Chapter III: Part 3

“Indeed Sir, I will not _deceive_ you. I have been very much to blame; and one crime has involved me in many others; but if you can now forgive me, I think I shall never do so again. When I went to Captain _Fairform_’s yesterday, _Harry_ wanted me to go with him and _Tom Wilding_ to the fair. His father had desired him not, and I thought it wrong to go; but they laughed at me so much for my squeamishness, and would have it I was afraid only of _punishment_, knowing _that_ not to be my motive; against my _conscience_ I consented. When we got there I took hold of a _plaguy_ pocket-book intending only to ask the price; and finding it to cost six shillings, I laid it down again, as I could not afford it. The man soon after said I had _stolen_ it. I knew I was innocent, and denied the charge. He wanted to feel in my pockets; which I thought very insolent, and would not let him. However, among them, they would do so, and my resistance was in vain:—and to be sure _there_ it _was_!—and _Brestlaw_ must have conjured it there, for I cannot imagine how else it was done. So then, Sir, there was such a mob about me you cannot think; and I was abused and called a thief, and I do not know what; and he declared he would send me to the justice, unless I would give him a guinea: and amongst us _all_ we could not muster one, and so at last I was forced to let him have my medal; but indeed, Sir, I did not till the _very last_; and I have been miserable ever since.” “The _guilty, William_, will ever be so,” returned Mr. _Graves_ very seriously; “and I am sincerely sorry to rank you in that number; but tell me when you felt for it in the morning, was it in your pocket? You know it could not be, why then did you suffer me to think the contrary, and to commend you while I partly blamed your brother?” “You have taught me, Sir,” replied he, “that an honest confession is the best reparation for a fault. I wish I had done it sooner, but _Harry Fairform_ persuaded me to keep it _secret_ for his sake. I do not wish to lay the blame upon _him_ to make _myself_ appear less guilty; but his bad advice made me take my brother’s medal, which he found in the garden, and I have kept it till just now, when I could not be easy longer to detain it. And now, Sir, you know the whole;—if you can trust my promise for the future, I will never again behave so unworthy of your affection; and if you knew what I have suffered for my present fault, it might incline you to pity and forgive me.”—Here he ceased, held down his head, nor had courage to look up.—

