Chapter I: Part 1

_WILLIAM SEDLEY_;

OR, THE

EVIL DAY DEFERRED.

FRONTISPIECE.

_Dodd del._ _Ja^{s.} Roberts sculp._

_Published Oct. 1^{st}. 1783, by John Marshall & Cº. Aldermary Church
Yard, London._
]

_WILLIAM SEDLEY_;
OR, THE
EVIL DAY DEFERRED.

_LONDON_:

PRINTED AND SOLD BY JOHN MARSHALL
AND Cº Nº 4, ALDERMARY
CHURCH YARD, IN
BOW-LANE.

TO MASTER ——.

The pleasure which you take in reading, made me solicitous to write a few pages for your amusement, when you wish to unbend your mind from more serious studies. But the want of opportunity, and the frequent interruptions which I met with during the course of them, have rendered the whole less worthy your acceptance than I had hoped, when I first formed the design. My affection for you, incites me to wish your improvement in every branch of useful knowledge; and though this little work may be regarded as _trifling_, yet, the _moral_ which it contains, is worthy your most serious attention. Do not, therefore, be too proud to receive instruction from its contents, because you have commenced acquaintance with _Greek_ or _Latin_ authors. It is from a superficial knowledge either of men or books, that we derive a supercilious contempt of the one, or are critically nice in our judgment of the other. I would wish you, my dear boy, to form your taste on the most perfect models; but to profit by every thing which is praise-worthy in those authors who are less distinguished. Above all, you should remember, that to improve your _temper_, and to encrease in _virtue_ as well as _knowledge_, is the great end of all your studies; nothing which can promote this design, can be too low to merit your attention. That you may each day continue to advance in your progress towards every thing which is great, generous, and manly, till you become an ornament of society, a blessing to your friends, and the delight of your indulgent parents, is the most earnest wish of,

_Your affectionate Friend_,
THE AUTHOR.

_WILLIAM SEDLEY_;
OR, THE
EVIL DAY DEFERRED.

“It is a delightful morning!” said a gentleman to a boy of about twelve years old, as he walked up and down an avenue with high trees on each side, which led to a handsome house. A coach drove, at that moment, out of the court-yard. “What a fine day!” repeated the gentleman. “I think, _William_, the roads will be extremely pleasant.” _William_ made no answer. The tears trickled down his cheeks, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

A little chimney-sweeper had crept along till he came to the place; and tossing down his bag of soot at the foot of a tree, stood gazing at the cloaths of the young gentleman, and secretly wished he was but as happy. He beckoned to his companion, who sat at a little distance gnawing a stale crust, which he had received from the good-nature of a neighbouring farmer; and as he came forward, “Look, _Jack_,” said he, “what a fine coach that is, with those long tail nags: that boy is going to ride, I warrant; and yet he looks as sad as if he was one of us. I wonder what such fine folks can have to make them uneasy. If I was that boy, and had my belly-full, as he has, and such good cloaths to my back, and might ride in that same coach, I should be as happy as a king. _O how I wish I was that boy!_”

_William_ turned round at this speech, and smiling at the chimney-sweeper, asked him his name? The poor fellow, with a scrape of his foot, which he meant as a bow of respect, told him, that his name was _Tony Climbwell_; and that he lived at the next village. “Well then, _Tony_,” replied _William_, “I would advise you not to envy every one you see; for I would willingly change places with you to enjoy your liberty. I am going back to school, _Tony_, after a month’s holidays; and if you knew how unhappy I am when there, you would pity my situation; and not envy the joys of it.”

The gentleman before-mentioned, had gone into the house to enquire for his lady, who was to complete the party, and convey his son to school. It was in this interval, that the following conversation passed between the two boys and the young gentleman.

“Indeed, master,” replied _Tony_, “if we _could_ change places, you would find you had made but a sorry choice. Our liberty, as you call it, is not to do as we like. To be sure, I am a very poor boy, and have had no learning; for I can neither read nor spell; but if I take it right, _liberty_ means something such as to be your own master, don’t it? at least, I know when _Simon Pennyless_ was sent to goal, people said, “That the next week he would be set at liberty;” and that was, that he was to be let out again. Now _we_ go about every morning sweeping chimnies”——“And walk,” said _William_, interrupting him, “where you please all the rest of the day. At our school we have scarce any time for play, and are confined from six till eight, from nine till twelve, and from two till five o’clock, without any amusement whatever. Don’t tell me, therefore, _Tony_, that our life is not much more uncomfortable than your’s. Besides which, we have long tasks to learn after school-hours are over; and are thrashed, and scolded, if we cannot say them perfect; and then to think it will be _six_ months before I see my father and mother!”——_William_ wept again; the thought was too pathetic for his feelings; and he drew his fore-finger across his left eye, and then stroaked it the contrary way, to wipe off the drops which stood trembling in his right.—“But I have no father or mother,” replied _Tony_, “nor a single soul in the world to care what becomes of me, except my mistress, who is the best woman that ever lived; and would give me some victuals if she could; but she dares not for her own sake; for her husband is so cruel, that he would beat her if she did. He makes us work hard; and starves us into the bargain. This poor fellow,” added he, pointing to his companion, “whom we call _Little Shock_, from his curling locks, is but six years old; and has been bound apprentice this twelvemonth; and I was no older myself when I first went to my master, which is near seven years ago; and I love the boy dearly, that I do, as much as if he was my own brother; and frequently do I get the broom thrown at my head, because I do not beat him when he cries at going up a narrow chimney, or does not sweep it as he should do.” “But is not your master _obliged_ to give you food enough?” said _William_. “Why don’t you complain to somebody? I would, if I was in your place.” “Ah! Sir,” replied the sooty-faced boy, “you talk like a gentleman, and know nothing of the matter. Whom would you have us complain to? And do not you think our master would use us much worse if we did? You wished just now to change places with us; but if you did, you would soon alter your mind.”

