Читать книгу The History of Sandford and Merton - Thomas Fleming Day - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Description of Harry Sandford and Tommy Merton—Adventure with the Snake—Harry in Mr. Merton's house—Mr. Barlow undertakes the education of Tommy—The first day at Mr. Barlow's—Story of the Flies and the Ants—Harry rescues a Chicken from a Kite—Story of the Gentleman and the Basket-maker—Tommy learns to read—Story of the two dogs.

In the western part of England lived a gentleman of great fortune, whose name was Merton. He had a large estate in the Island of Jamaica, where he had passed the greater part of his life, and was master of many servants, who cultivated sugar and other valuable things for his advantage. He had only one son, of whom he was excessively fond; and to educate this child properly was the reason of his determining to stay some years in England. Tommy Merton, who, at the time he came from Jamaica, was only six years old, was naturally a very good-tempered boy, but unfortunately had been spoiled by too much indulgence. While he lived in Jamaica, he had several black servants to wait upon him, who were forbidden upon any account to contradict him. If he walked, there always went two negroes with him; one of whom carried a large umbrella to keep the sun from him, and the other was to carry him in his arms whenever he was tired. Besides this, he was always dressed in silk or laced clothes, and had a fine gilded carriage, which was borne upon men's shoulders, in which he made visits to his play-fellows. His mother was so excessively fond of him that she gave him everything he cried for, and would never let him learn to read because he complained that it made his head ache.

The consequence of this was, that, though Master Merton had everything he wanted, he became very fretful and unhappy. Sometimes he ate sweetmeats till he made himself sick, and then he suffered a great deal of pain, because he would not take bitter physic to make him well. Sometimes he cried for things that it was impossible to give him, and then, as he had never been used to be contradicted, it was many hours before he could be pacified. When any company came to dine at the house, he was always to be helped first, and to have the most delicate parts of the meat, otherwise he would make such a noise as disturbed the whole company. When his father and mother were sitting at the tea-table with their friends, instead of waiting till they were at leisure to attend him, he would scramble upon the table, seize the cake and bread and butter, and frequently overset the tea-cups. By these pranks he not only made himself disagreeable to everybody else, but often met with very dangerous accidents. Frequently did he cut himself with knives, at other times throw heavy things upon his head, and once he narrowly escaped being scalded to death by a kettle of boiling water. He was also so delicately brought up, that he was perpetually ill; the least wind or rain gave him a cold, and the least sun was sure to throw him into a fever. Instead of playing about, and jumping, and running like other children, he was taught to sit still for fear of spoiling his clothes, and to stay in the house for fear of injuring his complexion. By this kind of education, when Master Merton came over to England he could neither write nor read, nor cipher; he could use none of his limbs with ease, nor bear any degree of fatigue; but he was very proud, fretful, and impatient.

Very near to Mr. Merton's seat lived a plain, honest farmer, whose name was Sandford. This man had, like Mr. Merton, an only son, not much older than Master Merton, whose name was Harry. Harry, as he had been always accustomed to run about in the fields, to follow the labourers while they were ploughing, and to drive the sheep to their pasture, was active, strong, hardy, and fresh-coloured. He was neither so fair, nor so delicately shaped as Master Merton; but he had an honest good-natured countenance, which made everybody love him; was never out of humour, and took the greatest pleasure in obliging everybody. If little Harry saw a poor wretch who wanted victuals, while he was eating his dinner, he was sure to give him half, and sometimes the whole: nay, so very good-natured was he to everything, that he would never go into the fields to take the eggs of poor birds, or their young ones, nor practise any other kind of sport which gave pain to poor animals, who are as capable of feeling as we ourselves, though they have no words to express their sufferings. Once, indeed, Harry was caught twirling a cock-chafer round, which he had fastened by a crooked pin to a long piece of thread: but then this was through ignorance and want of thought; for, as soon as his father told him that the poor helpless insect felt as much, or more than he would do, were a knife thrust through his hand, he burst into tears, and took the poor animal home, where he fed him during a fortnight upon fresh leaves; and when he was perfectly recovered, turned him out to enjoy liberty and fresh air. Ever since that time, Harry was so careful and considerate, that he would step out of the way for fear of hurting a worm, and employed himself in doing kind offices to all the animals in the neighbourhood. He used to stroke the horses as they were at work, and fill his pockets with acorns for the pigs; if he walked in the fields, he was sure to gather green boughs for the sheep, who were so fond of him that they followed him wherever he went. In the winter time, when the ground was covered with frost and snow, and the poor little birds could get at no food, he would often go supperless to bed, that he might feed the robin-redbreasts; even toads, and frogs, and spiders, and such kinds of disagreeable animals, which most people destroy wherever they find them, were perfectly safe with Harry; he used to say, they had a right to live as well as we, and that it was cruel and unjust to kill creatures, only because we did not like them.