Mr. _Graves_, with great kindness, took him by the hand, “Your _honesty_,” said he, “pleads much in your favor, and as you feel a conviction of your fault, I hope I may rely upon you for the future. The end of reprehension and punishment, is but to _amend_ the offender: and if your heart is truly _generous_, an immediate _forgiveness_ of your error, will bind you most strongly to future watchfulness. Let this instance, however, teach you that _candor_ of disposition which you ought to exercise for _others_; and remember that although, as you justly observed, “every one may be good if they _please_,” yet that circumstances do sometimes arise, where the best hearts may be _seduced_ or surprised into guilt: and therefore, though you should guard your own conduct with peculiar care, yet you ought never to forget every charitable allowance for the faults of _others_. It is rashness, presumption, and folly, to condemn those actions of which we know not the cause, the temptation, or the motive. But as to the character of _Harry Fairform_, you may fairly conclude it to be improper for your imitation. Vice cannot be divested of guilt; and he must be extremely wicked who can laugh at a parent’s prohibition, and wilfully persuade another to do wrong. His advice this morning was founded in _meanness_, _selfishness_, and _deceit_; and thus, my dear boy, have you been led on step by step from the commission of one bad action to another; till you have lost the calm peace which _innocence_ only can bestow, and feel your mind a prey to the uneasy sensations of _guilt_. Be assured, my child, that if you pursue that course, it is still more thorny. Had you added to your crimes a _lie_, I should have detected you immediately, as the man to whom you gave the medal, presented it to _Fanny Mopwell_, and I have it now in my hand. This _W. S._ I scratched on it myself in this particular place, that I might know in case either of them were lost to which it belonged; and the initials of your brother and sister you will find in theirs. Consider then the improvement that you may reap from this transaction.—However in secret any ill action may seem to be committed; yet some unthought of and unexpected circumstance may discover it. Little did you think this morning of seeing the child who is below; and still less was you apprehensive when you invited her home, that she would be the person to bring your medal to me. Let this convince you, then, that if you do wrong, you are ever liable to _detection_ by the most unlikely means, and in consequence are open to _disgrace_. _Security_, my dear child, is the certain attendant on _Virtue_: an _honest_ heart has no mean secret to _conceal_; and therefore, is at all times free from those uneasy cares, with which you have this morning been so much distressed: it needs no evasion, and is above the use of any. Cherish, therefore, this openness of character which is so truly amiable, by avoiding every thing which your _conscience_ tells you is improper. That inward monitor is in such cases your best director. If you feel _uneasy_, and are conscious you are acting as your friends would condemn, be not afraid of _ridicule_. You may suffer from its shafts for a few moments, and may find it disagreeable to be laughed at by those who are more foolish and more wicked than yourself; but in a little time this will be over, and afterwards you will enjoy the approbation of your friends, and your own heart: and this, my boy, is a noble recompence. As for doing wrong from the principle of not fearing _punishment_, it is the weakest argument that can be urged. A boy who is not afraid to _deserve_ chastisement, must have lost every principle of honor: and though your friends have always treated you with generosity, it is because you have hitherto been _obedient_ and _good_ in return. Nor would it be to their credit to let you escape with impunity, if you should pursue a different conduct. Never, therefore, boast that you are not _afraid_ of the rod, but that you are determined never to incur the smart: that you will never be persuaded to a _mean action_, and _therefore_ it is an object which can cause you no terror. I know your heart is generous, but you are easily persuaded. You must fortify yourself in this particular, or you will be in great danger of error in your future life. _Steadiness_ of _principle_, my dear _child_, is absolutely necessary to form a great and good man. You love your brother,—but to oblige a worthless boy, you consented to _injure_, to _deceive_, and to _distress_ him. Did not his unsuspecting innocence wound you, when he begged you would _look_ for his medal, and thanked you for your trouble?—Thus it is, that wickedness of any kind, hardens the heart. However, I flatter myself, you will take warning from this instance of your misconduct, and be taught, that it is impossible to fix bounds to a _bad action_, or to say, I will go on so far in error, and then I will stop: when once you consent to the smallest deviation from innocence, it is not possible to determine how deeply you may be involved in guilt, or to what lengths of mischief or wickedness your first fault may conduce.”

_William_, with the greatest contrition, promised to be more cautious for the future; and his grandfather after sealing his forgiveness with repeated embraces, left him to recover his former composure.—His mind now in some measure relieved from the heavy burthen with which he had been oppressed, soon regained a sufficient degree of calmness to rejoin his friends; though still the consciousness of the late transactions abated his vivacity, and made him bashful and silent. His thoughts during the morning had been wholly engaged with his own concerns; but when dinner was over, he recollected that he had promised to return the shilling to _Tony_, which he had so generously lent him in his distress. Unwilling to renew the subject with any of his relations, he was again distressed for money; but resolving to keep his promise, he applied to his sister for two shillings, which she immediately gave him, and he set off full speed on his way to the village, to find his sooty friend. For some time before he arrived at the place, he heard the screams of an object seemingly in violent pain. As he approached, they sounded fainter and more exhausted; and when he reached the spot, they ceased entirely.—But judge of his disappointment, terror, and compassion, when he beheld the unfortunate _Tony Climbwell_, unbound from a tree by his inhuman master, who had been beating him with a leather strap, and had afterwards given him a blow on the head with his brush, which had stunned and deprived him of sense, in consequence of which he fell to the ground, and was left there with a kick from the same brutal wretch, and threatened,—“that if he did not soon get up, he would come and rouze him with a vengeance.”

