insignificance. I despise the man whose benevolence is swallowed up

in the narrow concerns of his own family, or parish, or country.

_Trueman._ Well, now I have a notion that it is as well to do one's

own duty as the duty of another man; and that to do good at home is

as well as to do good abroad. For my part, I had as lieve help Tom

Saunders to freedom as a Pole or a South American, though I should

be very glad to help them too. But one must begin to love somewhere;

and to do good somewhere; and I think it is as natural to love one's

own family, and to do good in one's own neighborhood, as to any body

else. And if every man in every family, parish, and country, did the

same, why then all the schemes would meet, and the end of one

parish, where I was doing good, would be the beginning of another

parish where somebody else was doing good; so my schemes would jut

into my neighbor's; his projects would unite with those of some

other local reformer; and all would fit with a sort of dove-tail

exactness. And what is better, all would join in forming a living

comment on that practical precept; "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God

with all thy heart, and thy neighbor as thyself."

_Fantom._ Sir, a man of large views will be on the watch for great

occasions to prove his benevolence.

_Trueman._ Yes, sir; but if they are so distant that he can not

reach them, or so vast that he can not grasp them, he may let a

thousand little, snug, kind, good actions slip through his fingers

in the meanwhile; and so between the great things that he can not

do, and the little ones that he will not do, life passes and nothing

will be done.

Just at this moment Miss Polly Fantom (whose mother had gone out

some time before) started up, let fall her work, and cried out, "O,

papa, do but look what a monstrous great fire there is yonder on

the common! If it were the fifth of November I should think it were

a bonfire. Look how it blazes." "I see plain enough what it is,"

said Mr. Fantom, sitting down again without the least emotion. "It

is Jenkins's cottage on fire." "What, poor John Jenkins, who works

in our garden, papa?" said the poor girl, in great terror. "Do not

be frightened, child," answered Fantom; "we are safe enough; the

wind blows the other way. Why did you disturb us for such a trifle,

as it was so distant? Come, Mr. Trueman, sit down." "Sit down!" said

Mr. Trueman; "I am not a stock, nor a stone, but a man, made of the

same common nature with Jenkins, whose house is burning. Come

along--let us fly and help him," continued he, running to the door

in such haste that he forgot to take his hat, though it hung just

before him. "Come, Mr. Fantom--come, my little dear; I wish your

mamma was here; I am sorry she went out just now; we may all do some

good; every body may be of some use at a fire. Even you, Miss Polly,

may save some of these poor people's things in your apron, while

your papa and I hand the buckets." All this he said as he ran along

with the young lady in his hand, not doubting but Fantom and his

whole family were following close behind him. But the present

distress was neither grand enough nor far enough from home to

satisfy the wide-stretched benevolence of the philosopher, who sat

down within sight of the flames to work at a new pamphlet, which now

swallowed up his whole soul, on Universal Benevolence.

His daughter, indeed, who happily was not yet a philosopher, with

Mr. Trueman, followed by the maids, reached the scene of distress.

William Wilson, the footman, refused to assist, glad of such an

opportunity of being revenged on Jenkins, whom he called a surly

fellow, for presuming to complain because William always purloined

the best fruit for himself before he set it on his master's table.

Jenkins, also, whose duty it was to be out of doors, had refused to

leave his own work in the garden to do Will's work in the house

while he got drunk, or read the Rights of Man.

The little dwelling of Jenkins burned very furiously. Mr. Trueman's

exertions were of the greatest service. He directed the willing, and

gave an example to the slothful. By living in London, he had been

more used to the calamity of fire than the country people, and knew

better what was to be done. In the midst of the bustle he saw one

woman only who never attempted to be of the least use. She ran

backward and forward, wringing her hands, and crying out in a tone

of piercing agony, "Oh, my child! my little Tommy! will no one save

my Tommy?" Any woman might have uttered the same words, but the look

which explained them could only come from a mother. Trueman did not

stay to ask if she were owner of the house, and mother of the child.

It was his way to do all the good that could be done first, and then

to ask questions. All he said was, "Tell me which is the room?" The

poor woman, now speechless through terror, could only point up to a

little window in the thatch, and then sunk on the ground.

Mr. Trueman made his way through a thick smoke, and ran up the

narrow staircase which the fire had not reached. He got safely to

the loft, snatched up the little creature, who was sweetly sleeping

in its poor hammock, and brought him down naked in his arms: and as

he gave him to the half-distracted mother, he felt that her joy and

gratitude would have been no bad pay for the danger he had run, even

if no higher motive had set him to work. Poor Jenkins, half

stupefied by his misfortune, had never thought of his child; and his

wife, who expected every hour to make him father to a second, had

not been able to do any thing toward saving little Tommy.

Mr. Trueman now put the child into Miss Fantom's apron, saying, "Did

not I tell you, my dear, that every body could be of use at a fire?"

He then desired her to carry the child home, and ordered the poor

woman to follow her; saying, he would return himself as soon as he

had seen all safe in the cottage.

When the fire was quite out, and Mr. Trueman could be of no further

use, he went back to Mr. Fantom's. The instant he opened the parlor

door he eagerly cried out, "Where is the poor woman, Mr. Fantom?"