As he pronounced these last words, the carriage which had been waiting, drove to a little distance, to make way for another coach, which then arrived. It contained a very venerable looking old gentleman, whom _William_ called his grandfather, and immediately left the chimney-sweepers to welcome; and with great expressions of joy, accompanied him into the house. They were met in the hall by the gentleman and lady before-mentioned, whom I shall call by the name of _Sedley_. After the usual compliments were over, and they had informed their father, Mr. _Graves_, of their intention to take _William_ to school, he begged a reprieve for him for a few days, as he much wished to enjoy the pleasure of his company. A compliance with this request dissipated the sadness of _William_’s countenance; and he jumped about with a degree of vivacity that seemed to afford pleasure to all his friends.

Mr. _Graves_ was one of those old men, whose features are always impressed with such marks of good-nature as are pleasing to the volatile spirits of youth. Though he was turned of eighty, he would sometimes partake in the diversions of his grandson; and while his instructions commanded respect, his mildness and affability excited the warmest affection. When he had taken his afternoon’s nap in an easy chair, which was placed in one corner of the room for that purpose, he got up, and after shaking his cloaths, stroaking down his ruffles, and adjusting his wig, asked _William_ if he was disposed for a walk.

They sallied out together, the invitation being willingly accepted. The good man taking his stick in one hand, and resting the other on the shoulder of his young companion, enquired whether he had had any conversation with the black boys, with whom, at his arrival, he had found him engaged. _William_ repeated the substance of what had passed; and concluded with saying, “He believed he _was_ happier than honest _Tony_, though it must almost counterbalance all his sufferings to be exempted from the constant uneasiness of learning a task.” “I am sorry,” replied Mr. _Graves_, “that you have formed such a wrong estimate of your situation in life; and I should have expected, that the striking incident of this morning, would have taught you to be contented and thankful with the real happiness of your lot. Though I am a very old man, _William_, I have not forgotten what were my own troubles at your time of life. Study I often found to be irksome, and confinement the heaviest of all evils; and therefore, I shall not preach to you, that you will never in future be so happy as you now are; because, if you feel yourself to be otherwise, you will pay little attention to such an assurance: but thus much I will say, and hope you will credit my experience, that all the uneasiness you complain of, may be _mitigated_, if not entirely overcome, by your own diligence and resolution. It is by idleness and neglect, that your difficulties are encreased. The more disagreeable you find your studies, the more you are disposed to postpone the necessary attention which they require. But this, my dear boy, is a very wrong method. The _beginning_ of every attempt will always be irksome; but those who are too indolent to bestow a continued degree of care and assiduity, will never arrive at perfection. _My William_ cannot be destitute of emulation; if he sees others excel, he must wish to equal their attainments. It is the meanest of human minds, that will _envy_ another’s merit; but the noblest disposition will endeavour to improve by a good example. Every state has its troubles. When you leave school, the _same_ cares will not perplex you, but _others_ equally severe may arise, which now you are unacquainted with. Have you not oftentimes been taught, that every period of life has its particular duties; and the duty of your age and station is to attend to the instructions of your masters, and to learn what they desire you, when they require it with cheerfulness?” “Then surely, Sir,” replied _William_, “_Tony_ is in a happier state than I am, since he has no tasks to get by heart; and his _duty_ of sweeping a chimney is easily performed. I should like to sweep a chimney of all things.” “Perhaps you might,” returned his grandfather. “Any thing will give us pleasure when we do it for amusement; but should you like to have the broom thrown at your head when you had done? or should you enjoy going without your meals, and strolling about in all weathers to beg from strangers the miserable supply to your hunger? It is very wrong to wish for a change of situation with any one, since none can be acquainted with the secret uneasiness of his neighbour’s mind. _Tony_ had some reason indeed to wish for your station in life; but even _he_ would have been deceived; for had he made the exchange, and been possessed of your inclinations with your fortune, he would still have found himself disappointed; since you esteemed yourself at that moment as the most unhappy being, in the necessity of returning to school, and was prevented by the error of your desires from any enjoyment of your superior advantages. This is a useful lesson, my child, to teach you contentment; for, believe me, though trials and temptations of the poor, are in most cases stronger than you can any ways imagine, if _you_ are inclined, by a love of play, to leave your studies, and desert your duty, reflect how often _they_ may be tempted to steal from others those necessary comforts of which they stand in need; and how much they are exposed to the danger of becoming wicked from the example of others and their own ignorance! I should like to see your new chimney-sweeper acquaintance,” continued Mr. _Graves_, “and though I do not approve of your mixing with such companions, I think you should not have left him without relieving his wants: perhaps he might have been very hungry, and has not had a good dinner since, as you have, to satisfy his appetite.”

