CHAPTER VIII.

Arrival of Mr Barlow--Story of Polemo--Tommy's repentance--Story of

Sophron and Tigranes--Tommy as an Arabian Horseman--His

Mishap--Tommy's intrepidity--The Poor Highlander's story--Tommy's

Sorrow for his conduct to Harry--Conclusion of the Story of Sophron

and Tigranes--Tommy's resolution to study nothing but "reason and

philosophy"--Visits Harry and begs his forgiveness--The Grateful

Black's Story--Tommy takes up his abode at Farmer Sandford's--The

Grateful Black's account of himself--Mr Merton's visit to the

Farm--The unexpected present--Conclusion.

While Mr Merton was occupied by these uneasy feelings, he was agreeably

surprised by a visit from Mr Barlow, who came accidentally to see him,

with a perfect ignorance of all the great events which had so recently

happened.

Mr Merton received this worthy man with the sincerest cordiality; but

there was such a gloom diffused over all his manners that Mr Barlow

began to suspect that all was not right with Tommy, and therefore

purposely inquired after him, to give his father an opportunity of

speaking. This Mr Merton did not fail to do; and taking Mr Barlow

affectionately by the hand, he said, "Oh, my dear Sir, I begin to fear

that all my hopes are at an end in that boy, and all your kind

endeavours thrown away. He has just behaved in such a manner as shows

him to be radically corrupted, and insensible of every principle but

pride." He then related to Mr Barlow every incident of Tommy's

behaviour; making the severest reflections upon his insolence and

ingratitude, and blaming his own supineness, that had not earlier

checked these boisterous passions, that now burst forth with such a

degree of fury that threatened ruin to his hopes.

"Indeed," answered Mr Barlow, "I am very sorry to hear this account of

my little friend; yet I do not see it in quite so serious a light as

yourself; and though I cannot deny the dangers that may arise from a

character so susceptible of false impressions, and so violent, at the

same time, yet I do not think the corruption either so great or so

general as you seem to suspect. Do we not see, even in the most trifling

habits of body or speech, that a long and continual attention is

required, if we would wish to change them, and yet our perseverance is,

in the end, generally successful; why, then, should we imagine that

those of the mind are less obstinate, or subject to different laws? Or

why should we rashly abandon ourselves to despair, from the first

experiments that do not succeed according to our wishes?"

"Indeed," answered Mr Merton, "what you say is perfectly consistent with

the general benevolence of your character, and most consolatory to the

tenderness of a father. Yet I know too well the general weakness of

parents in respect to the faults of their children not to be upon my

guard against the delusions of my own mind. And when I consider the

abrupt transition of my son into everything that is most inconsistent

with goodness,--how lightly, how instantaneously he seems to have

forgotten everything he had learned with you,--I cannot help forming the

most painful and melancholy presages of the future."

"Alas, sir," answered Mr Barlow, "what is the general malady of human

nature but this very instability which now appears in your son? Do you

imagine that half the vices of men arise from real depravity of heart?

On the contrary, I am convinced that human nature is infinitely more

weak than wicked, and that the greater part of all bad conduct springs

rather from want of firmness than from any settled propensity to evil."

"Indeed," replied Mr Merton, "what you say is highly reasonable; nor

did I ever expect that a boy so long indulged and spoiled should be

exempt from failings. But what particularly hurts me is to see him

proceed to such disagreeable extremities without any adequate

temptation--extremities that, I fear, imply a defect of goodness and

generosity--virtues which I always thought he had possessed in a very

great degree."

"Neither," answered Mr Barlow, "am I at all convinced that your son is

deficient in either. But you are to consider the prevalence of example,

and the circle to which you have lately introduced him. If it is so

difficult even for persons of a more mature age and experience to resist

the impressions of those with whom they constantly associate, how can

you expect it from your son? To be armed against the prejudices of the

world, and to distinguish real merit from the splendid vices which pass

current in what is called society, is one of the most difficult of human

sciences. Nor do I know a single character, however excellent, that

would not candidly confess he has often made a wrong election, and paid

that homage to a brilliant outside which is only due to real merit."

"You comfort me very much," said Mr Merton, "but such ungovernable

passion, such violence and impetuosity----"

"Are indeed very formidable," replied Mr Barlow, "yet, when they are

properly directed, frequently produce the noblest effects. You have, I

doubt not, read the story of Polemo, who, from a debauched young man,

became a celebrated philosopher, and a model of virtue, only by

attending a single moral lecture."

"Indeed," said Mr Merton, "I am ashamed to confess that the various

employments and amusements in which I have passed the greater part of my

life have not afforded me as much leisure for reading as I could wish.

You will therefore oblige me very much by repeating the story you allude

to."

"THE STORY OF POLEMO."

"Polemo (said Mr Barlow) was a young man of Athens, and although he was

brought up with the most tender solicitude and care by his mother, and

at one time promised fair to be of a studious and virtuous turn of mind,

as he appeared very fond of reading, and much attached to literary

pursuits, and would frequently retire into the fields, and for hours sit

upon the stump of a tree, with his book before him,--still, after a few

years, he became so distinguished by his excesses, that he was the

aversion of all the discreeter part of the city. He led a life of

intemperance and dissipation, and was constantly surrounded by a set of

loose young men who imitated and encouraged his vices; and when they had

totally drowned the little reason they possessed in copious draughts of

wine, they were accustomed to sally out, and practise every species of

absurd and licentious frolic.

"One morning they were thus wandering about, after having spent the

night as usual, when they beheld a great concourse of people that were

listening to the discourse of a celebrated philosopher named Xenocrates.

The greater part of the young men, who still retained some sense of

shame, were so struck with this spectacle, that they turned out of the

way; but Polemo, who was more daring and abandoned than the rest,

pressed forward into the midst of the audience. His figure was too

remarkable not to attract universal notice; for his head was crowned

with flowers, his robe hung negligently about him, and his whole body

was reeking with perfumes; besides, his look and manner were such as

very little qualified him for such a company. Many of the audience were

so displeased at this interruption, that they were ready to treat the

young man with great severity; but the venerable philosopher prevailed

upon them not to molest the intruder, and calmly continued his

discourse, which happened to be upon the dignity and advantages of

temperance.

"As the sage proceeded in his oration, he descanted upon this subject,

with so much force and eloquence that the young man became more composed

and attentive, as it were in spite of himself. Presently the philosopher

grew still more animated in his representation of the shameful slavery

which attends the giving way to our passions, and the sublime happiness

of reducing them all to order; and then the countenance of Polemo began

to change, and the expression of it to be softened; he cast his eyes in

mournful silence upon the ground, as if in deep repentance for his own

contemptible conduct. Still the aged speaker increased in vehemence; he

seemed to be animated with the sacred genius of the art which he

professed, and to exercise an irresistible power over the minds of his

hearers. He drew the portrait of an ingenious and modest young man who

had been bred up to virtuous toils and manly hardiness; he painted him

triumphant over all his passions, and trampling upon human fears and

weakness: 'Should his country be invaded, you see him fly to its

defence, and ready to pour forth all his blood; calm and composed he

appears, with a terrible beauty, in the front of danger; the ornament

and bulwark of his country; the thickest squadrons are penetrated by his

resistless valour, and he points the path of victory to his admiring

followers. Should he fall in battle, how glorious is his lot; to be cut

off in the honourable discharge of his duty; to be wept by all the brave

and virtuous, and to survive in the eternal records of fame?'

"While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo seemed to be transported

with a sacred enthusiasm; his eyes flashed fire, his countenance glowed

with martial indignation, and the whole expression of his person was

changed. Presently the philosopher, who had remarked the effect of his

discourse, painted in no less glowing colours the life and manners of an

effeminate young man; 'Unhappy youth,' said he, 'what word shall I find

equal to thy abasement? Thou art the reproach of thy parents, the

disgrace of thy country, the scorn or pity of every generous mind. How

is nature dishonoured in thy person, and all her choicest gifts

abortive! That strength which would have rendered thee the glory of thy

city and the terror of her foes, is basely thrown away on luxury and

intemperance; thy youth and beauty are wasted in riot, and prematurely

blasted by disease. Instead of the eye of fire, the port of intrepidity,

the step of modest firmness, a squalid paleness sits upon thy face, a

bloated corpulency enfeebles thy limbs, and presents a picture of human

nature in its most abject state. But hark! the trumpet sounds; a savage

band of unrelenting enemies has surrounded the city, and are preparing

to scatter flames and ruin through the whole! The virtuous youth, that

have been educated to nobler cares, arm with generous emulation, and fly

to its defence. How lovely do they appear, dressed in resplendent arms,

and moving slowly on in close impenetrable phalanx! They are animated by

every motive which can give energy to a human breast, and lift it up to

the sublimest achievements. Their hoary sires, their venerable

magistrates, the beauteous forms of trembling virgins, attend them to

the war, with prayers and acclamations. Go forth, ye generous bands,

secure to meet the rewards of victory or the repose of honourable death!

Go forth, ye generous bands, but unaccompanied by the wretch I have

described! His feeble arm refuses to bear the ponderous shield; the

pointed spear sinks feebly from his grasp; he trembles at the noise and

tumult of the war, and flies like the hunted hart to lurk in shades and

darkness. Behold him roused from his midnight orgies, reeking with wine

and odours, and crowned with flowers, the only trophies of his warfare;

he hurries with trembling steps across the city; his voice, his gait,

his whole deportment, proclaim the abject slave of intemperance, and

stamp indelible infamy upon his name.'