"Not in my house, I assure you," answered the philosopher. "Give me

leave to tell you, it was a very romantic thing to send her and her

child to me; you should have provided for them at once, like a

prudent man." "I thought I had done so," replied Trueman, "by

sending them to the nearest and best house in the parish, as the

poor woman seemed to stand in need of immediate assistance." "So

immediate," said Fantom, "that I would not let her come into my

house, for fear of what might happen. So I packed her off, with her

child in her arms, to the workhouse; with orders to the overseers

not to let her want for any thing."

"And what right have you, Mr. Fantom," cried Trueman in a high tone,

"to expect that the overseers will be more humane than yourself! But

is it possible you can have sent that helpless creature, not only to

walk, but to carry a naked child at such a time of night, to a place

so distant, so ill provided, and in such a condition? I hope at

least you have furnished them with clothes; for all their own little

stores were burnt." "Not I, indeed;" said Fantom. "What is the use

of parish officers, but to look after these petty things?"

It was Mr. Trueman's way, when he began to feel very angry, not to

allow himself to speak, "because," he used to say, "if I give vent

to my feelings, I am sure, by some hasty word, to cut myself out

work for repentance." So without making any answer, or even changing

his clothes, which were very wet and dirty from having worked so

hard at the fire, he walked out again, having first inquired the

road the woman had taken. At the door he met Mrs. Fantom returning

from her visit. He told her his tale; which she had no sooner heard,

than she kindly resolved to accompany him in search of Jenkins's

wife. She had a wide common to walk over before she could reach

either the workhouse or the nearest cottage. She had crawled along

with her baby as far as she was able; but having met with no

refreshment at Mr. Fantom's, and her strength quite failing her, she

had sunk down on the middle of the common. Happily, Mr. Trueman and

Mrs. Fantom came up at this very time. The former had had the

precaution to bring a cordial, and the latter had gone back and

stuffed her pockets with old baby linen. Mr. Trueman soon procured

the assistance of a laborer, who happened to pass by, to help him to

carry the mother, and Mrs. Fantom carried the little shivering baby.

As soon as they were safely lodged, Mr. Trueman set off in search of

poor Jenkins, who was distressed to know what was become of his wife

and child; for having heard that they were seen going toward Mr.

Fantom's, he despaired of any assistance from that quarter. Mr.

Trueman felt no small satisfaction in uniting this poor man to his

little family. There was something very moving in this meeting, and

in the pious gratitude they expressed for their deliverance. They

seemed to forget they had lost their all, in the joy they felt that

they had not lost each other. And some disdainful great ones might

have smiled to see so much rapture expressed at the safety of a

child born to no inheritance but poverty. These are among the

feelings with which Providence sometimes overpays the want of

wealth. The good people also poured out prayers and blessings on

their deliverer, who, not being a philosopher, was no more ashamed

of praying with them than he had been of working for them. Mr.

Trueman, while assisting at the fire, had heard that Jenkins and his

wife were both very honest, and very pious people; so he told them

he would not only pay for their new lodgings, but undertook to raise

a little subscription among his friends at the Cat and Bagpipes

toward rebuilding their cottage; and further engaged that if they

would promise to bring up the child in the fear of God, he would

stand godfather.

This exercise of Christian charity had given such a cheerful flow to

Mr. Trueman's spirits, that long before he got home he had lost

every trace of ill-humor. "Well, Mr. Fantom," said he gayly, as he

opened the door, "now do tell me how you could possibly refuse going

to help me to put out the fire at poor Jenkins's?" "Because," said

Fantom, "I was engaged, sir, in a far nobler project than putting

out a fire in a little thatched cottage. Sir, I was contriving to

put out a fire too; a conflagration of a far more dreadful kind--a

fire, sir, in the extinction of which universal man is concerned--I

was contriving a scheme to extinguish the fires of the Inquisition."

"Why, man, they don't blaze that I know of," retorted Trueman. "I

own, that of all the abominable engines which the devil ever

invented to disgrace religion and plague mankind, that Inquisition

was the very worst. But I do not believe popery has ventured at

these diabolical tricks since the earthquake at Lisbon, so that a

bucket of real water, carried to the real fire at Jenkins's cottage,

would have done more good than a wild plan to put out an imaginary

flame which no longer burns. And let me tell you, sir, dreadful as

that evil was, God can send his judgments on other sins besides

superstition; so it behoves us to take heed of the other extreme or

we may have our earthquakes too." "The hand of God is not shortened,

sir, that it can not destroy, any more than it can not save. In the

meantime, I must repeat it; you and I are rather called upon to

serve a neighbor from perishing in the flames of his house, just

under our own window, than to write about the fires of the

Inquisition; which, if fear, or shame, or the restoration of common

sense had not already put out, would have hardly received a check

from such poor hands as you and I."

"Sir," said Fantom, "Jenkins is an impertinent fellow; and I owe him

a grudge, because he says he had rather forfeit the favor of the

best master in England than work in my garden on a Sunday. And when

I ordered him to read the Age of Reason, instead of going to church,

he refused to work for me at all, with some impertinent hint about

God and Mammon."