_William_ was backward and somewhat stupid at his learning, but he wanted not sense; and his tenderness and good-nature were uncommon.

“Poor fellow,” said he, “your arrival, and the joy of seeing you, made me forget him; but I will find out where he lives, and do all I can to make amends for my forgetfulness.—Dear Sir, will you go with me? it is not a long way; we are now in sight of the village.” “Though the distance is not very great,” replied Mr. _Graves_, “yet the winding path, which leads to it, is farther than I can reach without fatigue. I will therefore rest myself upon the stump of this tree, and shall be entertained in your absence with the prospect of the country: the view of which, from this eminence, is delightful.”

_William_ set off, with a degree of swiftness that promised a speedy return; but he had not proceeded far, when he was met by a _Jew_, who sold trinkets of various sorts; as buttons, watch-chains, pencils, and such like things. He offered his wares to _William_, who at first refused to purchase them; but the man telling him he might as well look at, if he did not buy them; he was tempted to ask the price of an ivory bilberkit, for which he paid a shilling. A small looking-glass, was a thing he had long wished for; and as that was the same expence, he debated for a considerable time before he could determine which of the two to make choice of. One moment he began, to play with the toy, and the next surveyed himself in the glass. Alternatively taking them up and laying them down, till the owner, who saw his eagerness for both, persuaded him to have them.

He was walking slowly on, with his purchase in his hand, when a butcher’s boy, and a lad who was driving some cows from the field to be milked, overtook him with a nest of blackbirds, in which were four young ones. _William_ asked what they would take for their prize? which they at first refused to sell; but afterwards said, he should have it for a shilling. He objected that it was too much; and taking out his money, found that he had only half a guinea, which had been given him to take to school, and which, therefore, he did not chuse to change, and nine-pence half-penny, for which the boys agreed at last he should have the blackbirds.

Once more then he proceeded in his journey to look for _Tony_. He soon found the house, and his black acquaintance with a young child, whom he was teaching to walk. They renewed their intimacy, and _William_ told him the design of his _visit_; but coloured with confusion when he recollected the situation of his money, which he had never thought of when he was making his bargains. He did not at all like to own the true state of the case, nor did he know what method to pursue. He wished to keep his gold for many reasons, and he had beside, neither silver nor copper. His _conscience_ urged him to give _Tony_ something; but he had pleased himself greatly with the thought of having a half-guinea in his pocket, which he could call his own. His sensibility represented the wants of the orphan boy but the pride of having a piece of _gold_ in his possession, overcame every consideration of pity. “If you will call to-morrow at our house, _Tony_,” said he, “you shall have some bread and meat.—Good bye, I cannot stay any longer!” And away he went, with the uneasy consciousness of having behaved wrong.

He was on his return to his grandfather, when _Jeffery Squander_ and his sister, who were taking a walk, met him as he was crossing by the end of a lane. They had stopped to buy some plum-cakes of a man with one leg, who made it his business to carry them about. _Jeffery_ and _William_ were neighbours and school-fellows, and immediately saluted each other; the former inciting the other to follow his example. He refused at first, because he had no money; but was very unwilling to make known his real reason. Upon being pressed still farther, he said, “he had nothing but gold about him, which he supposed _Jonathan_, the cake man, could not give him change for, otherwise he should be glad to eat some.” _Jonathan_ felt in a leathern bag, which was fastened before him, and divided in the middle to hold silver and halfpence, and said, “he had money enough for the purpose.” _William_ was sadly disappointed; but as he could urge no farther objection, gave up his dear half-guinea with regret, and eat three plum-cakes with a worse appetite than usual.

Mr. _Graves_, in the mean time, had walked onward in quest of his grandson, whose stay began to give him some uneasiness. He came up with him just as he was finishing his last mouthful, and gently blamed him for the length of his absence, at the same time inviting his companions to join him, and to return to Mr. _Sedley_’s. They politely declined his offer, as they were engaged to spend the evening with an uncle.