These sentiments made little Harry a great favourite with everybody, particularly with the clergyman of the parish, who became so fond of him that he taught him to read and write, and had him almost always with him. Indeed, it was not surprising that Mr. Barlow showed so particular an affection for him; for besides learning, with the greatest readiness, everything that was taught him, little Harry was the most honest, obliging creature in the world. He was never discontented, nor did he ever grumble, whatever he was desired to do. And then you might believe Harry in everything he said; for though he could have gained a plum-cake by telling an untruth, and was sure that speaking the truth would expose him to a severe whipping, he never hesitated in declaring it. Nor was he like many other children, who place their whole happiness in eating: for give him but a morsel of dry bread for his dinner, and he would be satisfied, though you placed sweetmeats and fruit, and every other nicety, in his way.

With this little boy did Master Merton become acquainted in the following manner:—As he and the maid were once walking in the fields on a fine summer's morning, diverting themselves with gathering different kinds of wild flowers, and running after butterflies, a large snake, on a sudden, started up from among some long grass, and coiled itself round little Tommy's leg. You may imagine the fright they were both in at this accident; the maid ran away shrieking for help, while the child, who was in an agony of terror, did not dare to stir from the place where he was standing. Harry, who happened to be walking near the place, came running up, and asked what was the matter. Tommy, who was sobbing most piteously, could not find words to tell him, but pointed to his leg, and made Harry sensible of what had happened. Harry, who, though young, was a boy of a most courageous spirit, told him not to be frightened; and instantly seizing the snake by the neck, with as much dexterity as resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg, and threw him to a great distance off.

"Harry, instantly seizing the snake by the neck, with as much dexterity as resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg and threw him to a great distance off."P. 6.

Just as this happened, Mrs. Merton and all the family, alarmed by the servant's cries, came running breathless to the place, as Tommy was recovering his spirits, and thanking his brave little deliverer. Her first emotions were to catch her darling up in her arms, and, after giving him a thousand kisses, to ask him whether he had received any hurt. "No," said Tommy, "indeed I have not, mamma; but I believe that nasty ugly beast would have bitten me, if that little boy had not come and pulled him off." "And who are you, my dear," said she, "to whom we are all so obliged?" "Harry Sandford, madam." "Well, my child, you are a dear, brave little creature, and you shall go home and dine with us." "No, thank you, madam; my father will want me." "And who is your father, my sweet boy?" "Farmer Sandford, madam, that lives at the bottom of the hill." "Well, my dear, you shall be my child henceforth; will you?" "If you please, madam, if I may have my own father and mother, too."

Mrs. Merton instantly despatched a servant to the farmer's; and, taking little Harry by the hand, she led him to the mansion-house, where she found Mr. Merton whom she entertained with a long account of Tommy's danger and Harry's bravery.

Harry was now in a new scene of life. He was carried through costly apartments, where everything that could please the eye, or contribute to convenience, was assembled. He saw large looking-glasses in gilded frames, carved tables and chairs, curtains made of the finest silk, and the very plates and knives and forks were of silver. At dinner he was placed close to Mrs. Merton, who took care to supply him with the choicest bits, and engaged him to eat, with the most endearing kindness; but, to the astonishment of everybody, he neither appeared pleased nor surprised at anything he saw. Mrs. Merton could not conceal her disappointment; for, as she had always been used to a great degree of finery herself, she had expected it should make the same impression upon everybody else. At last, seeing him eye a small silver cup with great attention, out of which he had been drinking, she asked him whether he should not like to have such a fine thing to drink out of; and added, that, though it was Tommy's cup, she was sure he would with great pleasure, give it to his little friend. "Yes, that I will," says Tommy; "for you know, mamma, I have a much finer one than that, made of gold, besides two large ones made of silver." "Thank you with all my heart," said little Harry; "but I will not rob you of it, for I have a much better one at home." "How!" said Mrs. Merton, "does your father eat and drink out of silver?" "I don't know, madam, what you call this; but we drink at home out of long things made of horn, just such as the cows wear upon their heads." "The child is a simpleton, I think," said Mrs. Merton: "and why is that better than silver ones?" "Because," said Harry, "they never make us uneasy." "Make you uneasy, my child!" said Mrs. Merton, "what do you mean?" "Why, madam, when the man threw that great thing down, which looks just like this, I saw that you were very sorry about it, and looked as if you had been just ready to drop. Now, ours at home are thrown about by all the family, and nobody minds it." "I protest," said Mrs. Merton to her husband, "I do not know what to say to this boy, he makes such strange observations."