"Oh, did he so?" said Mr. Trueman. "Now I _will_ stand godfather to

his child, and made him a handsome present into the bargain. Indeed,

Mr. Fantom, a man must be a philosopher with a vengeance, if when he

sees a house on fire, he stays to consider whether the owner has

offended him. Oh, Mr. Fantom, I will forgive you still, if you will

produce me, out of all your philosophy, such a sentence as 'Love

your enemy--do good to them that hate you--if thine enemy hunger,

feed him; if he thirst, give him drink;' I will give up the blessed

gospel for the Age of Reason, if you will only bring me one

sentiment equivalent to this."

Next day Mr. Trueman was obliged to go to London on business, but

returned soon, as the time he had allotted to spend with Mr. Fantom

was not yet elapsed. He came down the sooner indeed, that he might

bring a small sum of money which the gentlemen at the Cat and

Bagpipes had cheerfully subscribed for Jenkins. Trueman did not

forget to desire his wife to make up also a quantity of clothing

for this poor family, to which he did not neglect to add a parcel of

good books, which, indeed, always made a part of his charities; as

he used to say, there was something cruel in the kindness which was

anxious to relieve the bodies of men, but was negligent of their

souls. He stood in person to the new-born child, and observed with

much pleasure, that Jenkins and his wife thought a christening, not

a season for merry-making, but a solemn act of religion. And they

dedicated their infant to his Maker with becoming seriousness.

Trueman left the cottage and got back to Mr. Fantom's, just as the

family were going to sit down to dinner, as he had promised.

When they sat down, Mr. Fantom was not a little out of humor to see

his table in some disorder. William was also rather more negligent

than usual. If the company called for bread, he gave them beer, and

he took away the clean plates, and gave them dirty ones. Mr. Fantom

soon discovered that his servant was very drunk; he flew into a

violent passion, and ordered him out of the room, charging that he

should not appear in his presence in that condition. William obeyed;

but having slept an hour or two, and got about half sober, he again

made his appearance. His master gave him a most severe reprimand,

and called him an idle, drunken, vicious fellow. "Sir," said

William, very pertly, "if I do get drunk now and then, I only do it

for the good of my country, and in obedience to your wishes." Mr.

Fantom, thoroughly provoked, now began to scold him in words not fit

to be repeated; and asked him what he meant. "Why, sir," said

William, "you are a philosopher you know; and I have often overheard

you say to your company, that private vices are public benefits; and

so I thought that getting drunk was as pleasant a way of doing good

to the public as any, especially when I could oblige my master at

the same time."

"Get out of my house," said Mr. Fantom, in a great rage. "I do not

desire to stay a moment longer," said William, "so pay me my wages."

"Not I, indeed," replied the master; "nor will I give you a

character; so never let me see your face again." William took his

master at his word, and not only got out of the house, but went out

of the country too as fast as possible. When they found he was

really gone, they made a hue-and-cry, in order to detain him till

they examined if he had left every thing in the house as he had

found it. But William had got out of reach, knowing he could not

stand such a scrutiny. On examination, Mr. Fantom found that all his

old port was gone, and Mrs. Fantom missed three of her best new

spoons. William was pursued, but without success; and Mr. Fantom was

so much discomposed that he could not for the rest of the day talk

on any subject but his wine and his spoons, nor harangue on any

project but that of recovering both by bringing William to justice.

Some days passed away, in which Mr. Fantom, having had time to cool,

began to be ashamed that he had been betrayed into such ungoverned

passion. He made the best excuse he could; said no man was perfect,

and though he owned he had been too violent, yet still he hoped

William would be brought to the punishment he deserved. "In the

meantime," said Trueman, "seeing how ill philosophy has agreed with

your man, suppose you were to set about teaching your maids a little

religion?" Mr. Fantom coolly replied, "that the impertinent retort

of a drunken footman could not spoil a system." "Your system,

however, and your own behavior," said Trueman, "have made that

footman a scoundrel, and you are answerable for his offenses." "Not

I, truly," said Fantom; "he has seen me do no harm; he has neither

seen me cheat, gamble, nor get drunk; and I defy you to say I

corrupt my servants. I am a moral man, sir."

"Mr. Fantom," said Trueman, "if you were to get drunk every day, and

game every night, you would, indeed, endanger your own soul, and

give a dreadful example to your family; but great as those sins are,

and God forbid that I should attempt to lessen them! still they are

not worse, nay, they are not so bad, as the pestilent doctrines with

which you infect your house and your neighborhood. A bad action is

like a single murder. The consequence may end with the crime, to all

but the perpetrator; but a wicked principle is throwing lighted

gunpowder into a town; it is poisoning a river; there are no bounds,

no certainty, no ends to its mischief. The ill effects of the worst

action may cease in time, and the consequences of your bad example

may end with your life; but souls may be brought to perdition by a

wicked principle after the author of it has been dead for ages."

_Fantom._ You talk like an ignoramus who has never read the new

philosophy. All this nonsense of future punishment is now done away.

It is _our_ benevolence which makes us reject your creed; we can no

more believe in a Deity who permits so much evil in the present

world, than one who threatens eternal punishment in the next.