As soon as they had taken leave, Mr. _Graves_ enquired after the success of _William_’s visit. “You made me quite uneasy,” said he, “I hope you have done a _great deal_ of good. How much did you give honest _Tony_? or had you as much money as you wanted? I forgot to make that enquiry, you set off in such a hurry.”—_William_ blushed, hung down his head, slackened his pace, and slunk behind his grandfather in silent confusion.—Mr. _Graves_ turned round, and taking his hand, “What has happened, my boy,” said he, “to cover that open countenance with the suspicious appearance of guilt? Or do I injure you, my noble child, and is it only the blush of your modesty at the enquiry of your generosity?” “Indeed, Sir,” said _William_, “I feel the keenness of your reproof. But if my honesty in confessing can excuse my fault, you shall be acquainted with the whole truth. I went from you with a full design to relieve poor _Tony_; but I soon overtook a _Jew_ pedlar, and I was so weak as to spend my money in the purchase of this glass, and that bilberkit. Nine-pence I had still left; and nine-pence would have been something for the chimney-sweeper; but this bird’s nest which I have in my handkerchief, I am ashamed of myself, Sir, but I gave that to the boys for the birds.” “And was that all your money?” said Mr. _Graves_. “Did you not pay for the cakes you were eating?” “Yes, Sir,” replied _William_. “Then why had you nothing for the boy?” again enquired his grandfather. “Because,” returned _William_, blushing still more, “I did not like to change half a guinea: nor should I have done it, had not _Squander_ seemed to think it mean of me, and I was afraid he would laugh at my stinginess when we return to school: for he has always so much money, that he does not care how much he spends.” “The frankness of your acknowledgment,” replied Mr. _Graves_, “must entirely shield you from reproof; and you seem to be so sensible of your error, that I need not, perhaps, point it out with any further aggravations. I would not tire you with my advice, and yet I feel such an interest in your happiness, as makes me wish to observe the improvement which may arise from any incident that occurs. Young people are apt to pass over every action without reflection; and when a day is once concluded, they think no more of their behaviour during the course of it. Our lives, my dear _William_, are made up of _trifling_ accidents; but if we incur guilt by behaving improperly, the future misery of an uneasy conscience will be ill repaid by the enjoyment of any present pleasure. You should always, therefore, be upon your guard; since you see an occasion to draw you into error, may arise where you least expect it. To purchase the toys, or to buy the birds as the naughty boys had taken the nest was not wrong; though if you know where they got it, I should hope you would replace it. But when you had only that two shillings and nine-pence, I think, some part of it ought to have been saved for the purpose on which you set out. But then, _William_, a worse part of your conduct is still to come. You were convinced that it was _right_, that it was your _duty_, to do something for _Tony_; yet you left him without relief: while the fear of being _laughed_ at by so silly a fellow as _Jeffery Squander_, had more effect upon you than your pity for your fellow creature, a boy of your own age in want. This weakness, I am much afraid, will often lead you into danger. Wicked people will laugh at you for being better than themselves; but will by no means like to share in the miseries which your follies may incur.”

As he concluded these words, they arrived within sight of Mr. _Sedley_’s house, and were soon discovered by two children who were kneeling in the parlour window; but immediately upon seeing Mr. _Graves_, they jumped down, and came running to meet him. The eldest was a girl about a year older than _William_; and the other, little _Bob_, had the day before left off his petticoats, and honoured his birth-day with a suit of new boy’s cloaths.

Miss _Sedley_ and her little brother had both been to dine with a neighbouring gentleman, in consequence of their parents intention of conveying their son to school; which the reader has already heard Mr. _Graves_’s arrival had postponed. They both expressed their joy at the sight of their grandfather, who took _Bob_ in his arms to kiss him; while _Nancy_, with a smile of delight, pressed her brother’s hand, and assured him of the pleasure she felt that she should have his company a few days longer.

_Bob_ was so impatient, in the mean time, to shew his dress, that setting both his feet against his grandfather’s stomach, he very nearly pushed himself backwards. “Look, Sir,” said he, “Pray look at my buttons! I shall _soon_ be a man now. I was four years old yesterday; and see, I have got a pocket to my waistcoat; and this is my new handkerchief.” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “I will see them all presently, but let me set you down first; you had very near tumbled us both on the grass; and you are very heavy, I can tell you, in your new cloaths.” “I dare say I am,” returned _Bob_. “To be sure, Sir, I am too big to be lifted now I am in breeches; and besides, I have got money in my pocket; so it is no wonder I am heavy, for Mr. _Goodwill_ the clergyman gave me six-pence yesterday afternoon, because, he said, I was such a good boy, that he was sure I should take care and spend it properly.—And see what a nice one it is, Sir!” Mr. _Graves_ took it in his hand, and admiring it greatly, gave it to little _Bob_, who turned it about with much pride and pleasure as he walked along, till it unfortunately dropped down upon the grass, and was lost from his sight. “O stop! stop!” said he in a hurry, “my _six-pence_! my _own dear new six-pence_! what shall I do?” and immediately fell upon his hands and knees in search of his treasure. _William_ did the same, and _Nancy_ stooped forward to assist them; while their grandfather pushed about the grass with his stick, in hopes by that mean to discover it. Their endeavours, for a long time, were in vain, and _Bob_’s impatience became so great, that he burst into tears.