The fact was, that during dinner, one of the servants had thrown down a large piece of plate, which, as it was very valuable, had made Mrs. Merton not only look very uneasy, but give the man a very severe scolding for his carelessness.

After dinner, Mrs. Merton filled a large glass of wine, and giving it to Harry, bade him drink it up, but he thanked her, and said he was not dry. "But, my dear," said she, "this is very sweet and pleasant, and as you are a good boy, you may drink it up." "Ay, but, madam, Mr. Barlow says that we must only eat when we are hungry, and drink when we are dry: and that we must only eat and drink such things are as easily met with; otherwise we shall grow peevish and vexed when we can't get them. And this was the way that the Apostles did, who were all very good men."

Mr. Merton laughed at this. "And pray," said he, "little man, do you know who the Apostles were?" "Oh! yes, to be sure I do." "And who were they?" "Why, sir, there was a time when people were grown so very wicked, that they did not care what they did; and the great folks were all proud, and minded nothing but eating and drinking and sleeping, and amusing themselves; and took no care of the poor, and would not give a morsel of bread to hinder a beggar from starving; and the poor were all lazy, and loved to be idle better than to work; and little boys were disobedient to their parents, and their parents took no care to teach them anything that was good; and all the world was very bad, very bad indeed. And then there came from Heaven the Son of God, whose name was Christ; and He went about doing good to everybody, and curing people of all sorts of diseases, and taught them what they ought to do; and He chose out twelve other very good men, and called them Apostles; and these Apostles went about the world doing as He did, and teaching people as He taught them. And they never minded what they did eat or drink, but lived upon dry bread and water; and when anybody offered them money, they would not take it, but told them to be good, and give it to the poor and sick: and so they made the world a great deal better. And therefore it is not fit to mind what we live upon, but we should take what we can get, and be contented; just as the beasts and birds do, who lodge in the open air, and live upon herbs, and drink nothing but water; and yet they are strong, and active, and healthy."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Merton, "this little man is a great philosopher; and we should be much obliged to Mr. Barlow if he would take our Tommy under his care; for he grows a great boy, and it is time that he should know something. What say you, Tommy, should you like to be a philosopher?" "Indeed, papa, I don't know what a philosopher is; but I should like to be a king, because he's finer and richer than anybody else, and has nothing to do, and everybody waits upon him, and is afraid of him." "Well said, my dear," replied Mrs. Merton; and rose and kissed him; "and a king you deserve to be with such a spirit; and here's a glass of wine for you for making such a pretty answer. And should you not like to be a king too, little Harry?" "Indeed, madam, I don't know what that is; but I hope I shall soon be big enough to go to plough, and get my own living; and then I shall want nobody to wait upon me."

"What a difference between the children of farmers and gentlemen!" whispered Mrs. Merton to her husband, looking rather contemptuously upon Harry. "I am not sure," said Mr. Merton, "that for this time the advantage is on the side of our son:—But should you not like to be rich, my dear?" said he, turning to Harry. "No, indeed, sir." "No, simpleton!" said Mrs. Merton: "and why not?" "Because the only rich man I ever saw, is Squire Chase, who lives hard by; and he rides among people's corn, and breaks down their hedges, and shoots their poultry, and kills their dogs, and lames their cattle, and abuses the poor; and they say he does all this because he's rich; but everybody hates him, though they dare not tell him so to his face—and I would not be hated for anything in the world." "But should you not like to have a fine laced coat, and a coach to carry you about, and servants to wait upon you?" "As to that, madam, one coat is as good as another, if it will but keep me warm; and I don't want to ride, because I can walk wherever I choose; and, as to servants, I should have nothing for them to do, if I had a hundred of them." Mrs. Merton continued to look at him with astonishment, but did not ask him any more questions.