_Trueman._ What! shall mortal man be more merciful than God? Do you

pretend to be more compassionate than that gracious Father who sent

his own Son into the world to die for sinners?

_Fantom._ You take all your notions of the Deity from the vulgar

views your Bible gives you of him. "To be sure I do," said Trueman.

"Can you tell me any way of getting a better notion of him? I do not

want any of your farthing-candle philosophy in the broad sunshine of

the gospel, Mr. Fantom. My Bible tells me that 'God is love;' not

merely loving, but LOVE. Now, do you think a Being, whose very

essence is love, would permit any misery among his children here, if

it was not to be, some way or other, or some where or other, for

their good? You forget, too, that in a world where there is sin,

there must be misery. Then, too, I suppose, God permits this very

misery, partly to exercise the sufferers, and partly to try the

prosperous; for by trouble God corrects some and tries others.

Suppose, now, Tom Saunders had not been put in prison, you and

I--no, I beg pardon, _you_ saved your guinea; well, then, our club

and I could not have shown our kindness in getting him out; nor

would poor Saunders himself have had an opportunity of exercising

his own patience and submission under want and imprisonment. So you

see one reason why God permits misery is, that good men may have an

opportunity of lessening it." Mr. Fantom replied, "There is no

object which I have more at heart; I have, as I told you, a plan in

my head of such universal benevolence as to include the happiness of

all mankind." "Mr. Fantom," said Trueman, "I feel that I have a

general good will to all my brethren of mankind; and if I had as

much money in my purse as love in my heart, I trust I should prove

it. All I say is, that, in a station of life where I can not do

much, I am more called upon to procure the happiness of a poor

neighbor, who has no one else to look to, than to form wild plans

for the good of mankind, too extensive to be accomplished, and too

chimerical to be put in practice. It is the height of folly for a

little ignorant tradesman to distract himself with projecting

schemes which require the wisdom of scholars, the experience of

statesmen, and the power of kings to accomplish. I can not free

whole countries, nor reform the evils of society at large, but I

_can_ free an aggrieved wretch in a workhouse; I _can_ relieve the

distresses of one of my journeymen; and I _can_ labor to reform

myself and my own family."

Some weeks after this a letter was brought to Mr. Fantom from his

late servant, William, who had been turned away for drunkenness, as

related above, and who had also robbed his master of some wine and

some spoons. Mr. Fantom, glancing his eye over the letter, said, "It

is dated from Chelmsford jail; that rascal has got into prison. I am

glad of it with all my heart; it is the fittest place for such

scoundrels. I hope he will be sent to Botany Bay, if not hanged."

"O, ho! my good friend," said Trueman; "then I find that in

abolishing all prisons you would just let one stand for the

accommodation of those who would happen to rob _you_. General

benevolence, I see, is compatible with particular resentments,

though individual kindness is not consistent with universal

philanthropy." Mr. Fantom drily observed that he was not fond of

jokes, and proceeded to read the letter. It expressed an earnest

wish that his late master would condescend to pay him one visit in

his dark and doleful abode, as he wished to say a few words to him

before the dreadful sentence of the law, which had already been

pronounced, should be executed.

"Let us go and see the poor fellow," said Trueman; "it is but a

morning's ride. If he is really so near his end it would be cruel to

refuse him." "Not I, truly," said Fantom; "he deserves nothing at my

hands but the halter he is likely to meet with. Such port is not to

be had for money! and the spoons--part of my new dozen!" "As to the

wine," said Trueman, "I am afraid you must give that up, but the

only way to get any tidings of the spoons is to go and hear what he

has to say; I have no doubt but he will make such a confession as

may be very useful to others, which, you know, is one grand

advantage of punishments; and, besides, we may afford him some

little comfort." "As to comfort, he deserves none from me," said

Fantom; "and as to his confessions, they can be of no use to me, but

as they give me a chance of getting my spoons; so I do not much care

if I do take a ride with you."

When they came to the prison, Mr. Trueman's tender heart sunk within

him. He deplored the corrupt nature of man, which makes such

rigorous confinement indispensably needful, not merely for the

punishment of the offender, but for the safety of society. Fantom,

from mere trick and habit, was just preparing a speech on

benevolence, and the cruelty of imprisonment; for he had a set of

sentiments collected from the new philosophy which he always kept by

him. The naming a man in power brought out the ready cut and dried

phrase against oppression. The idea of rank included every vice,

that of poverty every virtue; and he was furnished with all the

invectives against the cruelty of laws, punishments, and prisons,

which the new lexicon has produced. But his mechanical benevolence

was suddenly checked; the recollection of his old port and his new

spoons cooled his ardor, and he went on without saying a word.

When they reached the cell where the unhappy William was confined,

they stopped at the door. The poor wretch had thrown himself on the

ground, as well as his chains would permit. He groaned piteously,

and was so swallowed up with a sense of his own miseries, that he

neither heard the door open nor saw the gentlemen. He was attempting

to pray, but in an agony which made his words hardly intelligible.