“Do not cry, my love,” said his sister, “I have got a six-pence which my papa gave me last _Thursday_ when I finished his shirts, and you shall have that.” “But it is bent and ugly,” replied he: “It is not a _new_ one: I do not like it: It is an ugly one.—O my pretty six-pence! what shall I do for it?” “Not be a naughty boy! I hope, _Robert_,” said Mr. _Graves_: “you told me just now, you were almost a man; but this behaviour, and these tears, look like a baby. I think _Nancy_ is very kind to you; and I am ashamed to see you make such a return to her good-nature. However there is your six-pence,” continued he, putting his stick close to it. _Bob_ jumped at it, and picking it up, kissed it most heartily, saying, “I am glad you are found: I will put you in my pocket, and never take you out again when I am walking.” They soon reached the house; and found Mr. and Mrs. _Sedley_ waiting tea for them: to whom Mr. _Graves_ gave an account of their walk. During their conversation two gentlemen who were riding by stopped their horses, and looked up at the house. Mr. _Sedley_ got up, and walking to the window with his cup lifted to his mouth, and the saucer in his left hand, “I wonder what those gentlemen are looking for,” said he. “They seem to have mistook their way.” “O no! Papa,” replied _Bob_, “I dare say they only stand still to look at my new cloaths. They are surprised I suppose to see me in breeches.” “Upon my word, child,” said his father, “you think yourself now of prodigious consequence; but it is very silly and unlike the man you wish us to think you, to talk so much of your dress.——Your brother’s behaviour,” added he, turning to Miss _Sedley_, “puts me in mind of the little girl we met one day at Mr. _Wilmot_’s. Do not you remember her, _Nancy_? I think she was called Miss _Gaudery_: with her red silk slip, and fine gold watch. She looked so stiff as if afraid to stir. She would not walk in the garden for fear it should spoil her shoes; nor sit close to her companions, that she might not tumble her cuffs; nor would she eat any strawberries, because if one happened to drop, it would stain her apron. In short, all her attention was so evidently fixed upon her fine cloaths, that she incurred the contempt of the company; who all agreed it was much to be lamented, that her mind should be neglected for the sake of adorning her person. I know that dress is a very favorite subject with girls. And what pretty thing have you got? says one; and let me see your new cap, says another, when you have play-fellows come to see you. Is not that true, _Nancy_? And then you pull out your band-boxes; and this is my cloak; and this is my furbelowed apron; and here is my flounced petticoat; and that is my feathered bonnet; and in this drawer I put my shawl.—Tell me, _Nancy_, is not that the way you entertain and are entertained by your visitors?” “Those with whom I am intimate,” replied Miss _Sedley_ blushing, “I sometimes shew my new cloaths to; but I do not wear half of those things you have named: it would look strange indeed to see a little girl in a furbelowed apron; at least, I am sure we should not call it by that name. But pray, Sir, inform me whether you think there is any thing wrong in this practice, and I will not do it for the future?” “I do not mean, my dear,” returned her father, “to blame that good-nature which would engage you to please your companions with the sight of a new acquisition; but to warn you from the danger of a vain temper, which is proud of fancied finery, and imagines its worth to consist in the smartness of dress rather than in real goodness. And I address myself to _you_ upon this subject; because I think, that in general, girls are apt to shew a greater tendency to this failing than boys: but I hope my _Nancy_ has too much good sense to be proud of any thing which reflects no honor upon herself, but as she behaves properly, and makes a right use of the advantage of fortune. The pleasure which _Bob_ has expressed in his new coat, has not arisen from its being finer than his other cloaths, but because he looks upon himself as so much more like a _man_ than he was before; but it is a certain proof from his speaking so much about them, that it is a new thing to him; otherwise he would have thought no more of the circumstance than does your brother _William_. So when a girl is dressed out to make a visit, and takes particular notice of her ruffles, or her frock, or any other part of her dress, you may almost always be sure she is not accustomed to it. You do not look at those shoes, nor think of that cap, because you usually wear them; and you should endeavour to be as easy in your behaviour in your _best_ as in your _common_ garb; otherwise you appear stiff and ungraceful, and will lose every advantage which your dress is designed to produce. But above all, my girl, remember, that good-nature, affability, and sweetness of manners, is the charm to render you agreeable; and will always have the power of pleasing, independent of outward decorations.” “I hope,” said Mrs. _Sedley_, “that our _Nancy_’s good sense will secure her from an error which is the strongest mark of an uninformed mind. She has just favored me with the sight of a little poetic piece, which was occasioned by the behaviour of the child you have mentioned; and as you are so well acquainted with the author, I dare say she will oblige you with the perusal. Mr. _Sedley_ expressed his wishes to that purpose, and his daughter immediately fetched them down, and presented them to her father, who read as follows:

’Twas when the harvest first began,
The sky was clear, the air serene.
The rustics to their toil repair’d,
And _Julia_ join’d the rural scene.