In the evening, little Harry was sent home to his father, who asked him what he had seen at the great house, and how he liked being there. "Why," replied Harry, "they were all very kind to me, for which I'm much obliged to them: but I had rather have been at home, for I never was so troubled in all my life to get a dinner. There was one man to take away my plate, and another to give me drink, and another to stand behind my chair, just as if I had been lame or blind, and could not have waited upon myself; and then there was so much to do with putting this thing on, and taking another off, I thought it would never have been over; and, after dinner, I was obliged to sit two whole hours without ever stirring, while the lady was talking to me, not as Mr. Barlow does, but wanting me to love fine clothes, and to be a king, and to be rich, that I may be hated like Squire Chase."

But at the mansion-house, much of the conversation, in the meantime, was employed in examining the merits of little Harry. Mrs. Merton acknowledged his bravery and openness of temper; she was also struck with the very good-nature and benevolence of his character, but she contended that he had a certain grossness and indelicacy in his ideas, which distinguish the children of the lower and middling classes of people from those of persons of fashion. Mr. Merton, on the contrary, maintained, that he had never before seen a child whose sentiments and disposition would do so much honour even to the most elevated situations. Nothing, he affirmed, was more easily acquired than those external manners, and that superficial address, upon which too many of the higher classes pride themselves as their greatest, or even as their only accomplishment; "nay, so easily are they picked up," said he, "that we frequently see them descend with the cast clothes to maids and valets; between whom and their masters and mistresses there is little other difference than what results from the former wearing soiled clothes and healthier countenances. Indeed, the real seat of all superiority, even of manners, must be placed in the mind: dignified sentiments, superior courage, accompanied with genuine and universal courtesy, are always necessary to constitute the real gentleman; and where these are wanting, it is the greatest absurdity to think they can be supplied by affected tones of voice, particular grimaces, or extravagant and unnatural modes of dress; which, far from becoming the real test of gentility, have in general no other origin than the caprice of barbers, tailors, actors, opera-dancers, milliners, fiddlers, and French servants of both sexes. I cannot help, therefore, asserting," said he, very seriously, "that this little peasant has within his mind the seeds of true gentility and dignity of character; and though I shall also wish that our son may possess all the common accomplishments of his rank, nothing would give me more pleasure than a certainty that he would never in any respect fall below the son of farmer Sandford."

Whether Mrs. Merton fully acceded to these observations of her husband, I cannot decide; but, without waiting to hear her particular sentiments, he thus went on:—"Should I appear more warm than usual upon this subject, you must pardon me, my dear, and attribute it to the interest I feel in the welfare of our little Tommy. I am too sensible that our mutual fondness has hitherto treated him with rather too much indulgence. While we have been over-solicitous to remove from him every painful and disagreeable impression, we have made him too delicate and fretful; our desire of constantly consulting his inclinations has made us gratify even his caprices and humours; and, while we have been too studious to preserve him from restraint and opposition, we have in reality been ourselves the cause that he has not acquired even the common attainments of his age and situation. All this I have long observed in silence, but have hitherto concealed, both from my fondness for our child, and my fear of offending you; but at length a consideration of his real interests has prevailed over every other motive, and has compelled me to embrace a resolution, which I hope will not be disagreeable to you—that of sending him directly to Mr. Barlow, provided he would take the care of him; and I think this accidental acquaintance with young Sandford may prove the luckiest thing in the world, as he is so nearly the age and size of our Tommy. I shall therefore propose to the farmer, that I will for some years pay for the board and education of his little boy, that he may be a constant companion to our son."

As Mr. Merton said this with a certain degree of firmness, and the proposal was in itself so reasonable and necessary, Mrs. Merton did not make any objection to it, but consented, although very reluctantly, to part with her son. Mr. Barlow was accordingly invited to dinner the next Sunday, and Mr. Merton took an opportunity of introducing the subject, and making the proposal to him; assuring him at the same time, that, though there was no return within the bounds of his fortune which he would not willingly make, yet the education and improvement of his son were objects of so much importance to him, that he should always consider himself the obliged party.