Thus much they could make out--"God be merciful to me a sinner, the

chief of sinners!" then, suddenly attempting to start up, but

prevented by his irons, he roared out, "O, God! thou canst _not_ be

merciful to me, for I have denied thee; I have ridiculed my Saviour

who died for me; I have broken his laws; I have derided his word; I

have resisted his Spirit; I have laughed at that heaven which is

shut against me; I have denied the truth of those torments which

await me. To-morrow! to-morrow! O for a longer space for repentance!

O for a short reprieve from hell!"

Mr. Trueman wept so loud that it drew the attention of the criminal,

who now lifted up his eyes, and cast on his late master a look so

dreadful that Fantom wished for a moment that he had given up all

hope of the spoons, rather than have exposed himself to such a

scene. At length the poor wretch said, in a low voice that would

have melted a heart of stone, "O, sir, are you there? I did indeed

wish to see you before my dreadful sentence is put in execution. O,

sir, to-morrow! to-morrow! But I have a confession to make to you."

This revived Mr. Fantom, who again ventured to glance a hope at the

spoons. "Sir," said William, "I could not die without making my

confession." "Ay, and restitution, too, I hope," replied Fantom.

"Where are my spoons?" "Sir, they are gone with the rest of my

wretched booty. But oh, sir! those spoons make so petty an article

in my black account, that I hardly think of them. Murder!

sir--murder is the crime for which I am justly doomed to die. O,

sir, who can abide the anger of an offended God? Who can dwell with

everlasting burnings?" As this was a question which even a

philosopher could not answer, Mr. Fantom was going to steal off,

especially as he now gave up all hope of the spoons; but William

called him back: "Stay, sir, I conjure you, as you will answer it at

the bar of God. You must hear the sins of which you have been the

occasion. You are the cause of my being about to suffer a shameful

death. Yes, sir, you made me a drunkard, a thief, and a murderer."

"How dare you, William," cried Mr. Fantom, with great emotion,

"accuse me of being the cause of such horrid crimes?" "Sir,"

answered the criminal, "from you I learned the principles which lead

to those crimes. By the grace of God I should never have fallen into

sins deserving of the gallows, if I had not overheard you say there

was no hereafter, no judgment, no future reckoning. O, sir, there

_is_ a hell, dreadful, inconceivable, eternal!" Here, through the

excess of anguish, the poor fellow fainted away. Mr. Fantom, who did

not at all relish this scene, said to his friend, "Well, sir, we

will go, if you please, for you see there is nothing to be done."

"Sir," replied Mr. Trueman, mournfully, "you may go if you please,

but I shall stay, for I see there is a great deal to be done."

"What!" rejoined the other, "do you think it possible his life can

be saved?" "No, indeed," said Trueman, "but I hope it possible his

soul may be saved!" "I do not understand these things," said Fantom,

making toward the door. "Nor I, neither," said Trueman, "but as a

fellow-sinner, I am bound to do what I can for this poor man. Do you

go home, Mr. Fantom, and finish your treatise on universal

benevolence, and the blessed effects of philosophy; and, hark ye, be

sure you let the frontispiece of your book represent _William on the

gibbet_; that will be what our minister calls a PRACTICAL

ILLUSTRATION. You know I hate theories; this is _realizing_; this is

PHILOSOPHY made easy to the meanest capacity. This is the precious

fruit which grows on that darling tree, so many slips of which have

been transplanted from that land of liberty of which it is the

native, but which, with all your digging, planting, watering,

dunging, and dressing, will, I trust, never thrive in this blessed

land of ours."

Mr. Fantom sneaked off to finish his work at home, and Mr. Trueman

staid to finish his in the prison. He passed the night with the

wretched convict; he prayed with him and for him, and read to him

the penitential psalms, and some portions of the gospel. But he was

too humble and too prudent a man to venture out of his depth by

arguments and consolations which he was not warranted to use; this

he left for the clergyman--but he pressed on William the great duty

of making the only amends now in his power to those whom he had led

astray. They then drew up the following paper, which Mr. Trueman got

printed, and gave away at the place of execution:

THE LAST WORDS, CONFESSION, AND DYING SPEECH OF WILLIAM WILSON,

WHO WAS EXECUTED AT CHELMSFORD, FOR MURDER.

"I was bred up in the fear of God, and lived with credit in many

sober families, in which I was a faithful servant; but being tempted

by a little higher wages, I left a good place to go and live with

Mr. Fantom, who, however, made good none of his fine promises, but

proved a hard master. Full of fine words and charitable speeches in

favor of the poor; but apt to oppress, overwork, and underpay them.

In his service I was not allowed time to go to church. This troubled

me at first, till I overheard my master say, that going to church

was a superstitious prejudice, and only meant for the vulgar. Upon

this I resolved to go no more, for I thought there could not be two

religions, one for the master and one for the servant. Finding my

master never prayed, I, too, left off praying; this gave Satan great

power over me, so that I from that time fell into almost every sin.