(_Julia_ was fair with ev’ry grace.
Which art or nature can bestow;
But still her most engaging charms
From _modesty_ and _sweetness_ flow.

Nor _dress_ nor beauty _claim’d_ her care,
But objects of a _nobler_ kind;
For well she knew _interior_ worth
Is ever seated in the _mind_.

Hence was she studious to acquire
Distinction worthy of her claim;
For learning, genius, virtue, sense,
She strove to win the prize of fame.)

With _her_ a youthful band appear’d;
And blooming _Richard_ led the way,
Who smiling as the nymphs advanc’d,
He seated on the new-mown hay.

One only lass among the rest
His offer’d hand with scorn disdain’d;
And fir’d with _vanity_ and _pride_
Thus angry to her friends complain’d:

“And do you think for this I came
In all my _elegant_ array,
Only to treat yon rustic set,
And let _their_ eyes my _dress_ survey?

D’ye think this slip was e’er design’d
Upon the dirty _hay_ to rest?
Or that for such a _vulgar_ scheme
I paid the visit in my _best_?

What! my _best_ shoes, my _feather’d_ cap,
My _new_ calash, forget them all;
And like the toiling wretches there
Consent upon the _hay_ to sprawl?

Rise! ladies, rise! and quit the field:
I vow I blush to see you there:—
For shame! such _mean_ companions leave,
And to the _drawing room_ repair.

O fie! Miss _Julia_, do you smile,
And really like such _vulgar_ play?
At least you’ll dirt or spoil your frock,
If longer you presume to stay.”

“Hey-day!” quoth _Richard_ in reply,
“I really know not my offence—
What! does the _dirt_ on this dry hay,
The _dirt_, Miss _Flavia_, drive you hence?

The _feathers_ in your _cap_, indeed,
I had not notic’d much before;
And the _red shoes_ so bright and gay,
I now their pardon must implore.

But if, dear Miss, they _soil_ so soon,
I wish some others you had brought;
As all our party to confine
On their account you kindly thought.

But now that we have seen your _best_,
At the _next_ visit which you pay;
I hope that you will suit your _dress_
To a soft seat among the _hay_.”

Displeas’d, and frowning, up she rose,
And _sullenly_ the rest forsook;
No answer she vouchsaf’d to give,
But darted fury in her look.

All her companions laugh’d aloud,
With ridicule and just disdain,
Except that _Julia_ kindly fear’d
To give her haughty bosom pain.

“My brother” mildly she rejoin’d,
“Your warmth will much offend, I fear;
We should for others faults allow,
Nor be in judgment too severe.

If _better_ taught, the _real_ worth
Of _dress_ or _fortune_ we may know,
Our pity should extend to those,
Who on these _toys_ their care bestow.

Consider that in such array
Poor _Flavia_ does but seldom shine;
Then let us not, my friends, insult,
Tho’ _ignorance_ with _pride_ combine.

_Our’s_ be the care with modest ease,
The goods of _fortune_ to possess;
Nor with mean arrogance of mind
Exult o’er others who have less.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. _Sedley_, when she had concluded. “These lines, I see, are the production of _Dick Wilmot_, as he has signed them. You must know Sir,” added he, addressing Mr. _Graves_, “that our young friend discovers a propensity to the Muses, and often employs his leisure in the composition of such little pieces. But he has made two long a parenthesis at the beginning, which is only excusable from the laudable motive of praising a sister, who is one of the most accomplished and best tempered girls I am acquainted with. The design of a parenthesis is only to include a short sentence in a long one, and therefore should not be too long itself, as the sense of the author ought to be complete without it. But when it is extended to too great a length, we forget the foregoing passage, and the continuation of the subject appears awkward and perplexing.” “But if the sense is as good without, then what is its use?” said Miss _Sedley_. “It is sometimes by way of explanation, my dear,” replied he, taking up a book from the table: “as thus, _Alexander_ reaped great advantage from the fine taste with which his master (than whom no man possessed greater talents for the education of youth) had inspired him with from his infancy.” “Now perhaps the reader might not be acquainted with the character of _Alexander_’s master; and this commendation of him will inform him, that he was a man of abilities, and therefore better qualified for his employment; and yet the sense would have been perfect without this addition. But it sometimes is likewise used as an exception. Suppose I was to say, you shall all go to _Windsor_ to-morrow (except little _Bob_) to see the castle and the royal family.”—“O! but pray do not leave _me_ at home,” said _Robert_, starting up from the ground, where he had been sitting spinning his six-pence on the carpet. “Pray, Sir, take me with you, and _I_ will shew you some verses as well as my sister.” “Will you?” replied Mr. _Sedley_; “and pray where did you get them? but I am not going to _Windsor_: I was only teaching _Nancy_ the use of a parenthesis.” “Was _that_ all?” cried _Bob_ in a tone of disappointment. “But you shall see the poetry however. I have it in my _pocket_,” with an emphasis he pronounced the word. “My brother gave it to me yesterday. They were inscribed,”

_To Master_ ROBERT SEDLEY, _on his_ BIRTH-DAY.