To this, Mr. Barlow, after thanking Mr. Merton for the confidence and liberality with which he treated him, answered him in the following manner:—"I should be little worthy of the distinguished regard with which you treat me, did I not with the greatest sincerity assure you, that I feel myself totally unqualified for the task. I am, sir, a minister of the Gospel, and I would not exchange that character, and the severe duties it enjoins, for any other situation in life. But you must be sensible that the retired manner of life which I have led for these twenty years, in consequence of my profession, at a distance from the gaities of the capital, and the refinements of polite life, is little adapted to form such a tutor as the manners and opinions of the world require for your son. Gentlemen in your situation of life are accustomed to divide the world into two general classes; those who are persons of fashion, and those who are not. The first class contains everything that is valuable in life; and therefore their manners, their prejudices, their very vices, must be inculcated upon the minds of children, from the earliest period of infancy; the second comprehends the great body of mankind, who, under the general name of the vulgar, are represented as being only objects of contempt and disgust, and scarcely worthy to be put on a footing with the very beasts that contribute to the pleasure and convenience of their superiors."

Mr. Merton could not help interrupting Mr. Barlow here, to assure him that, though there was too much truth in the observation, yet he must not think that either he or Mrs. Merton carried things to that extravagant length; and that, although they wished their son to have the manners of a man of fashion, they thought his morals and religion of infinitely more consequence.

"If you think so, sir," said Mr. Barlow, "it is more than a noble lord did, whose written opinions are now considered as the oracles of polite life, and more than, I believe, most of his admirers do at this time. But if you allow what I have just mentioned to be the common distinctions of genteel people, you must at one glance perceive how little I must be qualified to educate a young gentleman intended to move in that sphere; I, whose temper, reason, and religion, equally combine to make me reject the principles upon which those distinctions are founded. The Christian religion, though not exclusively, is, emphatically speaking, the religion of the poor. Its first ministers were taken from the lower orders of mankind, and to the lower orders of mankind was it first proposed; and in this, instead of feeling myself mortified or ashamed, I am the more inclined to adore the wisdom and benevolence of that Power by whose command it was first promulgated. Those who engross the riches and advantages of this world are too much employed with their pleasures and ambition to be much interested about any system, either of religion or of morals; they too frequently feel a species of habitual intoxication, which excludes every serious thought, and makes them view with indifference everything but the present moment. Those, on the contrary, to whom all the hardships and miseries of this world are allotted as their natural portion—those who eat the bread of bitterness, and drink the waters of affliction, have more interest in futurity, and are therefore more prepared to receive the promises of the Gospel. Yes, sir; mark the disingenuousness of many of our modern philosophers; they quarrel with the Christian religion, because it has not yet penetrated the deserts of Africa, or arrested the wandering hordes of Tartary; yet they ridicule it for the meanness of its origin, and because it is the Gospel of the poor: that is to say, because it is expressly calculated to inform the judgments, and alleviate the miseries of that vast promiscuous body which constitutes the majestic species of man. But for whom would these philosophers have Heaven itself interested, if not for the mighty whole which it has created? Poverty, that is to say, a state of labour and frequent self-denial, is the natural state of man; it is the state of all in the happiest and most equal governments, the state of nearly all in every country; it is a state in which all the faculties, both of body and mind, are always found to develope themselves with the most advantage, and in which the moral feelings have generally the greatest influence. The accumulation of riches, on the contrary, can never increase, but by the increasing poverty and degradation of those whom Heaven has created equal; a thousand cottages are thrown down to afford space for a single palace. How benevolently, therefore, has Heaven acted, in thus extending its blessings to all who do not disqualify themselves for the reception by voluntary hardness of heart! how wisely in thus opposing a continual boundary to human pride and sensuality; two passions the most fatal in their effects, and the most apt to desolate the world. And shall a minister of that Gospel, conscious of these great truths, and professing to govern himself by their influence, dare to preach a different doctrine, and flatter those excesses, which he must know are equally contrary both to reason and religion? Shall he become the abject sycophant of human greatness, and assist it in trampling all relations of humanity beneath his feet, instead of setting before it the severe duties of its station, and the account which will one day be expected of all the opportunities of doing good, so idly, so irretrievably lost and squandered? But I beg pardon, sir, for that warmth which has transported me so far, and made me engross so much of the conversation. But it will at least have this good effect, that it will demonstrate the truth of what I have been saying; and show that, though I might undertake the education of a farmer or a mechanic, I shall never succeed in that of a modern gentleman."

"Sir," replied Mr. Merton, "there is nothing which I now hear from you, which does not increase my esteem of your character, and my desire to engage your assistance. Permit me only to ask whether, in the present state of things, a difference of conditions and an inequality of fortune are not necessary, and, if necessary, I should infer, not contrary to the spirit of Christianity?"