I was very uneasy at first, and my conscience gave me no rest; but I

was soon reconciled by overhearing my master and another gentleman

say, that death was only an eternal sleep, and hell and judgment

were but an invention of priests to keep the poor in order. I

mention this as a warning to all masters and mistresses to take care

what they converse about while servants are waiting at table. They

can not tell how many souls they have sent to perdition with such

loose talk. The crime for which I die is the natural consequence of

the principles I learned of my master. A rich man, indeed, who

throws off religion, may escape the gallows, because want does not

drive him to commit those crimes which lead to it; but what shall

restrain a needy man, who has been taught that there is no dreadful

reckoning? Honesty is but a dream without the awful sanctions of

heaven and hell. Virtue is but a shadow, if it be stripped of the

terrors and promises of the gospel. Morality is but an empty name,

if it be destitute of the principle and power of Christianity. O, my

dear fellow servants! take warning by my sad fate; never be tempted

away from a sober service for the sake of a little more wages; never

venture your immortal souls to houses where God is not feared. And

now hear me, O my God! though I have blasphemed thee! Forgive me, O

my Saviour! though I have denied thee! O Lord, most holy! O God,

most mighty! deliver me from the bitter pains of eternal death, and

receive my soul, for His sake who died for sinners.

"WILLIAM WILSON."

Mr. Trueman would never leave this poor penitent till he was

launched into eternity, but he attended him with the minister in the

cart. This pious clergyman never cared to say what he thought of

William's state. When Mr. Trueman ventured to mention his hope, that

though his penitence was late, yet it was sincere, and spoke of the

dying thief on the cross as a ground of encouragement, the minister

with a very serious look, made this answer: "Sir, that instance is

too often brought forward on occasions to which it does not apply: I

do not choose to say any thing to your application of it in the

present case, but I will answer you in the words of a good man

speaking of the penitent thief: 'There is _one_ such instance given

that nobody might despair, and there is _but_ one, that nobody might

presume.'"

Poor William was turned off just a quarter before eleven; and may

the Lord have mercy on his soul!

THE TWO WEALTHY FARMERS,

OR, THE HISTORY OF MR. BRAGWELL.

PART I.--THE VISIT.

Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy happened to meet last year at Weyhill

fair. They were glad to see each other, as they had but seldom met

of late; Mr. Bragwell having removed some years before from Mr.

Worthy's neighborhood, to a distant village where he had bought an

estate.

Mr. Bragwell was a substantial farmer and grazier. He had risen in

the world by what worldly men call a run of good fortune. He had

also been a man of great industry; that is, he had paid a diligent

and constant attention to his own interest. He understood business,

and had a knack of turning almost every thing to his own advantage.

He had that sort of sense which good men call cunning, and knaves

call wisdom. He was too prudent ever to do any thing so wrong that

the law could take hold of him; yet he was not over scrupulous about

the morality of an action, when the prospect of enriching himself by

it was very great, and the chance of hurting his character was

small. The corn he sent home to his customers was not always quite

so good as the samples he had produced at market; and he now and

then forgot to name some capital blemish in the horses he sold at

fair. He scorned to be guilty of the petty fraud of cheating in

weights and measures, for he thought that was a beggarly sin; but he

valued himself on his skill in making a bargain, and fancied it

showed his superior knowledge of the world to take advantage of the

ignorance of a dealer.

It was his constant rule to undervalue every thing he was about to

buy, and to overvalue every thing he was about to sell; but as he

seldom lost sight of his discretion, he avoided every thing that was

very shameful; so that he was considered merely as a hard dealer,

and a keen hand at a bargain. Now and then when he had been caught

in pushing his own advantage too far, he contrived to get out of the

scrape by turning the whole into a jest, saying it was a good take

in, a rare joke, and he had only a mind to divert himself with the

folly of his neighbor, who could be so easily imposed on.

Mr. Bragwell, however, in his way, set a high value on his

character: not indeed that he had a right sense of its worth; he did

not consider reputation as desirable because it increases influence,

and for that reason strengthens the hands of a good man, and

enlarges his sphere of usefulness: but he made the advantage of

reputation, as well as of every other good, center in himself. Had

he observed a strict attention to principle, he feared he should not

have got on so fast in the world as those do who consult expediency

rather than probity, while, without a certain degree of character,

he knew also, that he should forfeit that confidence which put other

men in his power, and would set them as much on their guard against

him, as he, who thought all mankind pretty much alike, was on his

guard against them.

Mr. Bragwell had one favorite maxim; namely, that a man's success in

life was a sure proof of his wisdom: and that all failure and

misfortune was the consequence of a man's own folly. As this opinion

was first taken up by him from vanity and ignorance, so it was more

and more confirmed by his own prosperity. He saw that he himself had

succeeded greatly without either money or education to begin with,

and he therefore now despised every man, however excellent his

character or talents might be, who had not the same success in life.

His natural disposition was not particularly bad, but prosperity had

hardened his heart. He made his own progress in life the rule by

which the conduct of all other men was to be judged, without any

allowance for their peculiar disadvantages, or the visitations of

Providence. He thought, for his part, that every man of sense could

command success on his undertakings, and control and dispose the

events of his own life.

But though he considered those who had had less success than himself

as no better than fools, yet he did not extend this opinion to Mr.

Worthy, whom he looked upon not only as a good but a wise man. They

had been bred up when children in the same house; but with this

difference, that Worthy was the nephew of the master, and Bragwell

the son of the servant.