_William_ went to him with an intention to raise him; but found he could not stand, nor return him any answer to his enquiries. At a little distance, however, he discovered the boy who had been _Tony_’s companion at their first meeting; and after calling him some time in vain, went up to him, and begged to know for what crime his fellow apprentice had been so cruelly used. “I am afraid of going to help him,” said _Jack_,—“but Master has beat him because he did not bring home the shilling which he had yesterday for sweeping ’Squire _Nicely_’s chimney. He told master as _how_ he could bring it him to-day; and master did wait till the afternoon; but now he _was_ in such a passion, that he said, “he would kill him;” and I was afraid as _how_ he would, and I believe he has, I do not see him stir; and sure he would get up if he could, for fear of a second drubbing.” “And has my crime been the occasion of _this_ evil too?” said _William_: “Well might my grandfather say I did not know where the mischief of an error may stop. My poor _Tony_! what shall I do to recover thee? and how shall I recompence thy sufferings? sufferings too which _I_ have occasioned!”—With this lamentation he returned to the unfortunate object of his pity, who after a heavy groan opened his eyes.—“_Tony!_” cried _Sedley_, endeavouring to raise him, “my dear boy, how do you do?”—The voice of compassion sounded so strange to him, that he looked amazed at his friend; who repeating his question, begged him to get up, and if he could, to walk forward with him a little way.

A chimney-sweeper is accustomed to ill usage; and _Tony_ had not fallen into the hands of a master who would spare him his full share of suffering.—He arose, however, with _William_’s assistance, and crept on till they came to a field-gate, over which he scrambled with difficulty, and then sat down under a hedge, which concealed him from observation.—_Sedley_ with tears entreated him to forgive him for not having sooner discharged his debt, and for being the occasion of bringing him into so much trouble; “but why,” said he, “did you not come to me, and you might have been sure I would have paid you immediately.” “Ah! master,” replied _Tony_, “I thought you would; and so this morning I went to his honor’s at the great house, where I first saw you, and the gay coach, and the long tail nags; and so I _axed_ for young master, for I did not know your name; and the coachman I fancy it was, said, “I was a pretty fellow to _axe_ for young master truly; but that, however young master, was not at home.” I then said you owed me a shilling, and begged him to pay it for you, and I dared to say you would return it. Upon this he bid me go about my business for an impudent knave; and giving me two or three hearty smacks with a long horse-whip he had in his hand, sent me out of the court-yard.” “How very unfortunate!” cried _Sedley_; “this must have happened while I was out with my grandfather; but I will now pay you immediately,” added he, giving him the two shillings he had brought. “I have no more at present; but the first money I get, you shall share it I promise you.” “I lent you but _one_,” said _Tony_, “so you have given me this too much.” “Keep it, keep it,” replied _William_, “I only wish that I had more to give.”—

At this instant little _Jack_ (whose fear of his master had kept him from visiting his companion, but who had watched him into the field) came running to _Tony_ with information that he might go home, for that his tormentor was gone to the ale-house.—The boy immediately got up, and said, “he would make the best of his way, and take the opportunity of going back; for that his mistress was the kindest creature in the world, and would be glad to see him again.”—_William_ was determined to accompany him; and they soon reached the cottage together.—The poor woman was holding one hand over her eye, the other sustained a little infant whom she was suckling, and who looked up at her every now and then with a smile, while her tears dropped on its innocent face. A girl about two years old was standing by her knee, and crying for some victuals, and to be taken up, mammy. Another child at a broken table, was trying to reach a bit of stale crust covered with soot, that his father had tossed out of his pocket.—Such was the scene young _Sedley_ beheld at his entrance; and which presented a striking contrast to the elegance he had been always accustomed to.—“What is the matter, mistress?” cried _Tony_, in an accent of compassion and concern.—At the sound of his voice, she looked up, and shewed her eye, which was swelled in such a manner she could scarcely see.—“Oh! my poor boy, how are you?” she replied, “I thought you had been killed, and by interceding in your behalf, provoked your master so much, that he gave me a blow so severe I really thought it would have ended all my troubles together.—But who is that young gentleman?” added she.—_Tony_ briefly related the account of their late meeting, as he had before informed her of the occasion of their acquaintance, and that he had lent _William_ the shilling, which had caused them so much trouble.