"So it is declared, sir, that offences must come; but that does not prevent a severe denunciation against the offenders. But, if you wish to know, whether I am one of those enthusiasts, who are continually preaching up an ideal state of perfection, totally inconsistent with human affairs, I will endeavour to give you every satisfaction upon the subject. If you mean by difference of conditions and inequality of fortunes, that the present state of human affairs in every society we are acquainted with, does not admit that perfect equality which the purer interpretations of the Gospel inculcate, I certainly shall not disagree with you in opinion. He that formed the human heart certainly must be acquainted with all the passions to which it would be subject; and if, under the immediate dispensation of Christ himself, it was found impossible for a rich man to give his possessions to the poor, that degree of purity will hardly be expected now, which was not found in the origin. But here, sir, permit me to remark, how widely the principles of genuine Christianity differ from that imaginary scheme of ideal perfection, equally inconsistent with human affairs and human characters, which many of its pretended friends would persuade us to believe in; and, as comparisons sometimes throw a new and sudden light upon a subject, give me leave to use one here, which I think bears the closest analogy to what we are now considering. Were some physician to arise, who, to a perfect knowledge of all preceding medical facts, had added by a more than human skill a knowledge of the most secret principles of the human frame, could he calculate, with an accuracy that never was deceived, the effect of every cause that could act upon our constitutions; and, were he inclined, as the result of all his science and observation, to leave a rule of life that might remain unimpeached to the latest posterity, I ask, what kind of one would he form?"

"I suppose one," said Mr. Merton, "that was the most adapted to the general circumstances of the human species, and, which observed, would confer the greatest degree of health and vigour."

"Right," said Mr. Barlow; "I ask again, whether, observing the common luxury and intemperance of the rich, he would take his directions from the usages of a polite table, and recommend that heterogeneous assemblage of contrary mixtures, high seasonings, poignant sauces, fermented and distilled poisons, which is continually breeding diseases in their veins, as the best means of preserving or regaining health?"

"Certainly not. That were to debase his heart, and sanction abuses, instead of reforming them."

"Would he not, then, recommend simplicity of diet, light repasts, early slumbers, and moderate exercise in the open air, if he judged them salutary to human nature, even though fashionable prejudice had stamped all these particulars with the mark of extreme vulgarity?"

"Were he to act otherwise, he must forfeit all pretensions either to honesty or skill."

"Let us then apply all this to the mind, instead of the body, and suppose for an instant, that some legislator, either human or divine, who comprehended all the secret springs that govern the mind, was preparing a universal code for all mankind; must he not imitate the physician, and deliver general truths, however unpalatable, however repugnant to particular prejudices, since upon the observance of these truths alone the happiness of the species must depend?"

"I think so, indeed."

"Should such a person observe, that an immoderate desire and accumulation of riches, a love of ostentatious trifles, unnecessary splendour in all that relates to human life, and an habitual indulgence of sensuality, tended not only to produce evil in all around, but even in the individual himself, who suffered the tyranny of these vices; how would you have the legislator act? Should he be silent?"

"No, certainly; he should arraign these pernicious habitudes by every means within his power—by precept, by example."

"Should he also observe, that riches employed in another manner, in removing the real miseries of humanity, in cherishing, comforting, and supporting all around, produced a contrary effect, and tended equally to make the obliged and the obliger happy; should he conceal this great eternal truth, or should he divulge it with all the authority he possessed, conscious, that in whatever degree it became the rule of human life, in the same degree would it tend to the advantage of all the world?"

"There cannot be a doubt upon the subject."

"But, should he know, either by the spirit of prophecy, or by intuitive penetration, that the majority of mankind would never observe these rules to any great degree, but would be blindly precipitated by their passions into every excess against which he so benevolently cautioned them; should this be a reason for his withdrawing his precepts and admonitions, or for seeming to approve what was in its own nature most pernicious?