Bragwell's father had been plowman in the family of Mr. Worthy's

uncle, a sensible man who farmed a small estate of his own, and who,

having no children, bred up young Worthy as his son, instructed him

in the business of husbandry, and at his death left him his estate.

The father of Worthy was a pious clergyman, who lived with his

brother the farmer, in order to help out a narrow income. He had

bestowed much pains on the instruction of his son, and used

frequently to repeat to him a saying, which he had picked up in a

book written by one of the greatest men this country ever

produced--That there were two things with which every man ought to

be acquainted, RELIGION, AND HIS OWN BUSINESS. While he therefore

took care that his son should be made an excellent farmer, he filled

up his leisure hours in improving his mind: so that young Worthy had

read more good books, and understood them better, than most men in

his station. His reading, however, had been chiefly confined to

husbandry and divinity, the two subjects which were of the most

immediate importance to him.

The reader will see by this time that Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy

were as likely to be as opposite to each other as two men could well

be, who were nearly of the same age and condition, and who were

neither of them without credit in the world. Bragwell indeed made

far the greater figure; for he liked to _cut a dash_, as he called

it. It was his delight to make the ancient gentry of the

neighborhood stare, at seeing a grazier vie with them in show, and

exceed them in expense. And while it was the study of Worthy to

conform to his station, and to set a good example to those about

him, it was the delight of Bragwell to eclipse, in his way of life,

men of larger fortune. He did not see how much his vanity raised the

envy of his inferiors, the ill-will of his equals, and the contempt

of his betters.

His wife was a notable stirring woman, but vain, violent, and

ambitious; very ignorant, and very high-minded. She had married

Bragwell before he was worth a shilling, and as she had brought him

a good deal of money, she thought herself the grand cause of his

rising in the world; and thence took occasion to govern him most

completely. Whenever he ventured to oppose her, she took care to put

him in mind that he owed every thing to her; that had it not been

for her, he might still have been stumping after a plow-tail, or

serving hogs in old Worthy's farm-yard; but that it was she who made

a gentleman of him. In order to set about making him a gentleman,

she had begun by teasing him till he had turned away all his poor

relations who worked on the farm; she next drew him off from keeping

company with his old acquaintances, and at last persuaded him to

remove from the place where he had got his money. Poor woman! she

had not sense and virtue enough to see how honorable it is for a man

to raise himself in the world by fair means, and then to help

forward his poor relations and friends; engaging their services by

his kindness, and endeavoring to turn his own advancement in life to

the best account, and of making it the instrument of assisting those

who had a natural claim to his protection.

Mrs. Bragwell was an excellent mistress, according to her own

notions of excellence; for no one could say she ever lost an

opportunity of scolding a servant, or was ever guilty of the

weakness of overlooking a fault. Toward her two daughters her

behavior was far otherwise. In them she could see nothing but

perfections, but her extravagant fondness for these girls was full

as much owing to pride as to affection. She was bent on making a

family, and having found out that she was too ignorant, and too much

trained to the habits of getting money, ever to hope to make a

figure herself, she looked to her daughters as the persons who were

to raise the family of the Bragwells; and to this hope she foolishly

submitted to any drudgery for their sakes and bore every kind of

impertinence from them.

The first wish of her heart was to set them above their neighbors;

for she used to say, what was the use of having substance, if her

daughters might not carry themselves above girls who had nothing? To

do her justice, she herself would be about early and late to see

that the business of the house was not neglected. She had been bred

to great industry, and continued to work when it was no longer

necessary, both from early habit, and the desire of heaping up

money for her daughters. Yet her whole notion of gentility was, that

it consisted in being rich and idle; and, though she was willing to

be a drudge herself, she resolved to make her daughters gentlewomen

on this principle. To be well dressed, to eat elegantly, and to do

nothing, or nothing which is of any use, was what she fancied

distinguished people in genteel life. And this is too common a

notion of a fine education among a certain class; they do not esteem

things by their use, but by their show. They estimate the value of

their children's education by the money it costs, and not by the

knowledge and goodness it bestows. People of this stamp often take a

pride in the expense of learning, instead of taking pleasure in the

advantage of it. And the silly vanity of letting others see that

they can afford any thing, often sets parents on letting their

daughters learn not only things of no use, but things which may be

really hurtful in their situation; either by setting them above

their proper duties, or by taking up their time in a way

inconsistent with them.

Mrs. Bragwell sent her daughters to a boarding-school, where she

instructed them to hold up their heads as high as any body; to have

more spirit than _to be put upon_ by any one; never to be pitiful

about money, but rather to show that they could afford to spend with

the best; to keep company with the richest and most fashionable

girls in the school, and to make no acquaintance with the farmers'

daughters.