"While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo listened with fixed

attention. The former animation of his countenance gave way to a visible

dejection; presently his lips trembled and his cheeks grew pale; he was

lost in melancholy recollection, and a silent tear was observed to

trickle down. But when the philosopher described a character so like his

own, shame seemed to take entire possession of his soul; and, rousing as

from a long and painful lethargy, he softly raised his hand to his head,

and tore away the chaplets of flowers, the monuments of his effeminacy

and disgrace; he seemed intent to compose his dress into a more decent

form, and wrapped his robe about him, which before hung loosely waving

with an air of studied effeminacy. But when Xenocrates had finished his

discourse, Polemo approached him with all the humility of conscious

guilt, and begged to become his disciple, telling him that he had that

day gained the most glorious conquest that had ever been achieved by

reason and philosophy, by inspiring with the love of virtue a mind that

had been hitherto plunged in folly and sensuality. Xenocrates embraced

the young man, and admitted him among his disciples. Nor had he ever

reason to repent of his facility; for Polemo, from that hour, abandoned

all his former companions and vices, and by his uncommon ardour for

improvement, very soon became celebrated for virtue and wisdom, as he

had before been for every contrary quality."

"Thus," added Mr Barlow, "you see how little reason there is to despair

of youth, even in the most disadvantageous circumstances. It has been

justly observed, that few know all they are capable of: the seeds of

different qualities frequently lie concealed in the character, and only

wait for an opportunity of exerting themselves; and it is the great

business of education to apply such motives to the imagination as may

stimulate it to laudable exertions. For thus the same activity of mind,

the same impetuosity of temper, which, by being improperly applied,

would only form a wild, ungovernable character, may produce the

steadiest virtues, and prove a blessing both to the individual and his

country."

"I am infinitely obliged to you for this story," said Mr Merton; "and as

my son will certainly find a _Xenocrates_ in you, I wish that you may

have reason to think him in some degree a _Polemo_. But since you are so

kind as to present me these agreeable hopes, do not leave the work

unfinished, but tell me what you think the best method of treating him

in his present critical situation." "That," said Mr Barlow, "must

depend, I think, upon the workings of his own mind. He has always

appeared to me generous and humane, and to have a fund of natural

goodness amid all the faults which spring up too luxuriantly in his

character. It is impossible that he should not be at present possessed

with the keenest shame for his own behaviour. It will be your first part

to take advantage of these sentiments, and instead of a fleeting and

transitory sensation, to change them into fixed and active principles.

Do not at present say much to him upon the subject. Let us both be

attentive to the silent workings of his mind, and regulate our behaviour

accordingly."

This conversation being finished, Mr Merton introduced Mr Barlow to the

company in the other room. Mrs Merton, who now began to be a little

staggered in some of the opinions she had been most fond of, received

him with uncommon civility, and all the rest of the company treated him

with the greatest respect. But Tommy, who had lately been the oracle and

admiration of all this brilliant circle, appeared to have lost all his

vivacity; he, indeed, advanced to meet Mr Barlow with a look of

tenderness and gratitude, and made the most respectful answers to all

his inquiries; but his eyes were involuntarily turned to the ground, and

silent melancholy and dejection were visible in his face.

Mr Barlow remarked, with the greatest pleasure, these signs of humility

and contrition, and pointed them out to Mr Merton the first time he had

an opportunity of speaking to him without being overheard; adding,

"that, unless he was much deceived, Tommy would soon give ample proofs

of the natural goodness of his character, and reconcile himself to all

his friends." Mr Merton heard this observation with the greatest

pleasure, and now began to entertain some hopes of seeing it

accomplished.

After the dinner was over most of the young gentlemen went away to their

respective homes. Tommy seemed to have lost much of the enthusiasm which

he had lately felt for his polite and accomplished friends; he even

appeared to feel a secret joy at their departure, and answered with a

visible coldness at professions of regard and repeated invitations. Even

Mrs Compton herself, and Miss Matilda, who were also departing, found

him as insensible as the rest; though they did not spare the most

extravagant praises and the warmest professions of regard.

And now, the ceremonies of taking leave being over, and most of the

visitors departed, a sudden solitude seemed to have taken possession of

the house, which was lately the seat of noise, and bustle, and

festivity. Mr and Mrs Merton and Mr Barlow were left alone with Miss

Simmons and Tommy, and one or two others of the smaller gentry who had

not yet returned to their friends.

As Mr Barlow was not fond of cards, Mr Merton proposed, after the

tea-table was removed, that Miss Simmons, who was famous for reading

well, should entertain the company with some little tale or history

adapted to the comprehension even of the youngest. Miss Simmons excused

herself with the greatest modesty; but on Mrs Merton's joining in the

request, she instantly complied, and fetching down a book, read the

following story of

"SOPHRON AND TIGRANES."

"Sophron and Tigranes were the children of two neighbouring shepherds

that fed their flocks in that part of Asia which borders upon Mount

Lebanon. They were accustomed to each other from earliest infancy; and

the continual habit of conversing at length produced a tender and

intimate friendship.

"Sophron was larger and more robust of the two; his look was firm but

modest, his countenance placid, and his eyes were such as inspired

confidence and attachment. He excelled most of the youth of the

neighbourhood in every species of violent exercise--such as wrestling,

boxing, and whirling heavyweights; but his triumphs were constantly

mixed with so much humanity and courtesy, that even those who found

themselves vanquished could feel no envy towards their conqueror.

"On the contrary, Tigranes was of a character totally different. His

body was less strong than that of Sophron, but excellently proportioned

and adapted to every species of fatigue; his countenance was full of

fire, but displeased by an excess of confidence; and his eyes sparkled

with sense and meaning, but bore too great an expression of uncontrolled

fierceness.

"Nor were these two youths less different in the application of their

faculties than in the nature of them; for Tigranes seemed to be

possessed by a restless spirit of commanding all his equals, while

Sophron, contented with the enjoyment of tranquillity, desired nothing

more than to avoid oppression.

"Still, as they assisted their parents in leading every morning their

flocks to pasture, they entertained each other with rural sports; or,

while reposing under the shade of arching rocks during the heat of the

day, conversed with all the ease of childish friendship. Their

observations were not many; they were chiefly drawn from the objects of

nature which surrounded them, or from the simple mode of life to which

they had been witness; but even here the diversity of their characters

was sufficiently expressed.

"'See,' said Tigranes, one day, as he cast his eyes upwards to the

cliffs of a neighbouring rock, 'that eagle which riseth into the immense

regions of air, till he absolutely soars beyond the reach of sight; were

I a bird, I should choose to resemble him, that I might traverse the

clouds with a rapidity of a whirlwind, and dart like lightning upon my

prey.' 'That eagle,' answered Sophron, 'is the emblem of violence and

injustice; he is the enemy of every bird, and even of every beast, that

is weaker than himself; were I to choose, I should prefer the life of

yonder swan, that moves so smoothly and inoffensively along the river;

he is strong enough to defend himself from injury, without opposing

others, and therefore he is neither feared nor insulted by other

animals.'

"While Sophron was yet speaking, the eagle, who had been hovering in the

air, darted suddenly down at some distance, and seizing a lamb, was

bearing it away in his cruel talons; when, almost in the same instant, a

shepherd, who had been watching all his motions from a neighbouring

hill, let fly an arrow with so unerring an aim, that it pierced the body

of the bird, and brought him headlong to the ground, writhing in the

agonies of death.

"'This,' said Sophron, 'I have often heard, is the fate of ambitious

people; while they are endeavouring to mount beyond their fellows they

are stopped by some unforeseen misfortune.' 'For my part,' said

Tigranes, 'I had rather perish in the sky than enjoy an age of life,

basely chained down and grovelling upon the surface of the earth.' 'What

we either may enjoy,' answered Sophron, 'is in the hand of Heaven; but

may I rather creep during life than mount to commit injustice, and

oppress the innocent.'

"In this manner passed the early years of the two friends. As they grew

up to manhood the difference of their tempers became more visible, and

gradually alienated them from each other. Tigranes began to despise the

uniform labours of the shepherd and the humble occupations of the

country; his sheep were neglected, and frequently wandered over the

plains without a leader to guard them in the day, or bring them back at

night; and the greater part of his time was employed in climbing rocks,

or in traversing the forest, to seek for eagles' nests, or in piercing

with his arrows the different wild animals which inhabit the woods. If

he heard the horn of the hunter, or the cry of the hound, it was

impossible to restrain his eagerness; he regarded neither the summer's

sun nor the winter's frost while he was pursuing his game; the thickest

woods, the steepest mountains, the deepest rivers, were unable to stop

him in his career, and he triumphed over every danger and difficulty,

with such invincible courage as made him at once an object of terror and

admiration to all the youth in the neighbourhood. His friend Sophron

alone beheld his exploits neither with terror nor admiration. Of all

his comrades, Sophron was the only one whom Tigranes still continued to

respect; for he knew that, with a gentleness of temper which scarcely

anything could exasperate, he possessed the firmest courage and a degree

of bodily strength which rendered that courage invincible. He affected,

indeed, to despise the virtuous moderation of his friend, and ridiculed

it with some of his looser comrades as an abject pusillanimity; but he

felt himself humbled whenever he was in his company as before a superior

being, and therefore gradually estranged himself from his society.

"Sophron, on the contrary, entertained the sincerest regard for his

friend; but he knew his defects, and trembled for the consequences which

the violence and ambition of his character might one day produce.

Whenever Tigranes abandoned his flocks, or left his rustic tasks undone,

Sophron had the goodness to supply whatever he had omitted. Such was the

vigour of his constitution, that he was indefatigable in every labour,

nor did he ever exert his force more willingly than in performing these

voluntary duties to his absent friend. Whenever he met with Tigranes he

accosted him in the gentlest manner, and endeavoured to win him back to

his former habits and manners. He represented to him the injury he did

his parents, and the disquietude he occasioned in their minds by thus

abandoning the duties of his profession. He sometimes, but with the

greatest mildness, hinted at the coldness with which Tigranes treated

him, and reminded his friend of the pleasing intercourse of their

childhood. But all his remonstrances were vain; Tigranes heard him at

first with coolness, then with impatience or contempt, and at last

avoided him altogether.