"As prudent would it be to pull off the bridle when we mounted an impetuous horse, because we doubted of our power to hold him in; or to increase his madness by the spur, when it was clearly too great before. Thus, sir, you will perceive, that the precepts of the Christian religion are founded upon the most perfect knowledge of the human heart, as they furnish a continual barrier against the most destructive passions, and the most subversive of human happiness. Your own concessions sufficiently prove, that it would have been equally derogatory to truth, and the common interests of the species, to have made the slightest concessions in favour either of human pride or sensuality. Your extensive acquaintance with mankind will sufficiently convince you, how prone the generality are to give an unbounded loose to these two passions; neither the continual experience of their own weakness, nor of the fatal effects which are produced by vicious indulgences, has yet been capable of teaching them either humility or moderation. What then could the wisest legislator do, more useful, more benevolent, more necessary, than to establish general rules of conduct, which have a continual tendency to restore moral and natural order, and to diminish the wide inequality produced by pride and avarice? Nor is there any greater danger that these precepts should be too rigidly observed, than that the bulk of mankind should injure themselves by too abstemious a temperance. All that can be expected from human weakness, even after working from the most perfect model, is barely to arrive at mediocrity; and, were the model less perfect, or the duties less severe, there is the greatest reason to think, that even that mediocrity would never be attained. Examine the conduct of those who are placed at a distance from all labour and fatigue, and you will find the most trifling exertions act upon their imaginations with the same force as the most insuperable difficulties.

"If I have now succeeded in laying down the genuine principles of Christian morality, I apprehend it will not be difficult to deduce the duty of one who takes upon him the office of its minister and interpreter. He can no more have a right to alter the slightest of its principles than the magistrate can be justified in giving false interpretations to the laws. The more the corruptions of the world increase, the greater the obligation that he should oppose himself to their course; and he can no more relax in his opposition than the pilot can abandon the helm, because the winds and the waves begin to augment their fury. Should he be despised, or neglected by all the rest of the human species, let him still persist in bearing testimony to the truth, both in his precepts and example; the cause of virtue is not desperate while it retains a single friend; should it even sink for ever, it is enough for him to have discharged his duty. But, although he is thus restricted as to what he shall teach, I do not assert that it is improper for him to use his understanding and experience as to the manner of his instruction. He is strictly bound never to teach anything contrary to the purest morality; but he is not bound always to teach that morality in its greatest extent. In that respect, he may use the wisdom of the serpent, though guided by the innocence of the dove. If, therefore, he sees the reign of prejudice and corruption, so firmly established, that men would be offended with the genuine simplicity of the Gospel, and the purity of its primeval doctrines, he may so far moderate their rigour as to prevent them from entirely disgusting weak and luxurious minds. If we cannot effect the greatest possible perfection, it is still a material point to preserve from the grossest vices. A physician that practises amongst the great may certainly be excused, though he should not be continually advising the exercise, the regimen of the poor; not that the doctrine is not true, but that there would not be the smallest probability of its ever being adopted. But, although he never assents to that luxurious method of life, which he is continually obliged to see, he may content himself with only inculcating those restrictions which even the luxurious may submit to, if they possess the smallest portion of understanding. Should he succeed thus far, there is no reason for his stopping in his career, or not enforcing a superior degree of temperance; but should it be difficult to persuade even so slight a restriction, he could hope for no success, were he to preach up a Spartan or a Roman diet. Thus the Christian minister may certainly use his own discretion in the mode of conveying his instructions; and it is permitted him to employ all his knowledge of the human heart in reclaiming men from their vices, and winning them over to the cause of virtue. By the severity of his own manners, he may sufficiently evince the motives of his conduct; nor can he, by any means, hope for more success than if he shows that he practises more than he preaches, and uses a greater degree of indulgence to the failings of others than he requires for his own."

"Nothing," said Mr. Merton, "can be more rational or moderate than these sentiments; why then do you persist in pleading your incapacity for an employment which you can so well discharge?"