The children now became more clamorous for food; but she told them she had nothing to give them.—_Tony_, however, shewed the money he had received; and promised if they were good, they should have a quartern loaf. He then dispatched _Jack_ to fetch one, whose speedy return afforded all parties great satisfaction. The eagerness with which they devoured the stale bread, occasioned _Sedley_ the highest astonishment. They each thanked him for his kindness, when told they owed it to him; and he experienced more pleasure in having contributed to their comfort, than any amusement had hitherto afforded him: yet his delight was much damped by the recollection of the pain he had occasioned; and the bruise on poor Mrs. _Blackall_’s eye was an addition to all the other mischief which had attended his fault. He thought it time, however, to take his leave, and wishing them a good night and a speedy recovery, set out on his return home.—_Fanny_ was gone when he arrived; and he was not a little disappointed that he had lost the opportunity of enjoying her company, and still more, that he had forgotten to ask for the rest of the book, which contained the account of Mr. _Active_ and his family; or to return the part which she had lent him. The next morning he sent the servant to deliver it to her at her uncle’s, as he had promised to return it before he went back to school.

Mr. _Graves_ having been rather indisposed the preceding evening, did not breakfast with the family; and his grandson very soon retired to his apartment in order to amuse him with his conversation.—“You are very kind, my dear boy,” said he, “to favor me with your company; but as your holidays are nearly over, I do not wish to confine you to an old man’s room, as I am sensible that more lively entertainments are better relished at your time of life.”—_William_ assured him that his attendance was voluntary; and then informed him of his visit to the poor chimney-sweeper, and all the circumstances which had attended it.—“Unhappy _Tony_!” replied Mr. _Graves_, “his fate is a severe one! and yet, my child, it is but a few days ago, since you wished to be in his situation. Do you not now feel the folly of seeking to change your state in life at a venture, only because you are dissatisfied with some trifling circumstance which disturbs you at the present moment? I would not wish you to be insensible to the grief of parting with your friends. That heart which is destitute of affection and gratitude, is unworthy to be ranked with human beings. But do you consider, that an opportunity of pursuing your studies is a blessing which you ought to value as inestimable; and instead of repining at your fate, you should be thankful that your parents have it in their power to give you this high advantage. Never, therefore, for the future, allow yourself to judge by outward appearance; nor let any agreeable prospect either in the affluent or the indigent, incite you to wish yourself in the condition of another; since you may be assured, _that_ state in which you are placed is the best suited to _you_. Higher wisdom than our’s directs every event; and it is well we are not left to determine our own situation.”—“I,” said Master _Sedley_, “as I am now convinced, have indeed _reason_ to be satisfied; but sure _Tony_, exposed to the world without a friend, left to the savage cruelty of an inhuman master, obliged to _labour_ for his _bread_, and to _starve_ when he has earned it,—surely, Sir, _he_ may wish to change, and not be blamable for being discontented.” “No one, my dear,” returned Mr. _Graves_, “can stand excused for murmuring against Providence when we know that the world is not left to the confusion of chance. We have reason to be easy under the most afflictive circumstances. _Tony_ wished to be in your place on _Monday_; and had he been metamorphosed in person and situation, with the remembrance of his former state in his mind, he would probably for some time have been much happier. But supposing him to have had _your_ ideas, he would have been, as you then stiled yourself, _the most miserable creature in the world_; and even wished for that very state which now excites all your compassion. The miseries of poverty are great: they call for your pity: they have a right to expect your relief. But this world is not the _only_ hope of the _good_. Riches are not to be considered as your _own_ property. They are _lent_ you to be well