"Sophron had a lamb which he had formerly saved from the devouring jaws

of a wolf, who had already bitten him in several places, and destroyed

his dam. The tenderness with which this benevolent young man had nursed

and fed him during his infancy, had so attached him to his master, that

he seemed to prefer his society to that of his own species. Wherever

Sophron went, the faithful lamb accompanied him like his dogs, lay down

beside him when he reposed, and followed close behind when he drove the

rest of the flock to pasture. Sophron was equally attached to his dumb

companion: he often diverted himself with his innocent gambols, fed him

with the choicest herbs out of his hands, and when he slept at nights

the lamb was sure to repose beside him.

"It happened about this time that Tigranes, as he was one day exploring

the woods, discovered the den of a she-wolf, in which she had left her

young ones while she went out to search for prey. By a caprice that was

natural to his temper, he chose out the largest of the whelps, carried

it home to his house, and brought it up as if it had been a useful and

harmless animal. While it was yet but young it was incapable of doing

mischief; but as it increased in age and strength, it began to show

signs of a bloody and untameable disposition, and made all the

neighbouring shepherds tremble for the safety of their flocks. But as

the courage and fierceness of Tigranes had now rendered him formidable

to all his associates, and the violence of his temper made him impatient

of all opposition, they did not speak to him on the subject; and as to

his own parents, he had long learned to treat them with indifference and

contempt. Sophron alone, who was not to be awed by fear, observing the

just apprehensions of the neighbourhood, undertook the task of

expostulating with his friend, and endeavoured to prevail upon him to

part with a beast so justly odious, and which might in the end prove

fatal whenever his natural rage should break out into open acts of

slaughter. Tigranes heard him with a sneer of derision, and only

answered, that 'if a parcel of miserable rustics diverted themselves

with keeping sheep, he, who had a more elevated soul, might surely

entertain a nobler animal for his diversion.' 'But should that nobler

animal prove a public mischief,' coolly replied Sophron, 'you must

expect that he will be treated as a public enemy.' 'Woe be to the man,'

answered Tigranes, brandishing his javelin, and sternly frowning, 'that

shall dare to meddle with anything that belongs to me.' Saying this, he

turned his back upon Sophron, and left him with disdain.

"It was not long before the very event took place which had been so long

foreseen. The wolf of Tigranes, either impelled by the accidental taste

of blood, or by the natural fierceness of his own temper, fell one day

upon the sheep, with such an unexpected degree of fury that he

slaughtered thirty of them before it was possible to prevent him.

Sophron happened at that time to be within view; he ran with amazing

swiftness to the place, and found the savage bathed in blood, tearing

the carcass of a lamb he had just slain. At the approach of the daring

youth the wolf began to utter a dismal cry, and, quitting his prey,

seemed to prepare himself for slaughter of another kind. Sophron was

entirely unarmed, and the size and fury of the beast, which rushed

forward to attack him, might well have excused him had he declined the

combat. But he, consulting only his native courage, wrapped his

shepherd's cloak around his left arm, to resist the first onset of his

enemy, and, with a determined look and nimble pace, advanced towards his

threatening adversary. In an instant the wolf sprang upon him, with a

horrid yell; but Sophron nimbly eluded his attack, and suddenly throwing

his vigorous arms about the body of his adversary, compelled him to

struggle for his own safety. It was then that he uttered cries more

dreadful than before; and as he writhed about in all the agitations of

pain and madness, he gnashed his terrible teeth with impotent attempts

to bite, while the blood and foam which issued from his jaws rendered

his figure still more horrible than before. But Sophron, with undaunted

courage, still maintained his hold, and grasping him with irresistible

strength, prevented him from using either his teeth or claws in his own

defence. It was not long before the struggles and violence of the wolf

grew perceptibly weaker from fatigue, and he seemed to wish to decline a

further combat with so formidable a foe, could he have found means to

escape. Sophron then collected all his strength, and, seizing his

fainting adversary by the neck and throat, grasped him still tighter in

his terrible hands, till the beast, incapable either of disengaging

himself or breathing, yielded up the contest and his life together.

"It was almost in this moment that Tigranes passed that way, and

unexpectedly was witness to the triumphs of Sophron, and the miserable

end of his favourite. Inflamed with pride and indignation, Tigranes

uttered dreadful imprecations against his friend, who in vain attempted

to explain the transaction, and rushing upon him with all the madness of

inveterate hate, aimed a javelin at his bosom. Sophron was calm as he

was brave; he saw the necessity of defending his own life against the

attacks of a perfidious friend, and, with a nimble spring, at once

eluded the weapon and closed with his antagonist. The combat was then

more equal, for each was reduced to depend upon his own strength and

activity. They struggled for some time with all the efforts which

disappointed rage could inspire on the one side, and a virtuous

indignation on the other. At length the fortune, or rather the force and

coolness of Sophron, prevailed over the blind impetuous fury of

Tigranes; he at once exerted his whole remaining strength, with such

success that he hurled his adversary to the ground, where he lay,

bleeding, vanquished, and unable to rise. 'Thou scarcely,' said Sophron,

'deservest thy life from my hands, who couldst so wantonly and unjustly

attempt to deprive me of mine; however, I will rather remember thy early

merits than my recent injuries.' 'No,' replied the raging Tigranes,

'load me not with thy odious benefits; but rather rid me of a life which

I abhor, since thou hast robbed me of my honour.' 'I will never hurt

thee,' replied Sophron, 'but in my own just defence; live to make a

better use of life, and to have juster ideas of honour.' Saying this, he

assisted Tigranes to rise, but finding his temper full of implacable

resentment, he turned another way, and left him to go home alone.

"It was not long after this event that a company of soldiers marched

across the plains where Sophron was feeding his flocks, and halted to

refresh themselves under the shade of some spreading trees. The officer

who commanded them was struck with the comely figure and expressive

countenance of Sophron. He called the young man to him, and endeavoured

to inflame him with a military ardour, by setting before him the glory

which might be acquired by arms, and ridiculing the obscurity of a

country life. When he thought he had sufficiently excited his

admiration, he proposed to him that he should enrol himself in his

company; and promised him every encouragement which he thought most

likely to engage the passions of a young man. Sophron thanked him, with

humility, for his offers, but told him he had an aged father, who was

now become incapable of maintaining himself, and therefore that he could

accept of no offers, however advantageous they might appear, which would

interfere with the discharge of this duty. The officer replied, and

ridiculed the scruples of the young man; but, finding him inflexible in

his resolution, he at last turned from him with an air of contempt, and

called his men to follow him, muttering, as he went, reflections on the

stupidity and cowardice of Sophron.

"The party had not proceeded far, before, by ill fortune, they came to

the place where Sophron's favourite lamb was feeding; and as the animal

had not yet learned to dread the cruelty of the human species, it

advanced towards them with all the confidence of unsuspicious innocence.

'This is a lucky accident,' cried one of the soldiers, with a brutal

satisfaction; 'fortune was not willing we should go without a supper,

and has therefore sent us a present.' 'A happy exchange,' answered a

second; 'a fat sheep for a lubberly shepherd; and the coward will no

doubt think himself happy to sleep in a whole skin at so small an

expense.' Saying this, he took the lamb, and bore it away in triumph,

uttering a thousand threats and execrations against the master if he

should dare to reclaim it.

"Sophron was not so far removed to escape the sight of the indignity

that was offered him. He followed the troop, with so much swiftness that

it was not long before he overtook the soldier who was bearing away his

friend, and from his load marched rather behind the rest. When Sophron

approached him, he accosted him in the gentlest manner, and besought

him, in words that might have touched any one but a savage, to restore

his favourite; he even offered, when he found that nothing else would

avail, to purchase back his own property with something of greater

value; but the barbarous soldier, inured to scenes of misery, and little

accustomed to yield to human entreaties, only laughed at his complaints,

and loaded him with additional insults. At length he began to be tired

with his importunities, and drawing his sword, and waving it before the

eyes of Sophron, threatened, that if he did not depart immediately he

would use him as he intended to do the lamb. 'And do you think,'

answered Sophron, 'that while I have an arm to lift, or a drop of blood

in my veins, I will suffer you, or any man, to rob me of what I value

more than life?' The soldier, exasperated at such an insolent reply, as

he termed it, aimed a blow at Sophron with his sword, which he turned

aside with a stick he held in his hand, so that it glanced inoffensively

down; and before he could recover the use of his weapon, Sophron, who

was infinitely stronger, closed in with him, wrested it out of his

hands, and hurled him roughly to the ground. Some of the comrades of the

vanquished soldier came in an instant to his assistance, and without

inquiring into the merits of the cause, drew their swords, and began to

assail the undaunted young man; but he, brandishing the weapon which he

had just seized, appeared ready to defend himself, with so much strength

and courage that they did not choose to come too near.

"While they were thus engaged, the officer, who had turned back at the

first noise of the fray, approached, and ordering his men to desist,

inquired into the occasion of the contest. Sophron then recounted, with

so much modesty and respect, the indignities and insults he had

received, and the unprovoked attack of the soldier, which had obliged

him to defend his own life, that the officer, who had a real respect for

courage, was charmed with the behaviour of the young man. He therefore

reproved his men for their disorderly manners, praised the intrepidity

of Sophron, and ordered his lamb to be restored to him, with which he

joyfully departed.

"Sophron was scarcely out of sight, when Tigranes, who was then by

accident returning from the chase, met the same party upon their march.

Their military attire and glittering arms instantly struck his mind with

admiration. He stopped to gaze upon them as they passed; and the

officer, who remarked the martial air and well-proportioned limbs of

Tigranes, entered into conversation with him, and made him the same

proposals which he had before done to Sophron. Such incentives were

irresistible to a vain and ambitious mind; the young man in an instant

forgot his friends, his country, and his parents, and marched away with

all the pleasure that strong presumption and aspiring hopes could raise.

Nor was it long before he had an opportunity of signalizing his

intrepidity.

"Asia was at that time overrun by numerous bands of savage warriors,

under different and independent chiefs. That country, which has in every

age been celebrated for the mildness of the climate and the fertility of

the soil, seems to be destined to groan under all the horrors of eternal

servitude. Whether these effects are merely produced by fortune, or

whether the natural advantages it enjoys have a necessary tendency to

soften the minds of the inhabitants to sloth and effeminacy, it is

certain that the people of Asia have, in general, been the unresisting

prey of every invader. At this time several fierce and barbarous nations

had broken in upon its territory, and, after covering its fertile plains

with carnage and desolation, were contending with each other for the

superiority.