Permit me now, my dearest boy,
Again to wish you ev’ry joy
On this your natal day:
Now cast your former cloaths aside,
To dress with more becoming pride
In _masculine_ array.

And, _Robert_, sure with _manly_ air,
You’ll hence each _infant_ trick forbear,
And scorn the sense of pain:
Ne’er whimper tho’ to earth you fall,
Break a new _cart_ or lose your _ball_,
Nor like a _child_ complain.

But learn to _speak_, and learn to _read_,
And your own cause distinctly plead,
And be asham’d to _cry_;
Or, trust me, else they will restore
The _baby_’s _petticoats_ once more,
And on the _back-string_ tie.

The next morning was as fine as the preceding one; and _William_ and his sister rose in high spirits with the idea of spending the day together.

When the family assembled to breakfast, Mr. _Graves_ proposed to take them to dine with a friend of his at _Windsor_, but without excepting little _Bob_, who begged to be of the party. After a very pleasant ride they arrived at Mr. _Rich_’s, who received them with great affability and politeness. They found there several play-fellows, as Mr. _Rich_ had a son and daughter; and there were two young ladies and a young gentleman, who had been likewise invited to dine with them. The name of the eldest was Miss _Lofty_: the other Miss _Snap_; and the boy was called Master _Tradewell_.

As it was early when they arrived, Mr. _Sedley_, Mrs. _Rich_, and the young folk, took a walk to see the castle, with which they were all highly entertained. On their return they met with a pretty girl, who was running along with a basket of apples, and who stumbling over a loose stone in her way, fell down with great violence on the pavement. _William_ and his sister immediately hastened to her assistance, and very tenderly enquired whether she was hurt; at the same time assisted her to gather up the fruit, which she seemed much concerned about, as the pippins had rolled to a great distance. “How far were you going, _Fanny_,” said Mrs. _Rich_. “Don’t be frightened, my child; your apples are not the worse, and your mother will not be angry.” “They were for you, Ma’am,” replied she, curtesying and weeping, “and I was charged to make haste; but I am sure I could not _help_ falling.” “To be sure you could not,” returned the lady; “and as you are a good girl, you may stay and dine at our house if you please.” _Fanny_ thanked her, and promised to ask her mother’s leave so to do. Mrs. _Rich_ then informed her company, that the child they had seen was daughter to a servant of theirs, who had married a gardener, and whose good behaviour recommended her so much, that she frequently came to play with her children.

In the afternoon the young party retired to amuse themselves in the garden; and Miss _Rich_ asked them if it would be agreeable for _Fanny Mopwell_ to be with them? _William_ said, “by all means;” and _Nancy_ was quite pleased with the proposal: but Miss _Lofty_ bridled up her head, and said, “she had never been _used_ to play with such _creatures_:” and Master _Tradewell_ said, “he thought they were better _without_ her; for a _merchant_’s son was rather above a girl of that sort.”

_Tom Rich_, who had loved _Fanny_ from her infancy, and whose mother had been his nurse, was not a little offended at the scorn which they expressed for his favorite, and very angrily told Miss _Lofty_, “that if she was _poor_, she was _good-natured_, and would not refuse to oblige any body.” _William_ also joined heartily in her favour; for he was of such a gentle disposition, that he always wished to promote the happiness of every one he saw; and _Nancy_ seconded him with great ardor. Upon this mighty question, a warm debate ensued. Miss _Snap_ said, “she did not care for the _girl_, but she had no patience to have her _play_ so interrupted.” _Charlotte Rich_, who was a school-fellow of Miss _Lofty_’s, began to be ashamed of having asked her to take notice of such an humble companion; and though she was in her heart very fond of little _Fanny_, yet she felt her pride hurt at having shewn her such a degree of regard. So forcibly does a bad example often operate upon a mind which would be otherwise not ungenerous.

During the dispute, the innocent cause of it happened to pass by; and _Fanny_, with a modest curtesy, asked Miss _Rich_ how she did? To which question the foolish girl, for the reason above-mentioned, would not condescend to give her an answer. As she was a child of great sensibility, she was a little distressed by the contempt which _Charlotte_ affected. She knew too well the duties of her station to offer to put herself upon an equality with the other young ladies; but as she was always accustomed to be treated by Miss _Rich_ with the freedom of an equal, she felt her contempt as a hardship to which she had not been used. She hung down her head, and was walking silently away, when _Tom_ took hold of her gown, and enquired whither she was going? desiring her to stay with him and his friend _William_, adding, “that Miss _Sedley_ and _Bob_ should be of their party; and they would leave the proud boarding-school _ladies_, since that was their title, to keep company with the _merchant_’s son.”