bestowed. Every one is accountable for his portion, be it great or small. You have now only a few shillings, or it may be a guinea at your disposal. As you use the little you have at present, in all probability in the same manner you will bestow the possessions you will have in future. Accustom yourself, therefore, to consider you should lay by a part of your small stock to relieve the poor _now_, and you will find increasing pleasure in the power of being more liberal hereafter. Our _vices, William_, in every state will be productive of misery. No situation is necessarily unhappy. If the _rich_ are _wicked_, they can have no enjoyment; and the same cause will add double distress to _poverty_. _Tony_’s master is drunken, passionate, and prodigal. He wastes his small gains at the ale-house, beats his apprentice without reason, abuses his wife, and injures his children. This causes misery to himself and to his whole family. But these evils are not to be reckoned as attendant upon poverty: they would equally destroy the felicity of the man of fortune. A bad temper spoils the relish of every enjoyment: a good one sweetens the toils of labour; nay, can mitigate sorrow, sickness, and want.—I called the day before yesterday on a poor family who live in a cottage adjoining to _Tony_’s master. Mr. _Scrapewell_, just risen from a neat but shabby bed; was placed in an old wicker chair on one side the door, to feel the refreshment of the air; while his eldest daughter, a girl of about fifteen years of age, appeared busy in putting the room in order; and when I entered was sweeping the sand on the floor with a little heath broom. Another girl was picking some parsley, which she put into a bason of water, or pipkin I believe they call it, for it had yellow stripes and black spots upon it, and I should not have noticed it, if I had not afterwards thrown it down by accident and broke it. Three or four other children were playing about; and the youngest, near six months old, was asleep in a cradle, which he rocked every now and then with his foot. They placed a seat for me, and I enquired how large a family he had?” “O! Sir,” replied he, “we have nine; and that is my eldest. We struggle hard; for it is a great many to maintain. My first four put us almost out of heart, as my wife had them very fast, and used to grieve, and fret, and vex herself to think where we should get bread; but I told her God would fit the back to the burden, or the burden to the back; and I tried to comfort her all I could, and used to say, Why _lookee_ now, _Beckey_! when we were _alone_ we did but live, and when we had _one_ child we could do no more; so I trust if we have a dozen we shall do as much. But yet, Sir, I own my own heart failed me, when I thought how _fast_ money _went out_, and how _slow_ it _came in_, though I worked, and worked my fingers to the bone. Yet I prayed God to bless us, and hitherto, though we have been driven to many a hard pinch, thanks to his mercy, we have kept out of the workhouse; and often when I have been at my last farthing, and we have lived within an inch of starving, he has raised us up some unexpected friend, and we have jogged on again much as usual. So this has taught me _never_ to despair; and I am determined to put the best foot forward, and hope we shall do again yet, though I have been laid up with an ague and fever these six weeks.”—As he finished this account, his wife returned from the field with her gown on her arm, her green stays left open on account of the heat, and her cap tied up over her head. She looked hot indeed; and dropping me a curtsy as she entered, affectionately enquired after her husband: then taking up the infant, kissed it, suckled it, and gave it to one of the girls to nurse, while she went back again to her labour, after eating a few mouthfuls of bread and cheese. Love, harmony, neatness, good-humour, civility, and kindness, dwell in their little cot, and yet, _William_, their riches are not greater than the chimney-sweeper’s. Virtue and œconomy only make the difference. While the one squanders his small gain at the ale-house, the other is laying up every farthing as a provision for his children; and his good conduct ensures him assistance and protection from all who know him. Add to this one consideration, which is more than all the rest, that the blessing of Heaven will attend the good, and keep that mind in peace which is staid on its support.