"Under the most enterprising of these rival chiefs was Tigranes now

enrolled; and in the very first engagement at which he was present, he

gave such uncommon proofs of valour, that he was distinguished by the

general with marks of particular regard, and became the admiration of

all his comrades. Under the banners of this adventurous warrior did

Tigranes toil with various fortunes during the space of many years;

sometimes victorious in the fight, sometimes baffled; at one time

crowned with conquest and glory, at another beset with dangers, covered

with wounds, and hunted like a wild beast through rocks and forests; yet

still the native courage of his temper sustained his spirits, and kept

him firm in the profession which he had chosen. At length, in a decisive

battle, in which the chieftain, under whom Tigranes had enlisted,

contended with the most powerful of his rivals, he had the honour of

retrieving the victory when his own party seemed totally routed; and,

after having penetrated the thickest squadrons of the enemy, to kill

their general with his own hand. From this moment he seemed to be in

possession of all that his ambition could desire. He was appointed

general of all the troops under the chief himself, whose repeated

victories had rendered him equal in power to the most celebrated

monarchs. Nor did his fortune stop even here; for, after a number of

successive battles, in which his party were generally victorious by his

experience and intrepidity, he was, on the unexpected death of the

chief, unanimously chosen by the whole nation to succeed him.

"In the mean time Sophron, free from envy, avarice, or ambition, pursued

the natural impulse of his character, and contented himself with a life

of virtuous obscurity; he passed his time in rural labours, in watching

his flocks, and in attending with all the duty of an affectionate child

upon his aged parents. Every morning he rose with the sun, and spreading

his innocent arms to heaven, thanked that Being who created all nature

for the continuance of life and health, and all the blessings he

enjoyed. His piety and virtue were rewarded with everything which a

temperate and rational mind can ask. All his rural labours succeeded in

the most ample manner; his flock was the fairest, the most healthy and

numerous of the district; he was loved and esteemed by the youth of the

neighbourhood, and equally respected by the aged, who pointed him out as

the example of every virtue to their families; but, what was more dear

than all the rest to such a mind as Sophron's, was to see himself the

joy, the comfort, and support of his parents, who frequently embraced

him with tears, and supplicated the Deity to reward such duty and

affection with all His choicest blessings.

"Nor was his humanity confined to his own species; the innocent

inhabitants of the forest were safe from the pursuit of Sophron; and all

that lived under his protection were sure to meet with distinguished

tenderness. 'It is enough,' said Sophron, 'that the innocent sheep

supplies me with his fleece to form my winter garments, and defend me

from the cold; I will not bereave him of his little life, nor stop his

harmless gambols on the green, to gratify a guilty sensuality. It is

surely enough that the stately heifer affords me copious streams of pure

and wholesome food; I will not arm my hand against her innocent

existence; I will not pollute myself with her blood, nor tear her warm

and panting flesh with a cruelty that we abhor even in savage beasts.

More wholesome, more adapted to human life, are the spontaneous fruits

which liberal nature produces for the sustenance of man, or which the

earth affords to recompense his labours.'"

Here the interest and concern which had been long visible in Tommy's

face, could no longer be repressed, and tears began to trickle down his

cheeks. "What is the matter, my darling?" said his mother: "what is

there in the account of this young man so deeply interests and affects

you?" "Alas! mamma," said Tommy, "it reminds of poor Harry Sandford;

just such another good young man will he be when he is as old as

Sophron; and I--and I," added he, sobbing, "am just such another

worthless, ungrateful wretch as Tigranes." "But Tigranes," said Mrs

Merton, "you see, became a great and powerful man; while Sophron

remained only a poor and ignorant shepherd." "What does that signify,

mamma?" said Tommy: "for my part, I begin to find that it is not always

the greatest people that are the best or happiest; and as to ignorance,

I cannot think that Sophron, who understood his duty so well to his

parents and to God, and to all the world, could be called ignorant; and

very likely he could read and write better than Tigranes, in spite of

all his pomp and grandeur; for I am sure there is not one of the young

gentlemen that went home to-day can read as well as Harry Sandford, or

has half his understanding." Mr Merton could hardly help smiling at

Tommy's conjecture about Sophron's reading; but he felt the greatest

pleasure at seeing such a change in his sentiments; and, looking at him

with more cordiality than he had done before, he told him that he was

very happy to find him so sensible of his faults, and hoped he would be

equally ready to amend them.

Miss Simmons then continued her narrative.

"If Sophron ever permitted himself to shed the blood of living

creatures, it was those ferocious animals that wage continual war with

every other species. Amid the mountains which he inhabited, there were

rugged cliffs and inaccessible caverns, which afforded retreat to

wolves, and bears, and tigers. Sometimes, amid the storms and snows of

winter, they felt themselves pinched by hunger, and fell with

irresistible fury upon the nearest flocks and herds. Not only sheep and

oxen were slaughtered in these dreadful and unexpected attacks, but even

the shepherds themselves were frequently the victims of their rage. If

there was time to assemble for their defence, the boldest of the youth

would frequently seize their arms and give battle to the invaders. In

this warfare, which was equally just and honourable, Sophron was always

foremost; his unequalled strength and courage made all the youth adopt

him as their leader, and march with confidence under his command; and so

successful were his expeditions, that he always returned loaded with the

skins of vanquished enemies; and by his vigilance and intrepidity he at

length either killed or drove away most of the beasts from which any

danger was to be feared.

"It happened one day that Sophron had been chasing a wolf which had made

some depredations upon the flocks, and, in the ardour of his pursuits,

was separated from all his companions. He was too well acquainted with

the roughest parts of the neighbouring mountains, and too indifferent to

danger, to be disturbed at this circumstance; he therefore followed his

flying foe with so much impetuosity that he completely lost every track

and mark with which he was acquainted. As it is difficult, in a wild

and uncultivated district, to find the path again when once it is lost,

Sophron only wandered the farther from his home the more he endeavoured

to return. He found himself bewildered and entangled in a dreary

wilderness, where he was every instant stopped by torrents that tumbled

from the neighbouring cliffs, or in danger of slipping down the

precipices of an immense height. He was alone in the midst of a gloomy

forest, where human industry had never penetrated, nor the woodman's axe

been heard since the moment of its creation; to add to his distress, the

setting sun disappeared in the west, and the shades of night gathered

gradually round, accompanied with the roar of savage beasts. Sophron

found himself beset with terrors, but his soul was incapable of fear; he

poised his javelin in his hand, and forced his way through every

opposition, till at length, with infinite difficulty, he disengaged

himself from the forest just as the last glimmer of light was yet

visible in the skies. But it was in vain that he had thus escaped; he

cast his eyes around, but could discern nothing but an immense tract of

country, rough with rocks, and overhung with forests, but destitute of

every mark of cultivation or inhabitants; he, however, pursued his way

along the side of the mountain till he descended into a pleasant valley,

free from trees, and watered by a winding stream. Here he was going to

repose for the remainder of the night, under the crag of an impending

rock, when a rising gleam of light darted suddenly into the skies from a

considerable distance, and attracted his curiosity. Sophron looked

towards the quarter whence it came, and plainly discerned that it was a

fire kindled either by some benighted traveller like himself, or by some

less innocent wanderers of the dark. He determined to approach the

light, but knowing the unsettled state of all the neighbouring

districts, he thought it prudent to advance with caution; he therefore

made a considerable circuit, and by clambering along the higher grounds

discovered a hanging wood, under whose thick covert he approached

without being discovered, within a little distance of the fire. He then

perceived that a party of soldiers were reposing round a flaming pile of

wood, and carousing at their ease; all about was strewn the plunder

which they had accumulated in their march, and in the midst was seated a

venerable old man, accompanied by a beautiful young woman.

"Sophron easily comprehended, by the dejection of their countenances,

and the tears which trickled down the maiden's cheeks, as well as by the

insolence with which they were treated, that they were prisoners. The

virtuous indignation of his temper was instantly excited, and he

determined to attempt their deliverance; but this, in spite of all his

intrepidity, he perceived was no easy matter to accomplish; he was

alone, and weakly armed; his enemies, though not numerous, too many for

him to flatter himself with any rational hope of success by open force;

and, should he make a fruitless effort, he might rashly throw his life

away, and only aggravate the distresses he sought to cure. With this

consideration he restrained his natural impetuosity, and at length

determined to attempt by stratagem what he thought could scarcely be

performed by force. He therefore silently withdrew, and skirted the

side of the wood which had concealed him, carefully remarking every

circumstance of the way, till he had ascended a mountain which

immediately fronted the camp of the soldiers, at no considerable

distance. He happened to have by his side a kind of battle-axe which

they use in the chase of bears; with this he applied himself to lopping

the branches of trees, collecting at the same time all the fallen ones

he could find, till, in a short time, he had reared several piles of

wood upon the most conspicuous part of the mountain, and full in view of

the soldiers. He then easily kindled a blaze by rubbing two decayed

branches together, and in an instant all the piles were blazing with so

many streams of light, that the neighbouring hills and forests were

illuminated with the gleam. Sophron knew the nature of man, always prone

to sudden impressions of fear and terror, more particularly amid the

obscurity of the night, and promised himself the amplest success from

his stratagem.

"In the meantime he hastened back with all the speed he could use, till

he reached the very wood where he had lurked before; he then raised his

voice, which was naturally loud and clear, and shouted several times

successively with all his exertion. A hundred echoes from the

neighbouring cliffs and caverns returned the sound, with a reverberation

that made it appear like the noise of a mighty squadron. The soldiers,

who had been alarmed by the sudden blaze of so many fires, which they

attributed to a numerous band of troops, were now impressed with such a

panic that they fled in confusion; they imagined themselves surrounded

by their enemies, who were bursting in on every side, and fled with so

much precipitation that they were dispersed in an instant, and left the

prisoners to themselves.