Miss _Lofty_, who was daughter of a nobleman, replied, “that a _merchant_’s son was no better than a _tradesman_; and she was not over fond of your _city_ gentry.” This speech equally offended Master _Tradewell_ and Miss _Snap_; who, rouzed at the indignity offered to her rank, declared, “she always heard, that a _gentleman_ of _fortune_ was as good as a _Lord_; and her father, who was an _Alderman_, was known, though a grocer, to be worth thousands and thousands of pounds, and therefore she did not understand such treatment.” In short, the disagreement ran so high, that Miss _Snap_ could not be persuaded to play at all; and when the rest of the disputants had agreed to make up matters, she would accept of no proposal, nor join in any diversion which they offered to her choice. During the latter part of the engagement, Master _Sedleys_, with their sister and _Tom_, had accompanied _Fanny_ to an arbour at some distance, where they quietly sat down to play. Her good-nature inclined her always to give way to her companions; and she had been taught to do whatever her superiors desired (if it was not wrong) so that they found her a most agreeable and entertaining girl, and rejoiced that they had admitted her to be of their party. Among the rest of their amusements, it was proposed that they should each tell a story for the entertainment of the rest; and as none of the others could immediately recollect one, _Fanny_ was desired to begin, which she very readily did in the following manner, out of a little book which she had in her pocket.

“_John Active_ was a very good sort of man, and was beloved by his neighbours. He was kind to every body; and would always help those who were in distress. As he had a good trade (though it was a laborious one) he got a pretty fortune; and he did not mind the fatigue, for the sake of providing for his family. His wife too was a worthy woman, and always took care to have things ready against he came home, received him with good-humour, and thanked him for the trouble he took in getting the money to keep her and her children. They had three daughters; whose names were _Nanny_, _Susan_, and _Kate_; and she taught them to read and work; and when they were gone to-bed, would sit up to mend their cloaths, and do what was necessary for them. While they were young, this family all lived extremely comfortable. The parents were contented and thankful for their condition; and the children were as happy as it was in their power to make them. But when they grew older, and ought to have known better, the two eldest became perverse and disobedient. They would not mind what they were taught; and only grumbled and found fault if they were set to work. In short, they became so obstinate, that they at all times did the contrary to what their parents desired: _Susan_ one day in jumping from the top of a gate, which she had often been forbid to do, broke her leg, an accident that confined her a great while, and cost her father a vast deal of money for surgeons; and her mother in lifting her about, got a hurt in her back, which never could be cured, and occasioned her to be lame all the rest of her life. Any body would have thought that such an accident might have taught the naughty girl to have been more obedient for the future; but she was unmoved by it; and added to the trouble of nursing her, by being cross and dissatisfied; and poor Mrs. _Active_ would often shed tears at the unkind speeches which she returned for her care and indulgence. Nor did _Nancy_ afford them any greater comfort. She would never assist in those things of which she was capable: but was mighty eager to do what was out of her power.

“One day when her sister was better, her mother desired them both to run the seams of a bed curtain, which she was making; and begged them to make haste, as she wanted to finish it before night.” They both looked sullen at her request. _Nancy_ said, “it was not her _business_; and her father might sleep without curtains:” and _Susan_ replied, “that though her leg was mended she would not do all the _drudgery_ indeed.” While little _Kate_, who was much younger, threaded a needle, and began to take one of them into her lap, though it was so large she could hardly manage it. Mrs. _Active_ told them to consider their father had a bad cold; and as it was a very severe frost, and a windy night, it would certainly make him worse. So after she had insisted upon it, they snatched up the work, and pulled out their needles with such passion and ill-humour as to break the thread at every stitch. _Susan_, who had got a book to amuse her, and who sat with her back to her mother, put it into her lap, and kept reading the whole time, without paying any regard to what she said; and long before the usual hour of going to-bed, both sisters pretended they were so sleepy they could not keep awake, left their work unfinished, put on their night caps, and went away.

“As _Susan_’s book was very entertaining, they sat up in their own room to finish reading it; but thinking they heard Mrs. _Active_ upon the stairs, they hastily popped the candle into the closet, and with their cloaths on jumped into bed. As they heedlessly put it upon an under shelf, it burnt a hole through the one which was over it, where catching to some linen, it soon set the closet in a blaze. This did not happen for some hours after they had left it, they having laid still for fear of being found but, and not thinking of the danger, fell asleep, while the flames burnt through to Mr. _Active_’s room, which was adjoining to theirs; and it was with the greatest difficulty that they were saved, he having but just time to rush in at the hazard of his own life, and carry them down stairs in his arms. But the house for want of water, as it was in a country place, was entirely consumed; nor did they save any thing, not even so much as cloaths to cover them.”

When _Fanny_ had read thus far, her audience were obliged to seperate upon a summons to tea. They were all extremely sorry, as they wished to hear a conclusion to her story; and _William_ begged her to lend him the book that he might finish it at home. This proposal _Fanny_ did not much approve, but at length, upon a promise of his returning it by Master _Rich_ before he went to school, she entrusted it to his care, charging him to keep it clean, and not take the paper off the cover.