As Mr. _Graves_ concluded this sentence Mr. _Sedley_ softly opened the door. “I thought you had been asleep, Sir,” said he, “or I should have been with you sooner. I am afraid this young man has disturbed you.” “O! not at all,” returned the old gentleman, “his company is always a cordial to me. I forget the infirmities of age when I see my children and grand-children round me; and I am sorry we must so soon part from _William_ as you mentioned this morning.” “He must go to school this week,” said his father. “We shall all grieve to lose him; but his learning cannot be neglected. He will not wish, I hope, to waste this most important part of his life without its due improvement; and now is the time to lay the foundation for every future excellence.” “But is not the culture of the _heart_ then,” replied the melancholy _Sedley_, “is not that the most essential point? and I am sure if I improve in the knowledge of the classics, I do not in the science of Virtue: and pray of what use is it to learn the metamorphoses of _Ovid_? that _Arachne_ was converted into a spider,—_Narcissus_ transformed to a flower,—that _Pyramus_ and _Thisbe_ were turned into mulberry-trees,—and the rest of the fabulous stories of the poets? What is it to me that _Æneas_ went to _Carthage_,—that _Dido_ stabbed herself when he departed thence; or that he afterward, conquered in the engagement with _Turnus_; and the rest of the history with which we are plagued in _Virgil_? And as to the care of my _morals_ I am under much greater temptations, from the bad examples of my school-fellows, and from wanting the kind advice of my friends, than I could be at home. And as I am not designed either for a clergyman or counsellor, I do not see any great necessity for my learning so _very_ much.” “I am sorry to see you thus averse to study,” said his father, “as it is of the utmost consequence to your appearance in life. Do you consider, that without a cultivated understanding, a thorough knowledge of history, and an acquaintance with _Homer_, _Virgil_, _Terence_, _Ovid_, and those authors who you seem so much to despise; you can never make an agreeable companion to men of sense. By the perusal of history you will learn to distinguish truth from fable, and to know what part is founded on fact, and what on the imagination of the poet. These authors will store your mind with images the most sublime and beautiful, assist your judgment, and form your taste; since their works have been esteemed the model for composition in all succeeding times. Without a constant attention, therefore, to improve in reading and understanding them, you will be ignorant of those subjects which every author refers to; which are frequently the foundation of conversation, and which afford hints to the sculptor and the painter for their finest pieces. You will stare with stupid wonder at every object of this kind that you meet with, unknowing to what they refer, or what they mean to represent. Besides, as the Heathen Mythology, or account of their Gods, is connected with this study, it is absolutely necessary you should be acquainted with it. Many things that now appear absurd in the account of their worship, had in their original a deeper moral: this though idle boys may not understand or search for, it would much improve you to be taught. When you read that _Minerva_ the Goddess of wisdom was produced out of _Jupiter_’s brain; the poets intended to represent by it, that the wit and ingenuity of man did not invent the useful sciences, which were for universal advantage derived from the brain of _Jupiter_; that is, from the inexhausted fountain of the _Divine Wisdom_, from whence not only the arts and sciences, but the blessings of knowledge and virtue also proceed. The helm, the shield, and all the different symbols which belong to her character have each their particular meaning: to instance to you only in one of them. The owl, a bird supposed to see in the dark, was sacred to _Minerva_, and painted upon her images, as the representation of a wise man, who scattering and dispelling the clouds of ignorance and error, is clear sighted when others are stark blind. So you, who take all the fictions of the poets for nonsense and folly, would, if you had learning to comprehend their meaning, not only be entertained with their beauties, but improved by the moral they contain. The more you know, and the greater proficiency you make in study, the higher pleasure will it afford you; but while you consider your lessons as _tasks_ which you are to get by heart, and what will be of no use to you in future, you defeat the purpose of your education, are unhappy now, and will be despised and contemned hereafter. A _gentleman_ should be still more superior by his _merit_ than his _fortune_: his knowledge should be more general and diffusive than is required for any profession whatever. He ought to be acquainted with the great authors of ancient and modern times, understand the constitution and laws of his own country; and by the contemplation of every noble character, learn to form his own to perfection. Do not, therefore, entertain so mean an opinion of yourself, or your future consequence, as to rely on your _estate_ alone for respect. Let religion be your guide and chief study; but let history, poetry, with every branch of polite and useful learning, be considered as _essential_ to your education.”—

Here ceased Mr. _Sedley_, and his son looked down in timid silence, fearful he had offended his friends by the indifference he had expressed for his exercise. Mr. _Graves_, however, encouraged him, by kindly adding, “When you have mastered the first steps, you will mount upward with alacrity. The beginning of every attempt is difficult; but be of good courage; persevere, and you will find it afterwards pleasant, easy, and agreeable.”