"Sophron, who saw from a little distance all their motions, did not wait

for them to be undeceived, but running to the spot they had abandoned,

explained in a few words to the trembling and amazed captives the nature

of his stratagem, and exhorted them to fly with all the swiftness they

were able to exert. Few entreaties were necessary to prevail upon them

to comply; they therefore arose and followed Sophron, who led them a

considerable way up into the mountains, and when he thought them out of

the immediate danger of pursuit, they sheltered themselves in a rocky

cavern, and determined there to wait for the light of the morning.

"When they were thus in a place of safety, the venerable old man seized

the hand of Sophron, and bedewing it with tears, gave way to the strong

emotions of gratitude which overwhelmed his mind. 'Generous youth,' said

he, 'I know not by what extraordinary fortune you have thus been able to

effect our deliverance, when we imagined ourselves out of the reach of

human succour; but if the uniform gratitude and affection of two human

beings, who perhaps are not entirely unworthy your regard, can be any

recompense for such a distinguished act of virtue, you may command our

lives, and employ them in your service.'

"'Father,' answered Sophron, 'you infinitely over-rate the merits of the

service which chance has enabled me to perform. I am but little

acquainted with my fellow-creatures, as having always inhabited these

mountains; but I cannot conceive that any other man, who had been

witness to your distress, would have refused to attempt your rescue; and

as to all the rest, the obscurity of the night, and peculiarity of the

situation, rendered it a work of little difficulty or danger.' Sophron

then recounted to his new friends the accident which had brought him to

that unfrequented spot, and made him an unperceived witness of their

captivity; he also explained the nature of the stratagem by which, alone

and unsupported, he had been enabled to disperse their enemies. He added

that, 'if he appeared to have any little merit in their eyes, he should

be amply recompensed by being admitted to their friendship and

confidence.'

"With these mutual professions of esteem they thought it prudent to

terminate a conversation, which, however agreeable, was not entirely

free from danger, as some of their late oppressors might happen to

distinguish their voices, and thus directed to their lurking place,

exact a severe revenge for the terrors they had undergone.

"With the first ray of morning the three companions arose, and Sophron,

leading them along the skirts of the mountains where bushes and

brushwood concealed them from observation, and still following the

windings of a river as a guide, they at length came to a cultivated

spot, though deserted by its inhabitants from the fear of the party they

had lately escaped. Here they made a slight and hasty repast upon some

coarse provisions which they found, and instantly struck again into the

woods, which they judged safer than the plain. But Sophron fortunately

recollected that he had formerly visited this village with his father,

while yet a child, and before the country had suffered the rage of

barbarous invasions. It was a long day's march from home, but, by

exerting all their strength, they at length arrived, through rough and

secret paths, at the hospitable cottage where Sophron and his parents

dwelt. Here they were joyfully received, as the long absence of the

young man had much alarmed his parents, and made all the hamlet anxious

concerning his safety. That night they comfortably reposed in a place of

safety, and the next morning, after a plentiful but coarse repast, the

father of Sophron again congratulated his guests upon their fortunate

escape, and entreated them to let him hear the history of their

misfortunes.

"'I can refuse nothing,' said the venerable stranger, 'to persons to

whom I am under such extraordinary obligations, although the history of

my life is short and simple, and contains little worthy to be recited.

My name is _Chares_; and I was born in one of the maritime cities of

Asia, of opulent parents, who died while I was yet a youth. The loss of

my parents, to whom I was most affectionately attached, made so strong

an impression upon my mind that I determined to seek relief in travel,

and for that purpose sold my paternal estate, the price of which I

converted into money and jewels, as being most portable. My father had

been a man distinguished for his knowledge and abilities, and from him I

imbibed an early desire of improvement, which has always been my

greatest comfort and support.

"'The first place, therefore, which I visited was Egypt, a country

renowned in every age for its invention of all the arts which

contribute to support or adorn human life. There I resided several

years, giving up my time to the study of philosophy, and to the

conversation of the many eminent men who resorted thither from all the

regions of the world. This country is one immense plain, divided by the

Nile, which is one of the noblest rivers in the world, and pours its

tide along the middle of its territory. Every year, at a particular

season, the stream begins gradually to swell with such an increase of

waters, that at length it rises over its banks, and the whole extent of

Egypt becomes an immense lake, where buildings, temples, and cities

appear as floating upon the inundation. Nor is this event a subject of

dread to the inhabitants; on the contrary, the overflowing of their

river is a day of public rejoicing to all the natives, which they

celebrate with songs and dances, and every symptom of extravagant joy.

Nor is this to be wondered at, when you are informed that this

inundation renders the soil which it covers the most abundant in the

world. Whatever land is covered by the waters, receives such an increase

of fertility, as never to disappoint the hopes of the industrious

husbandman. The instant the waters have retired the farmer returns to

his fields and begins the operation of agriculture. These labours are

not very difficult in a soft and yielding slime, such as the river

leaves behind it. The seeds are sown, and vegetate with inconceivable

rapidity, and, in a few weeks, an abundant harvest of every kind of

grain covers the land. For this reason all the necessaries of life are

easily procured by the innumerable multitudes which inhabit the country.

Nor is the climate less favourable than the soil; for here an eternal

spring and summer seem to have fixed their abode. No frost nor snow is

ever known to chill the atmosphere, which is always perfumed with the

smell of aromatic plants that grow on every side, and bring on a

pleasing forgetfulness of human care. But, alas! these blessings, great

as they may appear, produce the effect of curses upon the inhabitants.

The ease and plenty which they enjoy, enervate their manners, and

destroy all vigour both of body and mind. No one here is inflamed with

the sacred love of his country, or of public liberty; no one is inured

to arms, or taught to prefer his honour to his life;--the great business

of existence is an inglorious indolence, a lethargy of mind, and a

continual suspense from all exertion. The very children catch the

contagion from their parents; they are instructed in every effeminate

art--to dance in soft unmanly attitudes; to modulate their voices by

musical instruments, and to adjust the floating drapery of their dress.

These are the arts in which both sexes are instructed from their

infancy; but no one is taught to wield the arms of men, to tame the

noble steeds in which the country abounds, to observe his rank in war,

or to bear the indispensable hardships of a military life. Hence this

celebrated country, which has been in every age the admiration of

mankind, is destined to the most degrading servitude. A few thousand

disciplined troops are sufficient to hold the many millions it contains

in bondage, under which they groan, without ever conceiving the design

of vindicating their natural rights by arms.'----

"'Unhappy people,' exclaimed Sophron, 'how useless to them are all the

blessings of their climate! How much rather would I inhabit the stormy

top of Lebanon, amid eternal snows and barrenness, than wallow in the

vile sensuality of such a country, or breathe an air infected by its

vices!'

"Chares was charmed with the generous indignation of Sophron, and thus

continued: 'I was of the same opinion with yourself, and therefore

determined to leave a country which all its natural advantages could not

render agreeable, when I became acquainted with the manners of its

inhabitants. But before I quitted that part of the globe, my curiosity

led me to visit the neighbouring tribes of Arabia--a nation bordering

upon the Egyptians, but as different in spirits and manners as the hardy

shepherds of these mountains from the effeminate natives of the plains.

Egypt is bounded on one side by the sea; on every other it is surrounded

by immense plains or gentle eminences, which, being beyond the

fertilizing inundations of the Nile, have been, beyond all memory,

converted into waste and barren sands by the excessive heat of the sun.

I therefore made preparations for my journey, and hired a guide, who was

to furnish me with beasts of burden, and accompany me across those

dreary deserts. We accordingly began our march, mounted upon camels,

which are found much more useful than horses in such a burning

climate.'"----

"Indeed," said Tommy here to Mr Barlow, "I am sorry to interrupt the

story; but I shall be much obliged to you, sir, if you will inform me

what kind of an animal a camel is?"

"The camel," answered Mr Barlow, "is chiefly found in those burning

climates which you have heard described. His height is very great,

rising to fourteen or fifteen feet, reckoning to the top of his head;

his legs are long and slender, his body not large, and his neck of an

amazing length. This animal is found in no part of the world that we are

acquainted with, wild or free; but the whole race is enslaved by man,

and brought up to drudgery from the first moment of their existence. As

soon as he is born, they seize him, and force him to recline upon the

ground, with his legs doubled up under his belly. To keep him in this

attitude, they extend a piece of canvass over his body, and fix it to

the ground by laying heavy weights upon the edge. In this manner he is

tutored to obedience, and taught to kneel down at the orders of his

master, and receive the burthens which he is destined to transport. In

his temper he is gentle and tractable, and his patience in bearing

thirst and hunger is superior to that of any animal we are acquainted

with. He is driven across the burning desert, loaded with the

merchandise of those countries, and frequently does not even find water

to quench his thirst for several days. As to his food, it is nothing but

a few herbs, which are found in the least barren parts of the deserts,

and prickly bushes, upon which he browses as a delicacy; sometimes he

does not find even these for many days, yet pursues his journey with a

degree of patience which is hardly credible."