They came home at the usual age of leaving school, with a large

portion of vanity grafted on their native ignorance. The vanity was

added, but the ignorance was not taken away. Of religion they could

not possibly learn any thing, since none was taught, for at that

place Christianity was considered as a part of education which

belonged only to charity schools. They went to church indeed once a

Sunday, yet effectually to counteract any benefit such an attendance

might produce, it was the rule of the school that they should use

only French prayer-books; of course, such superficial scholars as

the Miss Bragwells would always be literally praying in an unknown

tongue; while girls of better capacity and more industry would

infallibly be picking out the nominative case, the verb, and a

participle of a foreign language, in the solemn act of kneeling

before the Father of Spirits, "who searcheth the heart and trieth

the reins." During the remainder of the Sunday they learned their

worldly tasks, all except actual needle-work, which omission alone

marked the distinction of Sunday from other days; and the governess

being a French Roman Catholic, it became a doubtful point with some

people, whether her zeal or her negligence in the article of

religion would be most to the advantage of her pupils. Of knowledge

the Miss Bragwells had got just enough to laugh at their fond

parents' rustic manners and vulgar language, and just enough taste

to despise and ridicule every girl who was not as vainly dressed as

themselves.

The mother had been comforting herself for the heavy expense of

their bringing up, by looking forward to the pleasure of seeing them

become fine ladies, and the pride of marrying them above their

station; and to this hope she constantly referred in all her

conversations with them; assuring them that all her happiness

depended on their future elevation.

Their father hoped, with far more judgment, that they would be a

comfort to him both in sickness and in health. He had no learning

himself, and could write but poorly, and owed what skill he had in

figures to his natural turn of business. He reasonably hoped that

his daughters, after all the money he had spent on them, would now

write his letters and keep his accounts. And as he was now and then

laid up with a fit of the gout, he was enjoying the prospect of

having two affectionate children to nurse him, as well as two

skillful assistants to relieve him.

When they came home, however, he had the mortification to find, that

though he had two smart showy ladies to visit him, he had neither

dutiful daughters to nurse him, nor faithful stewards to keep his

books, nor prudent children to manage his house. They neither

soothed him by their kindness when he was sick, nor helped him by

their industry when he was busy. They thought the maid might take

care of him in the gout as she did before; for they fancied that

nursing was a coarse and servile employment; and as to their skill

in ciphering he soon found, to his cost, that though they knew how

to _spend_ both pounds, shillings, and pence, yet they did not know

how so well to cast them up. Indeed it is to be regretted that women

in general, especially in the middle class, are so little grounded

in so indispensable, solid, and valuable an acquirement as

arithmetic.

Mrs. Bragwell being one day very busy in preparing a great dinner

for the neighbors, ventured to request her daughters to assist in

making the pastry. They asked her with a scornful smile, whether she

had sent them to a boarding school to learn to cook; and added, that

they supposed she would expect them next to make hasty-puddings for

the hay-makers. So saying, they coolly marched off to their music.

When the mother found her girls too polite to be of any use, she

would take comfort in observing how her parlor was set out with

their filagree and flowers, their embroidery and cut paper. They

spent the morning in bed, the noon in dressing, the evening at the

harpsichord, and the night in reading novels.

With all these fine qualifications it is easy to suppose, that as

they despised their sober duties, they no less despised their plain

neighbors. When they could not get to a horse-race, a petty-ball, or

a strolling play, with some company as idle and as smart as

themselves, they were driven for amusement to the circulating

library. Jack, the plow-boy, on whom they had now put a livery

jacket, was employed half his time in trotting backward and forward

with the most wretched trash the little neighboring bookshop could

furnish. The choice was often left to Jack, who could not read, but

who had general orders to bring all the new things, and a great many

of them.

It was a misfortune, that at the school at which they had been bred,

and at some others, there was no system of education which had any

immediate reference to the station of life to which the girls

chiefly belonged. As persons in the middle line, for want of that

acquaintance with books, and with life and manners, which the great

possess, do not always see the connection between remote

consequences and their causes, the evils of a corrupt and

inappropriate system of education do not strike _them_ so forcibly;

and provided _they can pay for it_, which is made the grand

criterion between the fit and the unfit, they are too little

disposed to consider the value, or rather the worthlessness, of the

thing which is paid for: but literally go on to _give their money

for that which is not bread._

Their subsequent course of reading serves to establish all the

errors of their education. Instead of such books as might help to

confirm and strengthen them in all the virtues of their station, in

humility, economy, meekness, contentment, self-denial, and industry;

the studies now adopted are, by a graft on the old stock, made to

grow on the habits acquired at school. Of those novels and plays

which are so eagerly devoured by persons of this description, there

is perhaps scarce one which is not founded upon principles which

would lead young women of the middle ranks to be discontented with

their station. It is _rank_--it is _elegance_--it is _beauty_--it is

_sentimental feelings_--it is _sensibility_--it is some needless, or

some superficial, or some hurtful quality, even in that fashionable

person to whom the author ascribes it, which is the ruling

principle. This quality transferred into the heart and the conduct

of an illiterate woman in an inferior station, becomes absurdity,

becomes sinfulness.

Things were in this state in the family we are describing, or rather

growing worse; for idleness and vanity are never at a stand; when

these two wealthy farmers, Bragwell and Worthy, met at Weyhill fair,

as was said before. After many hearty salutations had passed between

them, it was agreed that Mr. Bragwell should spend the next day with

his old friend whose house was not many miles distant. Bragwell

invited himself in the following manner: "We have not had a

comfortable day's chat for years," said he; "and as I am to look at

a drove of lean beasts in your neighborhood, I will take a bed at

your house, and we will pass the evening debating as we used to do.