During the foregoing conversation, _Jeffery Squander_ had called to invite _William_ to dine with him, and afterwards to return to school in his father’s coach; and Mrs. _Sedley_ now introduced the young gentleman up stairs. The offer was so convenient (as it was before intended he should go back the next morning) that it was accepted with satisfaction by all but the person whom it most concerned. Yet poor _Sedley_ was ashamed to express his reluctance while in company with his school-fellow; and made no opposition to the proposal. The tears, however, which he endeavoured to suppress, would officiously start into his eyes.—His father patted him on the back, and said, “it would make but a few hours difference.”—His grandfather stroaked his cheek as he turned round towards the window to hide his emotion. This affected him still more, and his mother letting fall her scissars, he picked them up; but as she was stooping for them at the same time, he saw that her eyes shewed equal concern; which, unwilling to have observed, she had not immediately wiped away, and he received a tear upon his hand.—It was necessary he should immediately retire to prepare for his departure. He was spared the pain of taking leave of his brother and sister, they happening to be from home; a circumstance which he much regretted, as they would not return till the evening.

When he had given a little indulgence to his grief in private, he returned to his friends, and endeavoured to assume a more cheerful countenance than suited the affliction of his mind. But he remembered the _chimney-sweeper_, and tried to be satisfied. At length his companion being impatient, he was obliged to take a hasty leave of his beloved relations, and followed by their affectionate wishes for his welfare, accompanied _Jeffery Squander_ with a melancholy heart to dinner, and to SCHOOL.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_PUBLICATIONS_ for the _Instruction_ and _Entertainment_ of _YOUNG
MINDS_; Printed and Sold by JOHN MARSHALL and CO. at No. 4,
Aldermary Church Yard, Bow-Lane, LONDON.

ANECDOTES of a BOARDING-SCHOOL; or, An Antidote to the Vices of those
useful Seminaries, 2 Vols. Price 1s. each.

POEMS on various Subjects, for the Amusement of YOUTH. Price 1s.

LETTERS and DIALOGUES on Morality, Oeconomy, and Politeness, for the
Improvement and Entertainment of young Female Minds, 3 Vols. Price
1s. each.

A clear and concise Account of the ORIGIN and DESIGN of CHRISTIANITY,
intended as a Second Part to the First Principles of Religion, 2
Vols. Price 9d. each

The LIFE and PERAMBULATION of a MOUSE. Price 6d.

JEMIMA PLACID; or, the Advantage of Good-Nature. Price 6d.

The HOLIDAY PRESENT. Containing Anecdotes of Mr. and Mrs. _Jennet_,
and their little Family. Price 6d.

The Adventures of a PINCUSHION; designed chiefly for the Use of Young
Ladies. Price 6d.

The VILLAGE SCHOOL; interspersed with Entertaining Stories, &c. 2
Vols. Price 6d. each.

Memoirs of a PEG-TOP, an entertaining and instructive History. Price
6d.

The FIRST PRINCIPLES of RELIGION, and the EXISTENCE of a DEITY,
explained in a Series of Dialogues, adapted to the Capacity of the
Infant Mind, 2 Vols. Price 6d. each.

LITTLE STORIES for LITTLE FOLKS. Price 4d.

The GOOD CHILD’S DELIGHT; Or, The ROAD to KNOWLEDGE. Price 4d.

The HISTORIES of more CHILDREN than ONE; Or, GOODNESS better than
BEAUTY. Price 4d.

SHORT CONVERSATIONS; or an Easy Road to the Temple of Fame; which all
may reach who endeavour to be good. Price 4d.

The History of a great many BOYS and GIRLS of Four and Five Years of
Age. Price 4d.

FAMILIAR DIALOGUES for the Instruction and Amusement of Children Four
and Five Years Old. Price 4d.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page Changed from Changed to

128 putting it his pocket: “if you putting it in his pocket: “if
you

200 into a spider,—_Narcissus_ into a spider,—_Narcissus_
transform- to a flower transformed to a flower

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● The caret (^) serves as a superscript indicator, applicable to individual characters (like 2^d) and even entire phrases (like 1^{st}).