"'--We mounted our camels,' continued Chares, 'and soon had reached the

confines of the fertile plains of Egypt. The way, as we proceeded, grew

sensibly more dreary and disagreeable, yet was sometimes varied with

little tufts of trees and scanty patches of herbage; but these at

length entirely disappeared, and nothing was seen on every side but an

immense extent of barren sands, destitute of vegetation, and parched by

the continual heat of the sun. No sound was heard to interrupt the

dreary silence that reigned around; no traces of inhabitants

perceivable, and the gloomy uniformity of the prospect inspired the soul

with melancholy. In the meantime the sun seemed to shoot down

perpendicular rays upon our heads, without a cloud to mitigate his

violence. I felt a burning fever take possession of my body. My tongue

was scorched with intolerable heat, and it was in vain I endeavoured to

moisten my mouth with repeated draughts of water. At night we came to a

little rising ground, at the foot of which we perceived some aquatic

herbs and a small quantity of muddy water, of which our camels took

prodigious draughts; here we spread our tents and encamped for the

night. With the morning we pursued our journey; but had not proceeded

far before we saw a cloud of dust that seemed to rise along the desert;

and as we approached nearer, we easily distinguished the glitter of arms

that reflected the rising sun. This was a band of the Arabians that had

discovered us, and came to know our intentions. As they advanced they

spurred their horses, which are the most fleet and excellent in the

world, and bounded along the desert with the lightness of an antelope;

at the same time they brandished their lances, and seemed prepared alike

for war or peace; but when they saw that we had neither the intention

nor the power to commit hostilities, they stopped their coursers at the

distance of a few paces from us, and he that appeared the chief

advanced, and, with a firm but mild tone of voice, inquired into the

reason of our coming. It was then that I took the liberty of addressing

him in his own language, to which I had for some time applied myself

before my journey. I explained to him my curiosity, which led me to

observe in person the manners of a people who are celebrated over the

whole world for having preserved their native simplicity unaltered, and

their liberty unviolated, amidst the revolutions which agitate all the

neighbouring nations. I then offered him the loading of my camel, which

I had brought, not as being worthy his acceptance, but as a slight

testimony of my regard, and concluded with remarking, that the fidelity

of the Arabians in observing their engagements was unimpeached in a

single instance; and therefore, relying upon the integrity of my own

intentions, I had come a painful journey, unarmed, and almost alone, to

put myself into their power, and demand the sacred rights of

hospitality.

"'While I was thus speaking, he looked at me with penetration that

seemed to read into my very soul; and, when I had finished, he extended

his arm with a smile of benevolence, and welcomed me to their tribe,

telling me, at the same time, that they admitted me as their guest, and

received me with the arms of friendship; that their method of life, like

their manners, was coarse and simple, but that I might consider myself

as safer in their tents, and more removed from violence or treachery,

than in the crowded cities which I had left. The rest of the squadron

then approached, and all saluted me as a friend and brother. We then

struck off across the desert, and, after a few hours' march, approached

the encampment where they had left their wives and children.

"'This people is the most singular, and, in many respects, the most

admirable of all that inhabit this globe of earth. All other nations are

subject to revolutions and the various turns of fortune; sometimes they

wage successful wars; sometimes they improve in the arts of peace; now

they are great and reverenced by their neighbours; and now, insulted and

despised, they suffer all the miseries of servitude. The Arabians alone

have never been known to vary in the smallest circumstance, either of

their internal policy or external situation. They inhabit a climate

which would be intolerable to the rest of the human species for its

burning heat, and a soil which refuses to furnish any of the necessaries

of life. Hence they neither plough the earth, nor sow, nor depend upon

corn for their subsistence, nor are acquainted with any of the mechanic

arts; they live chiefly upon the milk of their herds and flocks, and

sometimes eat their flesh. These burning deserts are stretched out to an

immense extent on every side, and these they consider as their common

country, without having any fixed or permanent abode. Arid and barren as

are these wilds in general, there are various spots which are more

productive than the rest; here are found supplies of water, and some

appearances of vegetation; and here the Arabians encamp till they have

exhausted the spontaneous products of the soil. Besides, they vary their

place of residence with the different seasons of the year. When they are

in perfect friendship with their neighbours, they advance to the very

edges of the desert, and find more ample supplies of moisture and

herbage. If they are attacked or molested, the whole tribe is in motion

in an instant, and seeks a refuge in their impenetrable recesses. Other

nations are involved in various pursuits of war, or government, or

commerce; they have made a thousand inventions of luxury necessary to

their welfare, and the enjoyment of these they call _happiness_. The

Arab is ignorant of all these things, or, if he knows them, he despises

their possession. All his wants, his passions, his desires, terminate in

one object, and that object is the preservation of his liberty. For this

purpose he contents himself with a bare sufficiency of the coarsest and

simplest food; and the small quantity of clothing which he requires in

such a climate, is fabricated by the women of the tribe, who milk the

cattle and prepare the food of their husbands, and require no other

pleasures than the pleasing interest of domestic cares. They have a

breed of horses superior to any in the rest of the globe for gentleness,

patience, and unrivalled swiftness; this is a particular passion and

pride of the Arabian tribes. These horses are necessary to them in their

warlike expeditions, and in their courses along the deserts. If they are

attacked, they mount their steeds, who bear them with the rapidity of a

tempest to avenge their injuries; or, should they be overmatched in

fight, they soon transport them beyond the possibility of pursuit. For

this reason the proudest monarchs and greatest conquerors have in vain

attempted to subdue them. Troops accustomed to the plenty of a

cultivated country, are little able to pursue these winged warriors over

the whole extent of their sandy wastes. Oppressed with heat, fainting

for want of water, and spent with the various difficulties of the way,

the most numerous armies have been destroyed in such attempts; and those

that survived the obstacles of nature were easily overcome by the

repeated attacks of the valiant natives.

"'While I was in this country I was myself witness to an embassy that

was sent from the neighbouring prince, who imagined that the fame of his

exploits had struck the Arabians with terror, and disposed them to

submission. The ambassador was introduced to the chief of the tribe, a

venerable old man, undistinguished by any mark of ostentation from the

rest, who received him sitting cross-legged at the door of his tent. He

then began to speak, and, in a long and studied harangue, described the

power of his master, the invincible courage of his armies, the vast

profusion of arms, of warlike engines, and military stores, and

concluded with a demand that the Arabians should submit to acknowledge

him as their lord, and pay a yearly tribute.

"'At this proud speech the younger part of the tribe began to frown with

indignation, and clash their weapons in token of defiance; but the chief

himself, with a calm and manly composure, made this reply: 'I expected,

from the maturity of your age, and the gravity of your countenance, to

have heard a rational discourse, befitting you to propose and us to

hear. When you dwelt so long upon the power of your master, I also

imagined that he had sent to us to propose a league of friendship and

alliance, such as might become equals, and bind man more closely to his

fellows. In this case the Arabians, although they neither want the

assistance, nor fear the attacks of any king or nation, would gladly

have consented, because it has been always their favourite maxim,

neither to leave injuries unpunished, nor to be outdone in kindness and

hospitality. But since you have come thus far to deliver a message which

must needs be disagreeable to the ears of free-born men, who acknowledge

no superior upon earth, you may thus report the sentiments of the

Arabians to him that sent you. You may tell him that, as to the land

which we inhabit, it is neither the gift of him nor any of his

forefathers; we hold it from our ancestors, who received it in turn from

theirs, by the common laws of nature, which has adapted particular

countries and soils, not only to man, but to all the various animals

which she has produced. If, therefore, your king imagines that he has a

right to retain the country which he and his people now inhabit, by the

same tenure do the Arabians hold the sovereignty of these barren sands,

where the bones of our ancestors have been buried, even from the first

foundation of the world. But you have described to us, in pompous

language, the extraordinary power and riches of your king; according to

you, he not only commands numerous and well-appointed troops of warlike

men, furnished with every species of military stores, but he also

possesses immense heaps of gold, silver, and other precious commodities,

and his country affords him an inexhaustible supply of corn, and oil,

and wine, and all the other conveniences of life. If, therefore, these

representations be false, you must appear a vain and despicable babbler,

who, being induced by no sufficient reason, have come hither of your own

accord to amuse us--a plain and simple race of men--with specious tales

and fables; but, if your words be true, your king must be equally unjust

and foolish, who, already possessing all these advantages, doth still

insatiably grasp after more; and, enjoying so many good things with ease

and security to himself, will rather put them to all the hazard than

repress the vain desires of his own intolerable avarice. As to the

tribute which you have demanded, what you have already seen of the

Arabians and their country affords you a sufficient answer. You see that

we have neither cities, nor fields, nor rivers, nor wine, nor oil; gold

and silver are equally unknown among us; and the Arabians, abandoning

all these things to other men, have, at the same time, delivered

themselves from the necessity of being slaves, which is the general law

by which all mortals retain their possession. We have, therefore,

nothing which we can send as a tribute but the sand of these our

deserts, and the arrows and lances with which we have hitherto defended

them from all invaders. If these are treasures worthy of his acceptance,

he may lead his conquering troops to take possession of our country. But

he will find men who are not softened by luxury, or vanquished by their

own vices; men who prize their liberty at a dearer rate than all other

mortals do their riches or their lives, and to whom dishonour is more

formidable than wounds and death. If he can vanquish such men, it will,

however, become his prudence to reflect whether he can vanquish the

obstacles which nature herself has opposed to his ambition. If he should

attempt to pass our deserts, he will have to struggle with famine and

consuming thirst, from which no enemy has hitherto escaped, even when he

has failed to perish by the arrows of the Arabians.''----

"'Happy and generous people,' exclaimed Sophron, 'how well do they

deserve the liberty they enjoy! With such sentiments they need not fear

the attack of kings or conquerors. It is the vices of men, and not the

weakness of their nature, that basely enslave them to their equals; and

he that prizes liberty beyond a few contemptible pleasures of his senses

may be certain that no human force can ever bereave him of so great a

good.'

"'Such sentiments,' replied Chares, 'convince me that I have not made a

false estimate of the inhabitants of these mountainous districts. It is

for this reason that I have been so particular in the description of

Egypt and Arabia. I wished to know whether the general spirit of

indolence and pusillanimity had infected the hardy inhabitants of

Lebanon; but from the generous enthusiasm which animates your

countenance at the recital of noble actions, as well as from what I have

experienced you are capable of attempting, I trust that these solitary

scenes are uninfected with the vices that have deluged the rest of Asia,

and bent its inhabitants to the yoke'"----

Here the impatience of Tommy, which had been increasing a considerable

time, could no longer be restrained, and he could not help interrupting

the story, by addressing Mr Barlow thus: "Sir, will you give me leave to

ask you a question?"

_Mr Barlow._--As many as you choose.