"Because," said Mr. Barlow, "he that undertakes the education of a child, undertakes the most important duty in society, and is severally answerable for every voluntary omission. The same mode of reasoning, which I have just been using, is not applicable here. It is out of the power of any individual, however strenuous may be his endeavours, to prevent the mass of mankind from acquiring prejudices and corruptions; and, when he finds them in that state, he certainly may use all the wisdom he possesses for their reformation. But this rule will never justify him for an instant in giving false impressions where he is at liberty to instil truth, and in losing the only opportunity which he perhaps may ever possess, of teaching pure morality and religion. How will such a man, if he has the least feeling, bear to see his pupil become a slave, perhaps to the grossest vices; and to reflect with a great degree of probability that this catastrophe has been owing to his own inactivity and improper indulgence? May not all human characters frequently be traced back to impressions made at so early a period, that none but discerning eyes would ever suspect their existence? Yet nothing is more certain; what we are at twenty depends upon what we were at fifteen; what we are at fifteen upon what we were at ten; where shall we then place the beginning of the series? Besides, sir, the very prejudices and manners of society, which seem to be an excuse for the present negligence in the early education of children, act upon my mind with a contrary effect. Need we fear that, after every possible precaution has been taken, our pupil should not give a sufficient loose to his passions, or should be in danger of being too severely virtuous? How glorious would be such a distinction, how much to be wished for, and yet how little to be expected by any one who is moderately acquainted with the world! The instant he makes his entrance there, he will find a universal relaxation and indifference to everything that is serious; everything will conspire to represent pleasure and sensuality as the only business of human beings, and to throw a ridicule upon every pretence to principle or restraint. This will be the doctrine that he will learn at theatres, from his companions, from the polite circles into which he is introduced. The ladies, too, will have their share in the improvement of his character; they will criticise the colour of his clothes, his method of making a bow, and of entering a room. They will teach him that the great object of human life is to please the fair; and that the only method of doing it is to acquire the graces. Need we fear that, thus beset an every side, he should not attach a sufficient importance to trifles, or grow fashionably languid in the discharge of all his duties? Alas! sir, it seems to me that this will unavoidably happen in spite of all our endeavours. Let us, then, not lose the important moment of human life, when it is possible to flatter ourselves with some hopes of success in giving good impressions; they may succeed; they may either preserve a young man from gross immorality, or have a tendency to reform him when the first ardour of youth is past. If we neglect this awful moment, which can never return, with the view which, I must confess, I have of modern manners, it appears to me like launching a vessel in the midst of a storm, without a compass and without a pilot."

"Sir," said Mr. Merton, "I will make no other answer to what you have now been saying, than to tell you, it adds, if possible, to my esteem of your character; and that I will deliver my son into your hands, upon your own conditions. And as to the terms—"

"Pardon me," replied Mr. Barlow, "if I interrupt you here, and give you another specimen of the singularity of my opinions. I am contented to take your son for some months under my care, and to endeavour by every means within my power to improve him. But there is one circumstance which is indispensable, that you permit me to have the pleasure of serving you as a friend. If you approve of my ideas and conduct, I will keep him as long as you desire. In the mean time, as there are, I fear, some little circumstances which have grown up, by too much tenderness and indulgence, to be altered in his character, I think that I shall possess more of the necessary influence and authority, if I, for the present, appear to him and your whole family rather in the light of a friend than that of a schoolmaster."

However disagreeable this proposal was to the generosity of Mr. Merton, he was obliged to consent to it; and little Tommy was accordingly sent the next day to the vicarage, which was at the distance of about two miles from his father's house.

The day after Tommy came to Mr. Barlow's, as soon as breakfast was over, he took him and Harry into the garden; when he was there, he took a spade into his own hand, and giving Harry a hoe, they both began to work with great eagerness. "Everybody that eats," says Mr. Barlow, "ought to assist in procuring food; and therefore little Harry and I begin our daily work. This is my bed, and that other is his; we work upon it every day, and he that raises the most out of it will deserve to fare the best. Now, Tommy, if you choose to join us, I will mark you out a piece of ground, which you shall have to yourself, and all the produce shall be your own." "No, indeed," said Tommy, very sulkily, "I am a gentleman and don't choose to slave like a ploughboy." "Just as you please, Mr. Gentleman," said Mr. Barlow; "but Harry and I, who are not above being useful, will mind our work."

In about two hours, Mr. Barlow said it was time to leave off; and, taking Harry by the hand, he led him into a very pleasant summer-house, where they sat down; and Mr. Barlow, taking out a plate of very fine ripe cherries, divided them between Harry and himself.

Tommy, who had followed, and expected his share, when he saw them both eating without taking any notice of him, could no longer restrain his passion, but burst into a violent fit of sobbing and crying. "What is the matter?" said Mr. Barlow very coolly to him. Tommy looked upon him very sulkily, but returned no answer. "Oh! sir, if you don't choose to give me an answer, you may be silent; nobody is obliged to speak here." Tommy became still more disconcerted at this, and, being unable to conceal his anger, ran out of the summer-house, and wandered very disconsolately about the garden, equally surprised and vexed to find that he was now in a place where nobody felt any concern whether he was pleased or the contrary.

When all the cherries were eaten, little Harry said, "You promised to be so good as to hear me read when we had done working in the garden; and, if it is agreeable to you, I will now read the story of the 'Flies and the Ants.'" "With all my heart," said Mr. Barlow; "remember to read it slowly and distinctly, without hesitating or pronouncing the words wrong; and be sure to read it in such a manner as to show that you understand it."

Harry then took up the book, and read as follows:—