_Tommy._--In all these stories which I have heard, it seems as if those

nations that have little or nothing are more good-natured, and better

and braver than those that have a great deal.

_Mr Barlow._--This is indeed sometimes the case.

_Tommy._--But, then, why should it not be the case here, as well as in

other places? Are all the poor in this country better than the rich?

"It should seem," answered Mr Barlow, smiling, "as if you were of that

opinion."

_Tommy._--Why so, sir?

_Mr Barlow._--Because, whatever you want to have done, I observe that

you always address yourself to the poor, and not to the rich.

_Tommy._--Yes, sir; but that is a different case. The poor are used to

do many things which the rich never do.

_Mr Barlow._--Are these things useful or not useful?

_Tommy._--Why, to be sure, many of them are extremely useful; for, since

I have acquired so much knowledge, I find they cultivate the ground, to

raise corn; and build houses; and hammer iron, which is so necessary to

make everything we use; besides feeding cattle, and dressing our

victuals, and washing our clothes, and, in short, doing everything which

is necessary to be done.

_Mr Barlow._--What! do the poor do all these things?

_Tommy._--Yes, indeed, or else they never would be done. For it would be

a very ungenteel thing to labour at a forge like a blacksmith, or hold

the plough like the farmer, or build a house like a bricklayer.

_Mr Barlow._--And did not you build a house in my garden some little

time ago?

_Tommy._--Yes, sir; but that was only for my amusement; it was not

intended for anybody to live in.

_Mr Barlow._--So you still think it is the first qualification of a

gentleman never to do anything useful; and he that does anything with

that design, ceases to be a gentleman?

Tommy looked a little ashamed at this; but he said it was not so much

his own opinion as that of the other young ladies and gentlemen with

whom he had conversed.

"But," replied Mr Barlow, "you asked just now which were the best--the

rich or the poor? But if the poor provide food and clothing, and houses,

and everything else, not only for themselves but for all the rich, while

the rich do nothing at all, it must appear that the poor are better than

the rich."

_Tommy._--Yes, sir; but then the poor do not act in that manner out of

kindness, but because they are obliged to it.

_Mr Barlow._--That, indeed, is a better argument than you sometimes use.

But tell me which set of people would you prefer; those that are always

doing useful things because they are obliged to it, or those who never

do anything useful at all?

_Tommy._--Indeed, sir, I hardly know what to say; but, when I asked the

question, I did not so much mean the doing useful things. But now I

think of it, the rich do a great deal of good by buying the things of

the poor, and giving them money in return.

_Mr Barlow._--What is money?

_Tommy._--Money, sir; money is----I believe, little pieces of silver and

gold, with a head upon them.

_Mr Barlow._--And what is the use of those little pieces of silver and

gold?

_Tommy._--Indeed, I do not know that they are of any use; but everybody

has agreed to take them; and therefore you may buy with them whatever

you want.

_Mr Barlow._--Then, according to your last account, the goodness of the

rich consists in taking from the poor houses, clothes, and food, and

giving them in return little bits of silver and gold, which are really

good for nothing.

_Tommy._--Yes, sir; but then the poor can take these pieces of money and

purchase everything which they want.

_Mr Barlow._--You mean, that if a poor man has money in his pocket, he

can always exchange it for clothes, or food, or any other necessary?

_Tommy._--Indeed, I do, sir.

_Mr Barlow._--But whom must he buy them of? for according to your

account, the rich never produce any of these things; therefore the poor,

if they want to purchase them, can only do so of each other.

_Tommy._--But, sir, I cannot think that is always the case; for I have

been along with my mamma to shops, where there were fine powdered

gentlemen and ladies that sold things to other people, and

livery-servants, and young ladies that played on the harpsichord, like

Miss Matilda.

_Mr Barlow._--But, my good little friend, do you imagine that these fine

powdered gentlemen and ladies made the things which they sold?

_Tommy._--That, sir, I cannot tell, but I should rather imagine not; for

all the fine people I have ever seen are too much afraid of spoiling

their clothes to work.

_Mr Barlow._--All that they do, then, is to employ poorer persons to

work for them, while they only sell what is produced by their labour. So

that still you see we reach no farther than this; the rich do nothing

and produce nothing, and the poor everything that is really useful. Were

there a whole nation of rich people, they would all be starved, like the

Spaniard in the story, because no one would condescend to produce

anything; and this would happen in spite of all their money, unless they

had neighbours who were poorer to supply them. But a nation that was

poor might be industrious, and gradually supply themselves with all they

wanted; and then it would be of little consequence whether they had

pieces of metal with heads upon them or not. But this conversation has

lasted long enough at present; and, as you are now going to bed, I

daresay Miss Simmons will be so good as to defer the remainder of her

story until to-morrow.

The next day Tommy rose before his father and mother; and, as his

imagination had been forcibly acted on by the description he had heard

of the Arabian horsemen, he desired his little horse might be saddled,

and that William, his father's man, would attend him upon a ride.

Unfortunately for Tommy, his vivacity was greater than his reason, and

his taste for imitation was continually leading him into some mischief

or misfortune. He had no sooner been introduced into the acquaintance of

genteel life, than he threw aside all his former habits, and longed to

distinguish himself as a most accomplished young gentleman. He was now,

in turn, sickened and disgusted with fashionable affectation; and his

mind, at leisure for fresh impressions, was ready to catch at the first

new object which occurred. The idea, therefore, which presented itself

to his mind, as soon as he opened his eyes, was that of being an Arabian

horseman. Nothing, he imagined, could equal the pleasure of guiding a

fiery steed over those immense and desolate wastes which he had heard

described. In the meantime, as the country where he wished to exhibit

was at too great a distance, he thought he might excite some applause

even upon the common before his father's house.

Full of this idea he rose, put on his boots, and summoned William to

attend him. William had been too much accustomed to humour all his

caprices to make any difficulty of obeying him; and as he had often

ridden out with his young master before, he did not foresee the least

possible inconvenience. But the maternal care of Mrs Merton had made it

an indispensable condition with her son, that he should never presume to

ride with spurs; and she had strictly enjoined all the servants never to

supply him with those dangerous accoutrements. Tommy had long murmured

in secret at this prohibition, which seemed to imply a distrust of his

abilities in horsemanship, which sensibly wounded his pride. But since

he had taken it into his head to emulate the Arabs themselves, and

perhaps excel them in their own art, he considered it as no longer

possible to endure the disgrace. But, as he was no stranger to the

strict injunction which had been given to all the servants, he did not

dare to make the experiment of soliciting their assistance.

While he was in this embarrassment a new and sudden expedient presented

itself to his fertile genius, which he instantly resolved to adopt.

Tommy went to his mamma's maid, and without difficulty, obtained from

her a couple of the largest-sized pins, which he thrust through the

leather of his boots, and, thus accoutred, he mounted his horse without

suspicion or observation.

Tommy had not ridden far before he began to give vent to his reigning

passion, and asked William if he had ever seen an Arabian on horseback.

The answer of William sufficiently proved his ignorance, which Tommy

kindly undertook to remove by giving him a detail of all the particulars

he had heard the preceding night; but, unfortunately, the eloquence of

Tommy precipitated him into a dangerous experiment; for, just as he was

describing their rapid flight across the deserts, the interest of his

subject so transported him that he closed his legs upon his little

horse, and pricked him in so sensible a manner, that the pony, who was

not deficient in spirit, resented the attack, and set off with him at a

prodigious rate.

William, when he saw his master thus burst forth, was at a loss whether

to consider it an accident or only an oratorical grace; but seeing the

horse hurrying along the roughest part of the common, while Tommy tugged

in vain to restrain his efforts, he thought it necessary to endeavour to

overtake him, and therefore pursued him with all the speed he could use.

But the pony, whose blood seemed to be only the more inflamed by the

violence of his own exertions, ran the faster when he heard the

trampling of another horse behind him.

In this manner did Tommy scamper over the common, while William pursued

in vain; for, just as the servant thought he had reached his master, his

horse would push forward with such rapidity as left his pursuer far

behind. Tommy kept his seat with infinite address; but he now began

seriously to repent of his own ungovernable ambition, and would, with

the greatest pleasure, have exchanged his own spirited steed for the

dullest ass in England.

The race had now endured a considerable time, and seemed to be no nearer

to a conclusion, when, on a sudden, the pony turned short, upon an

attempt of his master to stop him, and rushed precipitately into a large

bog or quagmire, which was full before him; here he made him a momentary

halt, and Tommy wisely embraced the opportunity of letting himself slide

off upon a soft and yielding bed of mire. The servant now came up to

Tommy and rescued him from his disagreeable situation, where, however,

he had received no other damage than that of daubing himself all over.

William had been at first very much frightened at the danger of his

master; but when he saw that he had so luckily escaped all hurt, he

could not help asking him, with a smile, whether this too was a stroke

of Arabian horsemanship? Tommy was a little provoked at this reflection

upon his horsemanship; but, as he had now lost something of his

irritability by repeated mortification, he wisely repressed his passion,

and desired William to catch his horse, while he returned homewards on

foot to warm himself. The servant, therefore, endeavoured to approach

the pony, who, as if contented with the triumph he had obtained over his

rider, was quietly feeding at a little distance; but the instant William

approached, he set off again at a violent rate, and seemed disposed to

lead him a second chase not inferior to the first.

In the meantime Tommy walked pensively along the common, reflecting on

the various accidents which had befallen him, and the repeated

disappointments he had found in all his attempts to distinguish himself.

While he was thus engaged, he overtook a poor and ragged figure, the

singularity of whose appearance engaged his attention. It was a man of

middle age, in a dress he had never seen before, with two poor children

that seemed with difficulty to keep up with him, while he carried a

third in his arms, whose pale emaciated looks sufficiently declared

disease and pain. The man had upon his head a coarse blue bonnet instead

of a hat; he was wrapped round by a tattered kind of garment, striped

with various colours, and at his side hung down a long and formidable

sword.

Tommy surveyed him with such an earnest observation, that at length the

man took notice of it, and, bowing to him with the greatest civility,

ventured to ask him if he had met with any accident, that he appeared in

a disorder which suited so little with his quality. Tommy was not a

little pleased with the discernment of the man, who could distinguish

his importance in spite of the dirtiness of his clothes, and therefore

mildly answered, "No, friend, there is not much the matter. I have a

little obstinate horse that ran away with me, and after trying in vain

to throw me down, he plunged into the middle of that great bog there,

and so I jumped off for fear of being swallowed up, otherwise I should

soon have made him submit, for I am used to such things, and don't mind

them in the least."

Here the child that the man was carrying began to cry bitterly, and the

father endeavoured to pacify him, but in vain. "Poor thing," said Tommy,

"he seems to be unwell; I am heartily sorry for him!" "Alas! master,"

answered the man, "he is not well, indeed; he has now a violent ague fit

upon him, and I have not had a morsel of bread to give him or any of the

rest since yesterday noon."

Tommy was naturally generous, and now his mind was unusually softened by

the remembrance of his own recent distresses; he therefore pulled a

shilling out of his pocket and gave it to the man, saying, "Here, my

honest friend, here is something to buy your child some food, and I

sincerely wish he may soon recover." "God bless your sweet face!" said

the man; "you are the best friend I have seen this many a day; but for

this kind assistance we might have been all lost." He then, with many

bows and thanks, struck across the common into a different path, and

Tommy went forward, feeling a greater pleasure at this little act of

humanity than he had long been acquainted with among all the fine

acquaintance he had lately contracted.

But he had walked a very little way with these reflections before he met

with a new adventure. A flock of sheep was running, with all the

precipitation which fear could inspire, from the pursuit of a large

dog; and just as Tommy approached, the dog had overtaken a lamb, and

seemed disposed to devour it. Tommy was naturally an enemy to all

cruelty, and therefore, running towards the dog with more alacrity than

prudence, he endeavoured to drive him from his prey; but the animal, who

probably despised the diminutive size of his adversary, after growling a

little while and showing his teeth, when he found that this was not

sufficient to deter him from intermeddling, entirely quitted the sheep,

and making a sudden spring, seized upon the skirt of Tommy's coat, which

he shook with every expression of rage. Tommy behaved with more

intrepidity than could have been expected, for he neither cried out nor

attempted to run, but made his utmost efforts to disengage himself from

his enemy. But, as the contest was so unequal, it is probable he would

have been severely bitten, had not the honest stranger, whom he had

relieved, come running up to his assistance, and seeing the danger of

his benefactor, laid the dog dead at his feet by a furious stroke of his

broadsword.

Tommy, thus delivered from impending danger, expressed his gratitude to

the stranger in the most affectionate manner, and desired him to

accompany him to his father's house, where he and his wearied children

should receive whatever refreshment they wished. He then turned his eyes

to the lamb, which had been the cause of the contest, and lay panting

upon the ground bleeding and wounded, but not to death, and remarked,

with astonishment, upon his fleece the well-known characters of H.S.,

accompanied with a cross. "As I live," said Tommy, "I believe this is

the very lamb which Harry used to be so fond of, and which would

sometimes follow him to Mr Barlow's. I am the luckiest fellow in the

world, to have come in time to deliver him, and now, perhaps, Harry may

forgive me all the ill-usage he has met with." Saying this, he took the

lamb up and kissed it with the greatest tenderness; nay, he would have

even borne it home in his arms had it not been rather too heavy for his

strength; but the honest stranger, with a grateful officiousness,

offered his services, and prevailed on Tommy to let him carry it, while

he delivered his child to the biggest of his brothers.

When Tommy had now arrived within a little distance of his home he met

his father and Mr Barlow, who had left the house to enjoy the morning

air, before breakfast. They were surprised to see him in such an

equipage, for the dirt, which had bespattered him from head to foot,

began to dry in various places, and gave him the appearance of a

farmer's clay-built wall in the act of hardening. But Tommy without

giving them time to make inquiries, ran affectionately up to Mr Barlow,

and taking him by the hand, said, "Oh, sir! here is the luckiest

accident in the world! poor Harry Sandford's favourite lamb would have

been killed by a great mischievous dog, if I had not happened to come by

and save his life!" "And who is this honest man," said Mr Merton, "whom

you have picked up on the common? He seems to be in distress, and his

famished children are scarcely able to drag themselves along."

"Poor man!" answered Tommy, "I am very much obliged to him; for, when I

went to save Harry's lamb, the dog attacked me, and would have hurt me

very much if he had not come to my assistance and killed him with his

great sword. So I have brought him with me that he might refresh himself

with his poor children, one of which has a terrible ague; for I knew,

papa, that though I had not behaved well of late, you would not be

against my doing an act of charity." "I am, on the contrary, very glad,"

said Mr Merton, "to see you have so much gratitude in your temper. But

what is the reason that I see you thus disfigured with dirt? Surely you

must have been riding, and your horse has thrown you? And so it is, for

here is William following with both the horses in a foam."

William at that moment appeared, and, trotting up to his master, began

to make excuses for his own share in the business. "Indeed, sir," said

he, "I did not think there was the least harm in going out with Master

Tommy, and we were riding along as quietly as possible, and master was

giving me a long account of the Arabs, who, he said, lived in the finest

country in the world, which does not produce anything to eat or drink,

or wear, and yet they never want to come upon the parish, but ride upon

the most mettled horses in the world, fit to start for any plate in

England. And just as he was giving me this account, Punch took it into

his head to run away, and while I was endeavouring to catch him, he

jumped into a quagmire, and shot Master Tommy off in the middle of it."

"No," said Tommy, "there you mistake; I believe I could manage a much

more spirited horse than Punch, but I thought it prudent to throw myself

off for fear of his plunging deeper into the mire." "But how is this?"

said Mr Merton, "the pony used to be the quietest of horses; what can

have given him this sudden impulse to run away? Surely, William, you

were not so imprudent as to trust your master with spurs?" "No, sir,"

answered William, "not I; and I can take my oath he had no spurs on when

he first set out."

Mr Merton was convinced there was some mystery in this transaction, and,

looking at his son to find it out, he at length discovered the ingenious

contrivance of Tommy to supply the place of spurs, and could hardly

preserve his gravity at the sight. He, however, mildly set before him

his imprudence, which might have been attended with the most fatal

consequences--the fracture of his limbs, or even the loss of his

life--and desired him for the future to be more cautious. They then

returned to the house, and Mr Merton ordered his servants to supply his

guests with plenty of the most nourishing food.

After breakfast they sent for the unhappy stranger into the parlour,

whose countenance now bespoke satisfaction and gratitude; and Mr Merton,

who, by his dress and accent, discovered him to be an inhabitant of

Scotland, desired to know by what accident he had thus wandered so far

from home with these poor helpless children, and had been reduced to so

much misery.

"Alas! your honour," answered the man, "I should ill deserve the favours

you have shown me if I attempted to conceal anything from such worthy

benefactors. My tale, however, is simple and uninteresting, and I fear

there can be nothing in the story of my distress the least deserving of

your attention."

"Surely," said Mr Merton, with the most benevolent courtesy, "there

must be something in the distress of every honest man which ought to

interest his fellow-creatures; and if you will acquaint us with all the

circumstances of your situation, it may perhaps be within our power, as

it certainly is in our inclinations, to do you further service."

The man then bowed to the company with an air of dignity which surprised

them all, and thus began: "I was born in that part of our island which

is called the North of Scotland. The country there, partly from the

barrenness of the soil, and the inclemency of the season, and partly

from other causes which I will not now enumerate, is unfavourable to the

existence of its inhabitants. More than half of the year our mountains

are covered with continual snows, which prohibit the use of agriculture,

or blast the expectations of a harvest; yet the race of men which

inhabit these dreary wilds are perhaps not more undeserving the smiles

of fortune than many of their happier neighbours. Accustomed to a life

of toil and hardship, their bodies are braced by the incessant

difficulties they have to encounter, and their minds remain untainted by

the example of their more luxurious neighbours; they are bred up from

infancy with a deference and respect for their parents, and with a

mutual spirit of endearment towards their equals, which I have not

remarked in happier climates. These circumstances expand and elevate the

mind, and attach the Highlanders to their native mountains with a warmth

of affection which is scarcely known in the midst of polished cities and

cultivated countries. Every man there is more or less acquainted with

the history of his clan, and the martial exploits which they have

performed. In the winter season we sit around the blazing light of our

fires, and commemorate the glorious actions of our ancestors; the

children catch the sound, and consider themselves as interested in

supporting the honour of a nation which is yet unsullied in the annals

of the world, and resolve to transmit it equally pure to their

posterity.

"With these impressions, which were the earliest I can remember, you

cannot wonder, gentlemen, that I should have early imbibed a spirit of

enterprise and a love of arms. My father was indeed poor, but he had

been himself a soldier, and therefore did not so strenuously oppose my

growing inclination; he, indeed, set before me the little chance I

should have of promotion, and the innumerable difficulties of my

intended profession. But what were difficulties to a youth brought up to

subsist upon a handful of oatmeal, to drink the waters of the stream,

and to sleep shrouded in my plaid, beneath the arch of an impending

rock! I see, gentlemen," continued the Highlander, "that you appear

surprised to hear a man, who has so little to recommend him, express

himself in rather loftier language than you are accustomed to among your

peasantry here. But you should remember that a certain degree of

education is more general in Scotland than where you live, and that,

wanting almost all the gifts of fortune, we cannot afford to suffer

those of nature to remain uncultivated. When, therefore, my father saw

that the determined bent of my temper was towards a military life, he

thought it vain to oppose my inclinations. He even, perhaps,

involuntarily cherished them, by explaining to me, during the long

leisure of our dreary winter, some books which treated of military

sciences and ancient history. From these I imbibed an early love of

truth and honour, which I hope has not abandoned me since, and by

teaching me what brave and virtuous men have suffered in every age and

country, they have, perhaps, prevented me from entirely sinking under my

misfortunes.